Let me speak, briefly, on Trog history and culture.
This is going to be relevant to the events about to unfold, so please bear with me. Without proper context, much of what I am going to describe in a few minutes may lose its deeper meaning. I'll try to keep things as entertaining and as colorful as I always do.
The first and most fundamental thing you need to know is that the Trogs have a reverence for booze that is practically a religion.
You laugh, but to a Trog, this is no laughing matter. Upon the conclusion of my speech, the Trogs immediately called for a celebration, in particular an event know as a Thal'Thock. Thal'Thock is an ancient Trog word, in a dialect that is about as old as Latin is on Earth, and it means 'The Emptying Of The Kegs'. Yes, it is, at its core, a kegger, but it is a kegger done with a hell of a lot more reverence than any kegger thrown by any frat house that has ever existed on Earth.
Before I begin describing the wonder that is the Trog kegger, I need to give you an idea of just how fucking big a thing booze is for the Trogs, and to do so, I must describe to you how life started out for the Trogs.
Here is my thesis statement for the early history of the Trogs: It blew fucking goats. Seriously.
Apparently, according to the knowledge that Grogar had rattling around in his caprine skull, when the world was made, it kinda didn't go as perfectly as most religions like to claim Earth's did. Two major cosmic entities started out working together, but in the end had a big fight and things kinda went to shit for anything whose place hadn't been worked out yet. This was where the Trogs came in: On the surface, every race had a kingdom, a place to call their own. Ponies, for example, had Equestria, back on their homeworld, although there's a long story about how three separate races actually ended up becoming a united kingdom that I'd rather not go into. I won't go into detail for every race there was, but all but one had a home on the surface: The Trogs did not have an assigned place in the world, and whatever cosmic forces were supposed to arrange one for them never got around to it.
Since there was no place for them up top, the Trogs had to live underground, where they ate cave mushrooms which tasted like salted dog shit, and brewed a primitive beer from those mushrooms, one that tasted like fermented liquid salted dog shit. Still, they had to drink something: Life was far too depressing not to get drunk on a regular basis.
Consider this for a moment: In human life, we have a thing called Existential Angst, where people stress out about the idea that life may in fact have no predetermined meaning, and that there is no big role for them in the universe. Some people turn to religion to overcome this, with varying degrees of success. Others find strength in the idea of there being no set role for them, deciding that if life has no set purpose, then they are free to create their own. More than a few just despair and start drinking heavily. For the Trogs, there was no 'Existential Angst': They knew, for a fact, that while someone might have intended for them to have a place at one point, it didn't happen, and whoever was in charge now had decided that there really was no purpose for the Trogs to exist, and just left them to twist in the wind. It is one thing to believe there is no 'great beard in the sky' to watch over you. It is quite another to discover that he's there, but he doesn't give two fucks about whether you live or die, and may have even forgotten you even existed in the first place.
Who wouldn't start drinking at that point?
Sadly, the subterranean lands that the Trogs inhabited also tended to play out like an incredibly unlucky run of the game Dwarf Fortress, with gigantic monstrosities that did things like belch poison and bleed liquid murder showing up on a weekly basis. The Trogs were constantly on the move, and tried to find sanctuary. The few times they tried to come to the surface, the Trogs were met with torches, pitchforks, and torches tied to pitchforks. Life, as mentioned, sucked asses on fire, and it would have stayed that way forever, had a miracle not occurred.
That miracle, at least from the perspective of the Trogs, was a goat named Grogar.
One thing that I have learned from Grogar's memories is that, when he wants something from someone, he is not afraid to be the most generous goat, hell, the most generous ANYTHING on the planet, in order to get it. He'd given Bray health, a whole body, and immortality for what was ultimately only a single act of betrayal, one that many others would have done for a lot less. For the Trogs, from whom he needed so much more, Grogar rained so much good fortune upon the poor bastards that you'd almost think he was a nice guy.
He took the entire race, lock, stock, and barrel, to Tambelon, and used magic to adjust their eyes to the light of the artificial sun he'd created to light the world, and basically said, "If you'll join with me, you get an entire world of your own to enjoy, with thousands of things you can eat that don't taste like it came out of the ass of something that probably had diarrhea and a colon infection. There are monsters here, but I can help you tame them so that they will serve you, instead of devour you. This is all my gift to you: No strings attached, so long as you remain loyal to me, and only to me." The Trogs, in response, made him their chieftain of chieftains. Great food and a safe place to live made him a hero in their eyes.
Grogar then presented to the illiterate, uncultured, and primitive Trogs the gifts of writing, civilization, and technology, raising them from backward savages to a cultural and economical powerhouse. The Trogs made Grogar their emperor. Civilization is great and all, but it wasn't quite enough to reach the level of love they'd soon have for him.
