The Quite Possibly True Origins of Rolltar, the Greatest Hero Ever

As told by his nearly constant companion and chronicler, The Laughing Minstrel, Slimfeather

Ah, welcome road-worn and weary traveler. Welcome to the famed Furry Chicken, the inn where many a fabulous and harrowing tale of high-adventure has begun. I bid thee good day. Please, sit, while I wave down the husky and humorless bar maid. Shall we both partake of a frothing ale? Why not make it mead? Yes, you are weary and worn and all that sort of thing. Treat yourself. Let us slake our gullets with a golden honey mead. Nobody will pamper you but you, right? Oh, Hilgrid the Husky! Yes, my sweet… two flagons of mead, if you please, stout queen of the stool. Ah, yes. Do you hear that annoyed, barely-audible grunt? That means “right away, good sirs!”

Except… hmmm. Hang on just a moment. Hilgrid? Yes, excellent empress of the scullery. Could you pretty please add a twist of lemon? And perhaps a sprig of chamomile? Many thanks. I’m sorry, you’ll what? Oh my, I cannot wait to see what surprise you will have awaiting me in my delicious mead! Ah, wonderful creature, Hilgrid. We go way back. Completely harmless. None too clean, of course, but only Talcruskian fleas spit, and we’re nowhere near there. So, now… where were we?

Yes, your weariness and worniness from your long journey, new best friend of mine. Now that our tasty and fortifying beverages have been sent for, why not a tale or ballad of fantastic heroism and peril to quench thy parched ears that no doubt have been choked with road dust? Eh? No ballads? Not a fan of ballads, are you? Well, no matter. A tale then. A story spun by none other than myself, Slimfeather the Laughing Minstrel of Filindria. No one weaves a narrative like myself, if I do say so. What is that? You have never heard of me? Surely you have. Slimfeather the Dashing? Slimfeather the Charming? Slimfeather the Moderately Enthralling? Slimfeather of the Floppy Boots? See?

Ahem! Very well then. It matters little. For you see, I know you have heard of the protagonist of the tale you are about to hear. My story is a first hand witnessing of the heroic and utterly remarkable exploits of none other than Rolltar himself. Yes. That’s right. That Rolltar. The one you’ve heard so much about. The Barbarian Prince. The Axe of the North. The Bastard Son of Blurg. Sorcerers’ Bane, Giant-Slayer, Bear-Warrior, Dragon Noogier. Barbarian of the Month three years running. Rolltar the Mighty. Rolltar the Freakishly Handsome. Not only do I possess many accounts of his deeds and feats of heroism, but I am his official chronicler and president of his fan club. When grim-faced Nooull finally decides to harvest his soul with the Pale Blade of Nothingness, then only the tales I tell will live on to remember his amazing adventures.

Hah! Still you scoff! Well, the velvety mitt of challenge has been tossed at my floppy boots duly and well. So be it. Let the story I regale you with be of his birth and origins in the harsh and unforgiving realm north of Valgrim’s Gauntlet then. For I have been personally told of his history by the glisteningly muscled Rolltar himself. The other tidbits of information I have pieced together from the songs of the aged skalds of Tilgarnost and from the night I spent around the campfire of Ilkorr Icedrake, last of the Dragon Clan. Nice guy. Some ancient folk are known to have birds nesting in their long silvery beards. Ilkorr has wolverines nesting in his. And his beard is actually silver.

Ah-hah! Here are our meads! Fresh from the keg! Thank you, oh prickly chinned Hilgrid! Now that our drinks have arrived, will you not sit a while, rest your bones, sip your delectable mead, and listen to my tale? First permit me to wetten my throat with this golden, frothy goodness before I jump in…

…oh, that is horrible. That is really just horrible.

