"Unnh!" Oola turned and flung a rock in frustration. It bounced off one of the moss-covered Stranglethorn trees, nearly brained her on the way back, and smacked into the straw training dummy. Oola's jaw dropped.
The first time I hit that stupid thing all day, and it's by mistake!
Oola had sent spears into trees, into the ground, into the river, into distant huts, into a zeppelin which was passing overhead, and several times into her own feet -- if she were anything but a quick-healing troll, she would have crippled herself five times over. She'd even managed to send spears into previously thrown spears which were stuck in odd spots where she couldn't recover them.
The sad thing was, she wasn't even the worst shot in the tribe. Whoever'd named them the Wildspear probably hadn't meant it as a compliment. She'd really thought that with enough practice, she'd be able to achieve basic competence, though.
Now, in some troll tribes, the daughters of the chieftain are pampered and waited upon hand and foot, filled with food and drowned in drink until they're nothing but balls of blubber, the better to show off the chieftain's wealth. In other tribes, the chieftains' daughters are great warriors in their own right, trained in the arts of fighting and hunting, and sculpted into musclebound Amazons who can cleave a dwarf in two with a single stroke.
The Wildspear tribe wasn't like either of those. Oola was no soft princess or chiseled champion. She was just a skinny teenager. In fact, she was such a beanpole that, more than once, her loincloth had slipped off her lack-of-hips in the middle of an important ceremony, causing her blue skin to turn purple with embarrassment as she accidentally mooned the elders. Pimply skin and tusks that hadn't come in straight only added to the gawk factor.
She had to do something, and soon. The tribe wasn't strong enough to survive on its own, and if she distinguish herself, she'd end up married off to the son of some equally tiny and desperate tribe. The Noseroot, maybe, or the Slobbertusk, or even (shudder) the Bloodfarts.
No -- she would make a name for herself or die trying. She picked up the rock (it had served her better than the spear, anyway) and walked into the forest, resolve she would only come back when she deserved to. It wasn't long before she came to a crossroads on the jungle path.
One branch led downwards, towards the eastern shore. Jaguero Isle wasn't more than a quick swim away. It was rumored that immense apes wandered through the fruit-laden forests of the island, ripe for the hunting. Perhaps if she returned with a trophy, she would prove herself.
Another branch let north into the mountains. There, in the misty high reaches, lived the Stumblefist Ogres, clumsy brutes who were as pathetic among ogrekind as the Wildspear were among trolls. Still, one had to start somewhere, and slaughtering a few ogres was definitely a start.
A third branch headed south, towards Booty Bay. All kinds of strange things, from lands so far off she could barely imagine how long it would take to walk there, could be found in that mysterious place. Maybe one of those clever little green creatures which swarmed all over that wooden honeycomb could solve her problem.
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