The Least of Brell’s Creatures
By Dugan Stoneaxe
Brell, the Lord of the Underfoot, brought a great many proud and noble creatures to Norrath. If at least not proud and noble, then at least somewhat useful. The least of all of these, though, are teh boarfiends.
Everyone is allowed a bad day or two. We all have our slip ups. And the boarfiends were, simply, Brell’s. As I understand the story to go, the creation came on the same day that the great Lord of the Underfoot invented ale, an accomplishment of such merit that you can almost forgive him for the boarfiends.
The first time he sipped that frothy brew, it seduced him with its rich flavor, and he promptly drank the whole cask. In this deep state of inebriation, he thought that it would be quite a riot to cross a man with a boar and give them no sense in their heads and an unsettling love of filth. The next morning, as he nursed his hang over and observed the boarfiends in action, he realized his mistake.
He was going to do away with them entirely, but his friend Bristlebane thought it was the most amusing thing he had ever heard of and refused to allow Brell to destroy them. Fizzlethorp gave them away as gifts to his goblins, to prove there was a race lowlier than they.
All was well until a goblin, also drunk on something and a little too pleased with his own joke, let a pack of them go free. In time, they managed to form their own little clan, subsisting entirely off of what others have thrown away.
They’ve no knowledge of their father, no even their skinny twerpy little godfather, and somehow they have managed not to get themselves all killed yet. I suppose it’s profitable to hoarde everything everyone else doesn’t want when you’ve the sole interest in it.
I’m sure Brell looks down on them to this day and feels a little bit ashamed, but then, who hasn’t done something after one too many ales that they later color at the thought of? For the rest of us, though, it doesn’t generally result in the birth of an entire race of creatures, just waking up with not as attractive as they were the night before bedfellows and armor tinted pink with purple ribbing. Maybe that last one was just me.
Anyhow, travel the Moors of Ykesha long enough and you’re bound to run into one of Brell’s lowliest children… just bury your trash before you sleep, though, and you won’t have anything they want. Steer clear of ’em. Take it from me, Dugan Stoneaxe, their stink is not worth the laugh.