PART I: The Birth of Heroness

Good. You’re still here. I’m sorry for the delay. I just had to do something about that terrible coating on my tongue. I think that I will just stick with ice water for now. And some handfuls of this pretzely, nutty stuff in this bowl right here. Okay. Here we go. The origins of my story about Rolltar’s beginning time… just allow me to get my trusty five-string lute out of its gig bag here and I will – no, no I’m not singing a ballad. No, never fear, my friend. I only plan on plucking a few notes here and there during my tale for effect. Yes, just background music. No ballads. No. Honestly. I promise, no ballads. Sit down, please. Okay.

The only part of Rolltar’s history that is still shrouded in the mists of unknowing is the identity of his father. Some rumors say that he is the progeny of the aforementioned Ilkorr Icedrake – a quite nearly legendary warrior in his own right. Other stories floating around claim that he was fathered by the demigod Blurg or that he came into being from a gob of spittle spat forth from Valgrim himself from his precipitous mountain throne. Most accounts besides the latter, of course, agree that his mother was a Bluefire Sorceress… powerful, beautiful, and cold-hearted. She gave him up immediately after birth, abandoning him to the icy realm north of the Frozen Sea. Perhaps she wished to be rid of him because of the memories he evoked of the mysterious father. Perhaps she knew somehow that he did not need her, and that he was not yet fated to die. Take your pick.

His first days were certainly not easy, however. It is believed that he was still warm from the womb when a giant walrus came by and gobbled him up. Fortunately, Rolltar did and always has tasted horrible – a bit like the mead around here – and the enormous beast quickly spat him out and sent him skidding across the ice. Shortly thereafter, he was found by a pack of bored ice bears who batted him around a bit before a skate-ship appeared on the horizon. It was crewed by hunters of the fabled Dragon Clan. They were hardened warriors who once ruled the Barbarian Peninsula, but are now faded into obscurity. No one knows what happened to them, but years ago they simply disappeared. Today they are almost forgotten. In fact, you probably don’t even remember who I was just talking about.

They found this newborn lying on the ice and could not believe such a thing was possible unless the child was a gift from the gods. They wrapped his little body in white furs and returned to their encampment. The ice folk were amazed by the infant’s resilience, and incredibly annoyed by the way he was constantly into trouble by the time he could jiggle around in a baby kind of way. Somehow, they just knew he was “special.” Before he was able to walk, Rolltar (which in Tilga, means “bumps into things”) was as strong as a full grown man, but even dumber. Soon he had punched out his first wolf. When he was finally able to walk, he used his new mobility to punch out wolves that were far away. And when he finally learned to speak, it was to laugh at unconscious wolves.

When he had learned to speak using actual words, it is said his first word was “awesome.” It seemed even at the tender age of six, he knew that he was destined for great things and to accomplish fantastic deeds. Since he had said this while gazing at himself in a pool of still crystalline water, he also realized that he was rather great and ruggedly handsome in a toddler-who-shaves sort of way. His distinctive chin cleft was already deep, and his pectorals were already chiseled. His golden hair shone like sunfire. His eyes were the color of frost in the light of the full azure moon and they often sought out the young women of the Dragon Clan (which the men found quite disturbing).

Once the barbarians could no longer handle raising the young upstart (or deal with his inappropriate ogling of the ice women), they chose to send him into the empty cold wastes to live with a lonely hermit. The old man was once a great swordsman and adventurer in his youth, but he had fled his bloody past to be alone and at peace. He had become blind in his old age, and perhaps did not even know the child was there for quite some time. While the hermit (who Rolltar called “Snow Eyes”) had sworn to never draw a weapon in anger or spill another man’s blood, he still practiced with his sword to maintain his vitality and vigor. He was nearly one-hundred years old, but his skill with a blade was still remarkable. Rolltar would watch him carefully and try to imitate his movements. The youth thought to himself, “this could be even better than punching!”

One day, Rolltar decided to try out the weapon for himself. Unfortunately, he was much stronger, more inexperienced, and impetuous than his venerable mentor. The hermit had his back turned one day while cooking up some hearty stew consisting of snow, icicles, and ice over a fire fueled by his own dried dung (I’m sorry – that’s just how the story goes). The golden-haired boy spun about with sword in hand and cleanly lopped off the old man’s head. The lad barely understood what had just occurred, but when he was unable to “wake up” either the hermit’s head or body, he realized it was time to move on. Plus he got just terribly bored.

