Mojo's History
The flames were dancing, just like the fragments of shadows covering the sooty walls of the cave. Old Trott of the Zarakkhar tribe was telling his favorite story, surrounded by kids...
"Those was the days, Zarakkhar marshall and cruel, eager fer 'ealthy kiddies. And whot wi' the rest of 'em? Nuthin'! Thrown down the charm behind the Troll Mount, that's whot. But it weren't so wi' Mojo, oh no. Momma woun't give 'im away �?? but who cared? Feeble was the kiddie, feeble and ugly as mud."
The children, all ears on Trott, started touching their faces and glancing at each other. But the old troll kept speaking. "And so they threw 'im down the chasm, poor kiddie. But he woun't die!"
What he told them next bowled the kids over. All scabbed, scratched, and bruised, yet alive, the boy crawled through the corpses and weathered bones. At night, his exhausted body trembled with the cold. In the daylight, the unbearable stench of rotting flesh made him sick to the stomach. There was no bottom to this terror, and even the scanty troll tongue was enough to give the bravest of hearts shivers. "Whaddaya lookin' at? Add some fuel to th' fire. Or we all freeze cold, like poor Mojo," Trott yelled at the older kids. He waited for the flames to heat up, and continued.
"For a year, was Mojo cryin' and callin' for 'elp, and no one was ever answered. He crawled an' crept, and gather'd grass, an' ate its roots, soaked wi' his peers' bloods."
Trott slipped off a pale bladderwort tuft and continued, chewing it with his rotten teeth. For a long time, he told them about the forest where Mojo ended up, his bloody blisters, his cries and memories about his mother. He told them about the kid fighting a pack of hungry wargs, looking to escape the endless dark of the forest, and suffering from pesky gnats. But Trott did not forget about the infinite longing for life that overwhelmed the kid to the bottom of his little heart. And then, he came to the most important part.
"From nowher', Jhu was lyin' on the ground. 'E were the tuffest warrior o' Zarakkhar, and 'e was bleedin'. And 'e was bleedin' very very red! And the enemies was shootin' him from the hill! Oh was it dang-erous! 'T seemed they wud kill this Jhu an' off they go!"
Then, Trott tried his best to describe what Mojo was doing. It was unclear whether his gift was triggered by suffering, or that Providence led the kid. But he crawled towards the wounded Jhu and threw his hands in the air, creating a mysterious staff. Then he flung magical skulls at the enemies. Skulls so small, no one could explain where they come from. Spirits of late children led the skulls, beating their foes severely. Once Mojo had defeated the attack, he moved back to Jhu and healed his wounds with an unknown power.
"An' so", the old Trott finished, "Jhu was the best among Zarakkhar �?? but clever 'nuf to understand: the weak an' ugly can be o' more use than th' strongest o' warriors. He crafted a mask for Mojo, so that nobody wud ever laugh at 'is ugly face. And since back then, Mojo is the best of Jhu's friends, forever! And Mojo became the brave defender for the week an' wretched, an' the tribe now loves its kiddies well. That is that, young folks..."