And then, as an afterthought, noticing that the Trogs had awful beer, Grogar also taught them how to make liquor. Every liquor. Ever. And he taught them how to brew it better than any other race in the world.
If you've ever spent your life drinking bad booze, or even just mediocre booze, then suddenly were given really good booze, you'll understand just how big a deal that is. The Trogs were still haunted by their miserable existence in the caves, but with good booze, it is really, really easy to forget a painful past. The booze the Trogs could make now was enough to erase the memories of that past, and became pivotal in their lifelong celebration of how great things had become.
As an expression of their absolute and unending gratitude, the Trogs made Grogar their Super God Emperor Double King Grand Poobah Sultan Turbo President For Life. That's literally what the translated title they gave him means, although it sounds more like a cat trying to hock up a hairball made of hedgehogs in the Trog's native tongue. The Trogs held massive festivals a dozen times a year which centered around prasing Grogar and thanking him for giving his subjects the gift of booze... while drinking vast quantities of said booze. The Trogs had never had a god, or alicorns, or anything of that nature watching out for them, but in Grogar, the Trogs had found the closest thing that their entire race had ever had, and they wanted to be certain that they would never lose his favor.
Benjamin Franklin once said that 'Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.' Grogar gave the Trogs beer, and as such, he became the god of the Trogs, or as close to it as one can be.
Receiving this much pure adoration was perhaps one of the few times that Grogar ever felt anything like appretiation for another group of beings in his life. He'd secretly planned on dicking the Trogs over at the first opportunity after getting what he'd needed from them, but this display of overwhelming love and loyalty made him adjust his plans in such a way that the Trogs would continue to be a part of his schemes from now until the end of time. Part of that, I think, was because Grogar was alone, being the last of his kind. But a bigger part was, even amongst his own kind, he had never received anything even approaching love or appreciation: The Evils were a cruel and selfish lot, and Grogar's first encounter with another of his own kind had nearly been a fatal one, as the only way the Evils knew to react to one another was through the time-honored medium of ultra-violent murder attempts. The fact that an entire race of beings not only accepted him, but loved him to the point of worship, warmed the cockles of his black and twisted heart.
Even after his death, Grogar was considered, by and large, a legendary, almost mythical, and most certainly deific figure to the Trogs, and every so often someone would make a pilgrimage to Tambelon to look upon their hero's remains to confirm he was still there, and that he was not rotting or decaying in any way, shape, or form. The Trogs decided that he probably wasn't going to come back any time soon, but that didn't mean they had forgotten him, or didn't hold out hope for their founder and hero's return. Just like humans, Trogs had their legend of The King In The Mountain, who would arise when his people needed him most. He was here, now, and he had proclaimed that not only was he going to solve the biggest social problem that the Trogs currently faced (That being the fact that if the ponies ever rebelled, it would be an extinction-level event for Trogs everywhere), but that he was going to lead the Trogs to greater heights than they had ever imagined possible.
I was their King Arthur, returned from my resting place in Avalon, here to save Great Britain and lead it to a new golden age.
So, that in and of itself should be cause for the greatest kegger that the world had ever seen.
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The party itself, the Thal'Thock, is something done in with a great deal of reverence and ceremony, but what it ultimately comes down to is that you're having a huge kegger, using most of the liquor confiscated from a defeated enemy. The idea was that much of the liquor in any conquest could be difficult to move, and might lose flavor and quality during a long trip from one place to another. Worse, if there was a war going on, carrying numerous barrels of booze could slow you down when speed was needed most. So, while the really high quality stuff, the rare vintages and things like that, would be taken away, the rest was drunk on the spot.
While this inevitably became a drunken mess, the beginning of the Thal'Thock is extremely formal, having rituals that originate in traditions literally a thousand years old. The first major step has to do with chalices.
Chalice is kind of a general term: Call them chalices, grails, steins, mugs, whatever, these were drinking cups that held deep and significant meaning to the Trogs, and some of them were as old as Trog civilization. A noble Trog would have three major chalices to their name. The first, and most important, is the Lineage Chalice, the one that is passed down to each head of the household from the previous one. In the ceremony where the right of leadership of the house is passed on, the elder pours a drink into the chalice, and it is then imbibed by the younger, in a ritual symbolizing the transfer of power from one generation to the next. There are other rituals that this chalice is used in, but you kinda see the idea: This is a chalice that represents not only the current head of the house, but the entire bloodline, going back to the founding of Tambelon. It is a really big deal.
