Dark Awakening
Mortigogg's moment in the Shadow Eclipse
If you have not met Mortigogg - listen to his backstory
Mortigogg's fingers trembled as he carefully arranged the smoking herbs in a pentagonal pattern. The acrid scent of nightshade and wormwood filled his nostrils, mixing with the musty smell of the ancient tome propped open beside him. This ritual—a minor conjuration to identify magical residue—was precisely the kind that had accidentally exposed him to dark magic months ago.
"Just a simple identification spell," he whispered, his teal eyes darting nervously around his secluded grove. "Nothing more."
The words had barely left his lips when the world plunged into absolute darkness.
Mortigogg gasped as the herb circle erupted in black flame. Pain seared across his skin, and he was thrown backward, landing hard against the rocky ground. His entire body burned as if his blood had been replaced with liquid shadow. Through tear-filled eyes, he watched in horror as dark symbols appeared on his arms, pulsing with malevolent energy.
"No, no, no," he moaned, frantically trying to scrape the markings away. "Not again!"
But this was different from his first accidental exposure. This was stronger, more purposeful. The darkness around him wasn't merely the absence of light—it was a presence, hungry and aware. And somehow, terrifyingly, it recognized him.
Kindred, whispered a voice that seemed to emanate from the symbols themselves. Vessel.
Mortigogg scrambled to his feet, panic clawing at his throat. The magical backlash from his ritual shouldn't have been this powerful. This was external magic—vast and ancient.
"An eclipse," he realized, as his unwanted mystical senses expanded outward. "But not natural."
Through the trees, he could see Troalstone in the valley below. Dark figures moved through the settlement with predatory purpose. Even from this distance, he recognized the Shadowcast by their fluid movements and the cold certainty of their advance.
His heart hammered against his ribs. The Shadowcast were elite practitioners of forbidden arts—exactly the kind of dark magic that had transformed him in that fateful accidental ritual. They would sense his connection to their power. They would come for him.
"I have to warn someone," he muttered, though his limbs felt leaden with dread. Who would listen to the troll everyone avoided? Who would trust the "Accidental Acolyte" who jumped at shadows and muttered to himself?
A scream cut through the unnatural silence, jolting him from his paralysis. From his elevated position, he could see a Shadowcast elite dragging a struggling troll child toward the edge of the forest.
Without conscious thought, Mortigogg found himself stumbling down the hillside. The symbols on his skin burned brighter with each step, and he could feel unfamiliar power surging through him. It felt both exhilarating and horrifying—like drowning in strength.
"Stop!" he croaked as he reached the forest's edge, his voice weak from disuse.
The Shadowcast elite turned, hood obscuring its features save for two pinpricks of cold light where eyes should be. It tilted its head, as if confused by the interruption. The child dangling from its grip whimpered, small hands scrabbling uselessly against the shadow tendrils binding her.
"You are touched by the darkness," the figure observed, its voice like stones grinding together. "Yet you interfere?"
Mortigogg swallowed hard. "Let her go. She's just a child."
"A perfect vessel," the elite corrected. "Unlike you—corrupted by accident, untrained, wasting your potential." The hooded head tilted further. "Unless you have reconsidered your path. The Mistress of Shadows would welcome one already marked by darkness."
The offer hung in the air between them. Acceptance. Training. Purpose. Everything Mortigogg had been denied since his accident.
The child's frightened eyes found his. "Please, Mister Magic," she whispered. "I want my mama."
Something twisted painfully in Mortigogg's chest. How many times had he been that frightened child, shunned and misunderstood? How many nights had he lain awake, wondering if he was becoming a monster?
"I said," he repeated, straightening to his full height, "let her go."
The symbols on his skin flared with sudden heat as he raised his hands. Dark magic responded instantly, flowing through him like a river finding its natural channel. Shadow tendrils erupted from his fingertips—stronger, more controlled than the Shadowcast elite's own.
Shock rippled visibly through the elite's form. It dropped the child in surprise as Mortigogg's shadows wrapped around its hooded figure, constricting like a vise.
"Impossible," it hissed. "You cannot—"
"I've been fighting this darkness inside me every day," Mortigogg interrupted, his voice growing stronger with each word. "What makes you think I'd surrender to yours?"
The elite thrashed against his hold, its own shadows trying to counter-attack. But Mortigogg's accidental exposure had changed him more than anyone realized—more than he himself had understood until this moment. The darkness responded to him not as a servant but as an extension of his will.
"Run," he told the child, who needed no second urging. She vanished into the underbrush, leaving Mortigogg alone with his captive.
"You think you've won?" the elite taunted. "The eclipse strengthens us. All of Troalstone will fall before the night is done."
Fear spiked through Mortigogg's momentary confidence. "What are you planning?"
The elite's laugh was like breaking glass. "The Mistress seeks suitable vessels for the ancient shadows. The young are most receptive. By dawn, a new generation of Shadowcast will walk these woods."
Horror washed over Mortigogg as understanding dawned. They were abducting children to corrupt them as he had been corrupted—but deliberately, permanently.
The runes on his skin pulsed in response to his anger. Power—dark, intoxicating power—beckoned at the edges of his consciousness. He could crush this elite with a thought. He could embrace the darkness fully and protect himself from whatever came next.
Instead, he closed his eyes and concentrated on the one variation of dark magic he'd been secretly practicing—a spell to send messages through shadow.
Focusing on the Council Grove at Troalstone's center, Mortigogg channeled his power into a warning: The Shadowcast comes for children. Eclipse is their doing. Flee or hide.
The effort left him gasping, darkness swimming at the edges of his vision. His hold on the elite weakened, and the shadow figure broke free with a triumphant hiss.
"Fool," it spat, dark tendrils reforming around its body. "You waste your gift. The Mistress will still offer you a place—after you've been properly disciplined."
Mortigogg staggered backward as the elite advanced. His burst of power had drained him, leaving the symbols on his skin dull and aching. Fear—his constant companion since the accident—surged through him once more.
But something else stirred within him too. For the first time, he had used his cursed magic to help someone. For the first time, his difference had been a strength, not a weakness.
"I may be touched by darkness," he said, voice shaking but determined, "but I choose what that means."
The elite lunged, shadow tendrils reaching for his throat. Mortigogg closed his eyes, drawing on the last reserves of his power. The darkness within him responded—not with aggression but with something like recognition.
A shield of pure shadow formed around him, absorbing the elite's attack. Within this cocoon of darkness, Mortigogg found himself untouchable—separate from the world yet acutely aware of it.
Through the living shadow, he sensed rather than saw the elite's frustration. More importantly, he sensed others approaching—more Shadowcast, drawn by the confrontation.
"Another time," he whispered, allowing his shield to expand suddenly outward. The explosive force knocked the elite backward, buying Mortigogg precious seconds to flee into the forest.
As he ran, legs burning and chest heaving, Mortigogg realized something had fundamentally changed. The magic that had terrified him for so long—the darkness he'd been fighting to contain—had protected him when he needed it most.
Perhaps he wasn't cursed after all. Perhaps he had been given a gift—terrible and powerful, but a gift nonetheless. One that might, just might, help save the very community that had shunned him.
Behind him, shadows gathered and pursued. Ahead lay uncertainty. But for the first time since that fateful day of accidental exposure, Mortigogg felt something like purpose guiding his steps.
The darkness within matched the darkness without, but he would be its master, not its slave. And in that resolution, he found an unexpected light.
Read how other trolls of Troalkind handled the Shadow Eclipse