Next up: Adult/Futurestuck Wytmon. The Colossus.
He eagerly joins the general infantry upon adulthood. The way I imagine it, the general infantry for trolls is ‘the everybody else’. Everyone else who doesn’t join the likes of the cavalreapers or the ruffianihilators or the what have you.
The ones they care the least about. They give them simple fatigues emblazoned with their sign, shove a standard-issue weapon fitting their specibus into their hands instead of whatever they brought with them, and shove them out onto the front with a ‘try not to die’.
They take his childhood Bren, give him an M60. They take his shashka, give him a (troll version of the) 1913 cavalry saber. They dress him up in fatigues with his caste symbol emblazoned on it. They dub him The Colossus because he’s so fucking big. Then they toss him out into the carnage.
At first, he’s happy. He’s fulfilling what he always thought was his destiny; to fight and die among the rampaging hordes of the empire’s infantry. The fighting elates him, where others scream a terrified battle cry he lets loose an exuberant eagle screech or joyful laughter.
It doesn’t last. Something isn’t right to him. Something about the way the infantry is treated, how they’re just tossed out and told not to die rubs him wrong. It angers him. And without Brigid around to keep him calm and centered and without him finding the battle exciting and spiritually fulfilling, that anger builds and builds and he starts getting aggressive.
By that time he’s at his full adult height and scarred by battle. A ten foot tall roaring, bloodied, scarred absolute beast of a troll, enraged and with no end of xenos scum to take his anger out on. He becomes a berserker more than a soldier, forgoing his gun for his sword and fists more often than not, storming positions against a hail of enemy gunfire and paying no mind to the bullet wounds he receives.
You know what happens eventually? Combat itself becomes his moirail. The spiritual satisfaction returns, not because he is doing his species proud, but because he finds satisfaction just in the sheer sake of ending some ugly alien’s life. The screams of the wounded and dying, the acrid smell of smoke and fumes from shells and grenades, the sight of alien blood, they all soothe him the same way Brigid used to.
And he survives somehow. Despite being a reckless berserker driven by a need to be soothed by combat, he survives. He is promoted again and again for his skills in combat and inspiring other infantrymen to victory with his ferocity.
He’s never promoted so high as to take him off the field, though. Even as disregarded as the infantry is, those in charge as not so stupid as to not recognize his usefulness. He is allowed to stay on the field like that for the rest of his life.
Able to withstand high amounts of punishment, consistently drawing enemy fire and attention due to his size, and inspiring both confidence and terror where they count, The Colossus sure as fuck lives up to his name.
When his age finally gets to him and he feels himself noticing and feeling the pain from wounds a lot more than before, he finds peace in his death. He leads one last incredibly suicidal charge on whatever planet he’s fighting at that time, and goes out in an appopriate blaze of glory, finally finding permanent peace from his anger and aggression.