The second is the Heart Chalice, a representation of the owner's heart and soul, and this is one that pretty much every Trog has, noble or not. This chalice is used in a lot of rituals as well, most importantly the courtship rituals of the Trog. When two Trogs marry, one of the biggest acts is when the two pour a drink from each of their chalices into a larger one, and then both take a drink from this larger chalice together. It is a show of how the two are now one, and share all things, and stuff like that. Anyway, the Heart Chalice is a pretty big deal too.
Third is the Travel Chalice. Basically, Trogs have to travel sometimes, and their chalices are too important to take with them everywhere, as they might get lost on accident. Worse, chalices can be fragile things, and can accidentally be broken or deformed during transit. So, a Travel Chalice goes with the Trog whenever they are on the road. The Travel Chalice is sturdier, so it is less likely to break, and can be used it rituals as a stand in, should there be an emergency. So that the chalice is able to have the same significance as the others, once a year, a drink is poured into the Lineage Chalice, and then from that Chalice to the Heart Chalice, and then from that Chalice into the Travel Chalice. In this way, whatever mystical properties are supposed to be in the other chalices are poured into the Travel Chalice itself.
As the first step of the Thal'Thock, the Lineage Chalice is presented to the one who has defeated their enemy, for use as a trophy. It is not in good taste to shatter it, as that is an insult to the entire bloodline, but is sometimes done if there has been a generations-long feud between two families. I didn't shatter Trog-Gob's, since his predecessor, at least, had been a fairly decent dude. I did, however, ask that a ceremony be performed that would remove Trog-Gob as head of the family, as well as from the family records in general. A fairly short affair: The Chalice is washed three times in water, and then the receiver of the Chalice (Myself) drinks water from it. Just like that, Trog-Gob was a pariah from his own family, in spite of being the only living member of said family. I like to think that his wails of despair got a little louder after that.
The second step is the presentation of the Heart Chalice. Now, this one is a bit more complicated, and it has a lot of nuances to it. The Heart Chalice is a representation of the self, both heart and soul, and what is done to it can have a lot of symbolic implications, and even have an impact upon the owner's afterlife, according to Trog traditions. If the Heart Chalice belongs to a respected foe, then the chalice is kept as a trophy, and the recipient may take a drink from it, in order to transfer whatever respectable qualities that foe had into one's own self. For a hated enemy, this is obviously not done. However, there's other things that can be done, things with far-reaching consequences.
"So," I began, speaking to Bray as I studied Trog-Gob's Heart Chalice, a gaudy thing of gold and gemstones that was cast in the shape of a pony's face, captured in the midst of a despairing wail, "whatever is the last drink poured into this will be all that Trog-Gob will be allowed to drink on his trip to the afterlife?"
"Indeed, Master," Bray answered with a nod. I was glad that in this case, I could admit ignorance of the meaning of all of this, being traditions that had come into being after Grogar's defeat. "The journey can be quite long, I am given to understand, and via some manner of coach. The Trogs hold that the last beverage held in the Heart Chalice will be given as refreshment to the deceased at regular intervals, and the story goes that the journey does not end until the deceased has emptied his cup a thousand times a thousand times over."
So whatever was poured in, Trog-Gob would have to drink a total of one million times. A villainous smirk came to my face, as I looked out over the assembled Trogs and ponies around me, watching the proceedings with anticipation. "Bray, find me a pony, a living pony who has suffered horribly under Trog-Gob's ownership. The one who has suffered most terribly, in fact, if you can find him."
It took him a few minutes, as there were a number of volunteers, and I suspect that more than a few knew where this was going already. Fifteen minues later, Bray returned with a stallion, a miserable looking fellow with scars enough to make Honey Butter, pre-healing, look immaculate. He lacked an eye, and could not speak, as Trog-Gob had removed his vocal cords, as well as having gelded him just for giggles. That wasn't all that was taken, as he'd once had a mare, three offspring, two brothers, and a sister. He'd lost all of them within the last year to Trog-Gob and his lot, and had been made to watch most of it. Poor guy.
"Fill this chalice to the brim with your urine," I told him, after hearing the end of the tale, through a translator. "And as you do so, think long and hard about how much you hate Trog-Gob. As he rides the road to Hades, this will be the only refreshment he'll be allowed, so be certain that he will choke upon your enmity."
Yeah, that's right: I was going to make sure that as Trog-Gob rode down the road to hell, he'd be forced to swallow pony hate-piss a million times along the way.
The pony only had to be asked twice because he didn't know what 'urine' or 'enmity' meant. I'd really need to do something about the lack of general education among the equines: If I was going to need to be verbose in order to fill the role I was currently stuck in, I'd rather not need to have a translator.
