Originally from the Foggy Valley, where he lived with his mate, Miss Mate, Wilthalberd has been enslaved and set to work clearing the arena of dead combatants. His shackles are composed of the flaring metal gornar that leave his body covered in open wounds, earning him his nickname "Pus".
>look ogre The hulking beast is stooped, betraying any true sense of his height. His long, muscular arms hang slack from his hunched shoulders, wrists banded by gornar manacles and chains whose lengths connect to matching bands at his ankles, restricting any full motion of movement. His brow nearly obscures his dark amber-colored eyes, which flicker with a hint of intelligence. He has a pair of bovine-like horns sprouting from above his temples, each sawed-off short and capped with thick leather.
A gornar-shackled ogre quietly grunts out what barely passes as a tune to himself in a mounrful tone. "Me wish me could go home," he murmers at its end. A soft sigh on foul breath from a gornar-shackled ogre laments, "Wilthaberd miss smell of centaurs and coyote. And Miss Mate's rot stew." He digs a yellowed toenail into the straw, clinking his ankle cuff and chain. A gornar-shackled ogre grasps his chains within his massive fingers and grits his teeth. With a large intake of breath, he strains to separate the links, but to no avail. The gornar flares suddenly, and he drops the links, blowing into his palms and exclaiming, "Ow, ow, ow!" Muffled cheers and groans can be heard drifting down from above. A gornar-shackled ogre glances up, pricking up his long pointy ears for a moment. "No thud," he remarks plainly, then lowers his heavy head. You find yourself woefully downwind as a gornar-shackled ogre shuffles slowly past you through the stall. Phew! Someone needs a douse of something other than excrement and rot! A gornar-shackled ogre rummages through a pile of straw, careful not to disrupt his chains. He smiles broadly as he removes his hand from the mound, clutching something small and furry in his fist. He stuffs his catch into his mouth and chews a time or two before swallowing with an audible gulp. A gornar-shackled ogre picks at a scab on his arm, breaking it open. He sniffs at the discolored pus that seeps from the wound. You hear a snuffling sound coming from the direction of a gornar-shackled ogre. He has fallen asleep on his feet! He begins to whimper and attempts to cover his head with his arms, but the chains are too short. He wakes abruptly as he shouts, "Pus be good! Pus be good! No hurt Pus!" The gornar-shackled ogre visibly shudders as he slowly glances around fearfully, appearing to be looking for someone.
>ask ogre about name The gornar-shackled ogre turns his sad, hooded gaze toward you. "Me called Wilthalberd. Masters call me 'Pus.'" The creature lifts his wrists, indicating to the open, seeping sores along his flesh. The gornar shackles flare slightly, causing Wilthalberd to flinch.
>ask ogre about home The ogre's countenance brightens for a moment. "Me from Foggy Valley. Me had good life. Me had mate!" The hulking figure's expression grows despondent as he reminisces to you. "Me miss home. Me miss mate," he laments with a heavy sad, sigh.
>ask ogre about enslavement The gornar-shackled ogre shrugs at you, his chains flickering and sparking with his movements. "Too long," he states simply. "Me never see moons to know days. Me never see anything but straw and blood."
>ask ogre about vacation Wilthalberd glances at the platform and then up toward the ceiling. "Me gets to go up. Me get bodies. Much death. Me does good. No eat them. Them smell good." He sniffs you heavily with a snort. "You smell good."
>ask ogre about job The gornar-shackled ogre clenches his large fists, the long matted hair stained dark with blood. "Me get bodies from arena. Me drag them away. It not so bad job."
>ask ogre about masters Wilthalberd's lips peel back to reveal a snarl of jagged broken teeth. "Cruel, mean masters. Masters steal me with burning net. Masters try take mate, me stop them. Masters take me, instead." He shows you multiple criss-crossed scars on his legs and arms, then turns his back to you. There are numerous freshly scabbed welts along and over older jagged scars across his shoulders and all down his spine.
>ask ogre about hobbies The gornar-shackled ogre stares at you, his deep amber eyes depicting a hint of incredulity. "Oh!" he exclaims with a sarcastic tone. "Me knit and like plant flowers! What you think me do?" He waves his arms for emphasis, his rattling chains flaring in an arc of orange fire. As he winces and scowls, he snuffs out the flames on what little arm hair he has left. "Look what you make me do! That just grow back!" Wilthalberd scoffs at you, "That me hobby, me grow hair." He snorts, and a thick string of snot runs from his nose. He wipes it away on one of his shoulders.