Rolltar took only his former master’s blade, a thick cloak of ice bear fur, a spear, a change of wolf-skin underwear, and a hunter’s bow with half a quiverful of arrows. He was but thirteen years old. When he departed the hermit’s ice cave, he did not look back but swore to avenge the old man’s death. Probably Rolltar did not correctly understand what this meant at the time. But it sounded good and manly.

The brave and hardy youth traveled boldly across the windswept wastes to the east. He did not have any destination in mind, it’s just that the opening to the hermit’s hole faced that way. The elements battered him relentlessly, but Rolltar took little notice. He just knew he was hungry and bored out of his mind. He just wished he could find something to eat. And if he could punch it also, then that would be equally great. Or better yet, punch it with the shiny metal pointy thing that hung from his hip. Hmmm…

Mile after mile, day after day, Rolltar journeyed east, never knowing where he was going. He faced vicious snowstorms and biting winds that would shear the wool off of a fanged Chulfaxian cave sheep. He got so hungry, that he decided to eat most of his clothes. When eventually he was able to find some game to hunt, he found that the enormous thousand-legged snow-ipedes of the frozen wastes did not die very easily. In fact, instead of dying, they tended to grab Rolltar by the wolf-skin undies (all he had left) and whip him around viciously with their sharp mandibles. After the youth had his skull bounced off the permafrost a few times and received a absolutely wicked wedgie (or grundy in the Outlander tongue), he flung his dead master’s sword in a wild gambit of frustration. The blade flashed twice in the morning sun as it flew through the air end over end. With a loud SHREEKHT (I believe that is the proper spelling), the weapon buried itself to the hilt through the creature’s chitinous exo-armor. With one of its nine hearts pierced, the snow-ipede immediately began to spew bluish vital fluids all over the ground and Rolltar himself.

The barbarian lad was thrown to the ground and the huge beast began to thrash about in its throes of death. Its lashing tail actually clubbed Rolltar really good a few more time before it finally ceased its uncontrollable movements (and even then it landed on him with a ground-shaking crash). The fearsome monstrosity was defeated. Even though Rolltar was unconscious, pinned under a giant dead myriapod, and covered with disgusting blue goo, he was smiling to himself. Deep inside of him, he knew that he had finally discovered his purpose and true calling. He knew why he had survived being left alone in the frozen wastes. Why he was found by the faded Clan of the Dragon. Why he accidentally beheaded an old blind man. It was because he could kill things in truly unusual and fantastic ways. He did it real good and it was super fun.

But the super fun had only just begun…

Okay! Bathroom break!

Awesomeness... what does it mean?

To some it is a word that is hard to say without spitting crumbs all over the place when you have saltines in your mouth. Or perhaps pretzels. To others it is a very high pinnacle, one that could never, ever be reached. Higher than many other pinnacles around it. Like the tallest pinnacle in the Great Lost City of Pinnacles. But what awesomeness means to a rare, select, chosen and carefully-plucked-with-the-thumb-and-forefinger few is a way of life. Yes, some truly amazing individuals make it their mission to be… awesomeness.

Prepare yourself to enter the fabulous world of high adventure with the Heroes of Awesomeness and their utterly magnificent and bulgingly muscled captain… Rolltar. But be warned, intrepid reader – you should only embark upon these hastily scrawled pieces of parchment (which have since been transcribed into Microsoft Word) if you be stout of both mind and brain. For within these manuscripts are tales of such harrowing peril and monstrous terror that you will surely leap out of a high window or throw yourself in front of a passing turnip wagon if only to be free of these horrible images. If you dare continue, know that your eyeballs will bear you a grudge for at least twelve to fourteen months for succumbing them to such unspeakable sentences and paragraphs of doom.

You have been mercifully warned. Now let us begin, brave souls…