Orcs of the Splintered Skull tribe are usually named after their characteristics or exploits, and Bigglad Badgutz was no exception. Since birth, strangers meeting him would usually offer one or both of the following opinions. ‘’e’s a bigun’ and/or ‘Oof he stinks!’ Both of these characteristics aren’t unusual amongst orcs, so you can get an idea of just how big and how smelly he was that it was commented on.
Perhaps it was the smell, or possibly the realisation that Bigglad would be a real threat to  his succession as chief once he got to adulthood, but his older brother Longgdugs decided he needed to get rid of the rapidly growing Bigglad while he could. He therefore hatched a cunning plan (for an orc) to lure his infant sibling to his doom. One evening, just before supper, Longgdugs left a trail of Bigglad’s favourite mushrooms leading out of the village and into a rocky cleft where trolls had been spotted recently. Bigglad duly followed the trail, scoffing the mushrooms as he went, and predictably bumped into a pair of trolls.
‘Ere, wots this coming down the road Kazz, just in time fer supper?’ said the biggest of the trolls, cracking its knuckles, slobber dripping from it’s gormless jaws.
‘Get stuffed Bozz, it’s a bayyybeeee!’ said the smaller one, squinting through its one remaining eye. With that, she lunged, grabbed Bigglad with a gnarly hand, and cradled him forcibly in her sinewy arms.
‘Wot u doin? Get in chopped and in the pot Kazz, I’m starving!’ grunted Bozz, moving to grab Bigglad from the other.
‘Gerrof Bozz, it’s a bayyybeeee! Remember what ‘appened when you ate our last one? You woz on the bog fer days. Baby trolls ain’t meant fer eatin, they’re meant fer ‘elpin fetching an carryin!’
‘You sure that’s a troll Kazz? Don’t look like one to me?’ Bozz ventured suspiciously.
‘Smells like a troll’ she replied, taking a big sniff, ‘bit wimpy maybe, but wiv a bit o feedin an doin liftin it’ll get big an strong like its new dadddeeee!’ she exclaimed, leaning over towards Bozz with puckered, phlegm coated lips.
‘Geddartofit!’ shouted Bozz, shrinking away from the incoming drool.
So Bigglad came to live with trolls, and was looked after as only trolls could. He was screamed at, beaten, made to do all the hardest work, but was at least fed with more food than any orc could reasonably expect, even the son of a chief. As the years went by, the hard work and diet of goat, human and halfling made him even bigger and stinkier.
Eventually the depredations of the trolls meant the humans and halflings moved away to safer lands, and the foul family had to venture further afield for their food. Inevitably, the next stop was the orc village where Bigglad had come from.
At first it was just stragglers and guards that the trolls picked off, but even that sparked vague confusion with Bigglad as he chewed on the strangely familiar coloured flesh. It was only when his brother, now chief, led a warband in search of the trolls preying on his village that full realisation hit, however. Seeing his brother’s saggy dugs swinging in the torchlight brought memories of his infancy flooding back. Bigglad screamed a trollish warcry, and casually removed his brother’s head with a nearby fallen branch as he did so. He grabbed Longdugg’s torch, turned and rammed it down Bozz’s throat. Something inside caught light, and Bozz’s distended gut erupted in a gaseous explosion. As Kazz fled off into the darkness, the remaining orcs gingerly gathered around Bigglad, weapons drawn. One grizzled old orc, face covered in scars, looked quizzically at him, before taking a giant sniff of the air.
‘Allo, Bigglad,’ he said, ‘you’ve grown! look at the size ov yer! You’ll make a proper chief.’