I had the Eidolon of the Grave pause its administation of Trog-Gob's punishment (Seven hundred lashes and counting) long enough to watch as the stallion who hated him most in all the world filled the symbolic representation of Trog-Gob's heart with spite, hate, and above all else, horse piss, and chuckled as the Trog's cries of despair grew even louder as the Eidolon continued its work. As a final 'fuck you', I used a spell to not simply melt the chalice, but sublimate it, ensuring that nothing else could replace what had been poured into it.
The final step for the initiation of the Thal'Thock is probably the simplest: The victorious one fills his chalice with one of the choicest liquors in the vanquished foe's cellars, after it has been verified to be free of poisons. Mind you, most Trogs would consider poisoning good booze a crime worse than murder, but Trog-Gob had been a suspected poisoner, so it was better safe than sorry. Still, after the stallion who'd filled Trog-Gob's chalice had been given a generous swig of Trog-Gob's finest brandy (The poor guy deserved a lot more than that, but I didn't want to start freaking out Trogs by accidentally creating another alicorn right in front of them if I made a mistake while casting a healing spell), and verifying that not only was it untainted, but of the highest caliber, all that remained was to fill my chalice...
...Which I didn't have.
As Trog-Ella, who had taken over the task of serving the booze out for the first round of drinks (She actually had an entourage that had caught up with us, but she had chosen to do the serving for myself, Bray, Trog-Hawk and herself, while they took care of the soldiers present. They'd also be seeing to the ponies, but many of them would be waiting until after Trog-Gob finished getting his just desserts, and wouldn't drink until that was done) stood in front of me in what had to be the granddaddy of all awkward silences, Trog-Hawk said, "Milord, if you wish, you can make use of mine."
Since you've only gotten a beginners guide to Trog culture, I'll let you know that saying that, offering to let me use his chalice, was the equivalent of offering to cut his own dick off and giving it to me so that I could use it to fuck his wife.
I held up a hoof, and said, "Not necessary. Give me a moment."
I began to concentrate. I'd gotten enough of a feel for magic by this point, having used several of Grogar's spells by this point, to be confident that I could work a spell on my own. I closed my eyes, and imagined what I wanted to manifest.
Some would say, "Just make something impressive, out of silver and gold, with lots of pretty gems, and maybe in the shape of a dragon," and that would not, necessarily, be a bad idea in and of itself. It would certainly look regal enough, I suppose, but at the same time, it would look more than a little gaudy, and it would give the impression of someone who cared a whole lot more about wealth than I actually did.
Throughout my life, I have lived with a certain attitude, a certain manner of thought. I was once offered a check for two million dollars, and immediately tore it up, threw it in the guy's face, and said, "You can't buy me, asshat, I'm not for sale." Mind you, that was as much because the guy was such a spectacular asshat as it was me being awesome, but the point is, I am a person who, as a general rule, lives in such a way that, if need be, I can afford to set everything I own on fire, then walk away from my burning house while smoking a cigarette. Fuck the insurance money. Mind you, I said everything, not everyone: I'd carry any pets I had with me, and I'd be sure that the house was empty of anyone I cared about before I lit the match, but the point is, nothing I own owns me. I have lived a life without chains, and chains made of gold are chains nonetheless.
If a Heart Chalice was supposed to be a representation of the heart and soul, I wanted it to actually represent myself, in a style that I accepted. I wanted something subtle, something that was powerful, but at the same time simple...
In Japan, during the feudal ages, the tea ceremony was a really big deal, especially when it came to the vessels used for it. Gold and silver were never used for them, nor were precious gems. These vessels, often made of fired clay, could still be ridiculously expensive. There are examples of some that were more valuable, in terms of pure monetary worth, than a lord's castle. Others were literal national treasures, so precious that they could not be given a price: Vessels made of fired clay, worth more than their weight in gold. It wasn't the materials that comprised the vessels, but rather the skill with which they had been transformed into art, and in spite of being made by hand, they possessed a symmetry, a perfection that was almost transcendent in its beauty and simplicity...
As I opened my eyes, I admit, my breath was taken away: The chalice before me was exactly as I had envisioned it, being simple in form, with a broad, circular base, and a solid stem rising up to the cup itself. Devoid of decoration, yes, and yet decoration would have detracted from its beauty, as the cup, in spite of being black, was also brilliantly iridescent, its surface seeming to shift through every color of the rainbow as one examined it.
It was magnificent: A brilliant interplay of both darkness and light.
As I heard whispers of admiration from the assembled Trogs, I gestured for Trog-Ella to pour, and sat back in my seat. I didn't know it at the time, but I'd done something that no one in Equestria had managed in a thousand years, save from a certain flying purple pony I'd not yet been introduced to: I had created new magic, entirely on my own...