Many diverse creatures roam Zarrfur, though none be quite so strange as Shub Niggrub the Outlier. Some call him a wanderer, a beggar, a mad peddler, whilst others still call him a devil. It is posited by some that Shub is the embodiment of the Dwarf, uncorrupted by the powers of darkness, greed, and hate. Indeed, one scholar supposed that he is God himself made flesh, for there is no deed or magick yet known to conquer him. He is, quite unlike his Dark Dwarfen kin, a jolly fellow who seems unaffected by the madness about him. Mysteriously immune to the warping nature of the toxic environs of Zarrfur and similarly so to attempts to thwart his existence, Shub exists in what can only be described as a blissful ignorance of the chaos of reality. When asked about himself of fellow travellers he answers only in riddles and conjecture.
The Folly of Youth. Many mothers warn their headstrong offspring of the folly of exuberant youth in tales of Shub Niggrub.
“Who are you Sir?” Said the young wandering man.
“I am Shub.” Replied the grinning face.
“What does that mean?” The youngling asked, quizzically.
“Shub is here, Shub is there, Shub is everywhere!” The strange fellow in rags and leathers responded, gesturing with his staff as he said so.
“Where are you from wanderer?” The youngster pressed.
“Shub is from there in the mountains,” pointing to the distant range of jagged peaks, “long ago when o’ great Bennadonne first went to his place of rest, Shub was there. When he rose again, Shub was there.” Stroking his beard, the old man nodded solemnly.
“That would make you older than the hills Sir!” The sceptic replied. Although the old man did not look dangerous, Zarrfur is a place of deceivers and the dead. The young man placed a hand on his sword hilt carefully.
“No need for this youngler,” the old man nimbly poked the pommel from his hand with the end of his staff, “there is no fight in you today. Why not sit and tell old Shub of your own wandering?”
“I care not to Sir, for I know you cannot be who you say you are. No one is as old as you claim!” The young man backed away, uncertainly.
“Then shut is the door.” The old man shook his head and sighed.
“Yes.” The young man drew his sword, and with but a swift prod of his enemy’s staff lay upon the earth.
“Lie now, upon the earth as hill and tree, my friend.” The old man turned and walked away, breaking into song as he strode. “And did there be, an old stream down in that vale, yodel dee, yodel dum!”
Untainted by war and grief is his odd complexion,
and unbowed from those endless travels abound,
as his face knows not the trials and tribulations,
were one to best Shub Niggrub the Outlier,
were one to become as he in his unbroken bliss.
~ Elegy 442.