Trugg

Trugg slept through empires. Oldest and hugest of troggothkind, he lay dreaming in the drowned dark beneath the earth for so long that the world above forgot troggoths had ever had a king — until something in the deep places shifted, and Trugg stood up, and everything on top of him became a landslide. Troggoths across the realms felt it in their slow bones. They did not decide to follow him; they simply began walking.

Fused into his back over the long ages of his sleep is a ruin of ancient craft — a magic-siphoning engine of forgotten make, cracked and leaking, that drinks the power of the land as he passes and vents it back out however it pleases. Sorcery bursts around the Troggoth King like weather: rains of stone, sudden forests, lights that hum in the sky for days. Trugg himself rarely notices, which is somehow the most frightening part.

Now he marches, and the greatest troggherd since the realms were young marches after him, with whole processions of grots scampering behind to worship the wreckage. Something itches in Trugg's skull — half a dream, half a destination — and he means to find it. Scholars who chart his wandering path argue over whether the engine is speaking to him, and what could possibly be on the other end. The cities that lie in his way have stopped asking questions and started relocating.