It was not until she saw nothing, but at last her eyes fell on a tray in the corner, and there was an approximately three-year naked dead child, put the crosswise over the other two knives in his heart, and the whole little body was suffused with blood. At the sight appalled the maid so much that she cried out loud and then fell down unconscious. — excerpt from Google translation of “Hinzelmann”
[This is obviously a pretty messed-up character. As usual, blame the Germans.]
The monarch of the Trolls of Dwarf-Land is Childe Alliefric, a Wight of great age and unknown origin; not even the eldest Troll-Warlocks can remember a time when he did not sit the Turnip Throne. He is greatly feared by his subjects, who would step into the stoning sunlight to avoid his wrath, and his adversaries, the vast majority of whom have heard of him only through tales that were already ancient the first time they were written down.
As his appellation suggests, Alliefric appears as a cherubic human child perhaps four years of age, give or take, clad in the richest red garb of slashed velvet and silk. Despite his apparent tender years, Alliefric is clearly intelligent and extraordinarily well-spoken, albeit with the slightest hint of a lisp. In one hand he clutches a silver- and gold-leafed wooden sword, cunningly crafted but obviously a toy. His twinkling blue eyes, golden curls, and lilting laugh give the lie to any notion that this darling moppet could harm anyone.
When newcomers first enter Alliefric’s presence, he is by default charming and gracious, often playing on a harp or at simple dice games. He will sometimes sing to them, sometimes ask for a song, but will almost invariably make every effort to be cordial and welcoming at first blush.
The truth, of course, is that Childe Alliefric is a very horror, ruling over the Trolls with an iron fist. His Court consists of preternaturally beautiful, simpering Troll lads and maidens, his High Guard of shockingly monstrous and grizzled Troll thugs. All of his subjects, whether in his personal service or not, must simper and kowtow lest he have them destroyed.
Alliefric’s favored method of disposing of those who displease him is to behead them, dice them up, and boil the pieces into a toothsome stew, with the exception of the head and legs, which he roasts. He also favors various punishments poetically suited to the perceived offense.
If Alliefric becomes murderously angry, or if he is stared at directly for too long, his true form is revealed – a slight, pale child, terribly hacked by blades about the face and body, his simple white nightshift soaked through with blood and spattered with gore, his little sword sheared off at the handle, a crimson pool spreading out around his bare feet. In this aspect, Alliefric stinks like a slaughterhouse, his voice is rattling and clotted, and the sounds of a woman shrieking madly can be distinctly heard by those viewing him. He limps pitifully but is, in practice, horribly fast and strong.
Like all Wights, Alliefric is a creature of Chaos and deceit. His mood changes at the drop of a pin; the Referee should dice for a new Reaction periodically throughout any dealings with Alliefric, disregarding previous results entirely. He hates and fears all Clerics of the Dwarf Gods, for he senses they have the power to destroy him, and he will never willingly suffer such worthies in his presence, fleeing if necessary.
[As Wight of maximum hit points and great cunning.]