Da Butha

Raddic shivered in fear as he watched the shadows unfolded around Buthaleirus. What the human saw next would have been imprinted on his memory for decades, if he had lived that long.



The troll’s wiry frame stretched his baby-blue colored skin taut. His muscled arms swung almost lazily at his sides as he approached.



In his heavily scarred right hand, swayed a near legendary weapon, a weapon of his dreams and his foe’s nightmares: Spineshatter. Glowing red, the mace’s squared business end was complimented with series of spikish-hooks. Heavy and foreboding, it should have hung like the iron hammer it was; instead, it seemed to move with Butha. In his subtle and unmarked left hand, paced the symbolic Ebon Hand. Red and white veins bled slivers of color through the hammer’s blacked steel. Crafted from the very cores of the fallen foes of rock and fire, this weapon seemingly breathed the energy of sacrificed lives. Buthaleirus often wondered how many of his friends died so that he may wield this high weapon. How many sacrificed their great treasures of rock and fire, so he may swing the Crusade’s only Ebon Hand. Whatever the number, he swore he would do them honor and justice. He treasured this weapon for what it was: a symbolic gift of friendship and trust. Back and forth the maces moved, keeping pace with Butha’s strides.



As he neared, Raddic gasped. “Your eyes!?” The troll’s red orbs burned passionately. Peering between the folds of his blood-red hood, his eye’s spoke of love and hate, of glee and sadness, of hope and fear. A moments glimpse told a lifetime’s tales of peaks and valleys. Some beings wore their emotions on their sleeves, Butha bore them through his eyes. Blackish-red leathers of the epic quality dressed the shadow master from head to toe. Their fit tight. Their finish superior. Butha’s movements in them seemed rhythmic, almost as if he danced his approach to the hapless human. “No, please…no, no, “ whimpered the soft-pink human. “I-I…” Any remaining pride Riddic had was crushed as his fear took hold of his bowels. Standing over the cowering animal, Butha took a moment. Inhaling deeply, he breathed in the animal’s embarrassing stink, grinned and giggled. The soft giggle morphed, into a guttural growl, which grew into a near deafening roar, as rogue raised his hammers high. Exploding downward, the hammers fell crushing bone and tearing flesh. Within seconds all that remained was a bloody stew of powdered bone and meaty chunks.



((A more “typical” description”- For a troll Butha is about average height with a wiry/thick, well-defined build-Thick legs, broad/sloping back. His right hand is heavily scarred, while his left is clean and soft. His face bares no visible scars, but is tattooed (but is often hidden due to the mask-I love the mask).



His tusks are of average, but equal length, with a near perfect shape. If anything out of the ordinary is to be noted, it is his smile/grin. He wears one often and it always genuine-be it of glee or wickedness. When I “see” Butha, I see a troll of pure heart. A mace-wielding shadow master that once on a path will not cease until his mission is accomplished.



Three words to describe him: Loyal, Passionate-Free spirited.-Basically, take Chris, make me a troll give me some maces-and you got Butha.