This nine-foot troll has the stare of a creature who’s seen a little of everything. Perhaps too much. Broglie talks like an old man, using phrases and idioms that people haven’t used in decades. His true age is a mystery, but if local legend is correct, he’s at least 90 years old, and nobody knows how long these kinds of trolls live.
Broglie’s a rover. He likes it that way. Go goes where he wants, sleeps where he wants, eats what he wants. His shorts? Stitched those himself. Same with the moccasins, though they don’t last very long. Troll skin is tough, and heals quick, but he’d rather avoid any foot-fatigue if he’s on a long walk, and he loves to walk.
This ol’ troll is an expert trapper, and has a preference for venison. “It’s one of the few meats worth eating cooked, y’know?” Trolls is complicated creatures, an’ even a troll can’t tell ya everything about bein’ one. Ain’t got no bellybuttons. None of those useless nipples. Ain’t never seen a lady troll, but reckon they look th’ same.
Ah, the arm scar? Brog’ got it awhile back. Lit up quite a mighty fire f’r a lark, thing got outta hand durin’ a romp with some orcs. He’s a loner mos’ o’ the time, but he’ll show up to do business with the local degen’rates if they’re feeling lucky. Broglie ain’ a cheater, no matter what the folks say. He sees a bluff from a mile away–he’s seen quite a lot of ’em o’er the years, yknow.
There’s only one thing Broglie r’lly cares ’bout. Good pipeweed, spices, maybe a barrel of local ale. He’s got no use for coin, so if you spot him camped on a old stone bridge, know that yer bribes are in vain.
But fer Lathand’r’s sake I cannot find a hat in my size.