Uther The Lightbringer
As he took his young student along, the elderly human wondered if this was actually a good idea. Not for the first time. Then again, as they pass through the gap in the trees, it would likely do Arthas good. That and as they approached the roundhouse, it would be good for the lad to see that there was a reason why they kept trying to make sure that he could hold his temper. He could hear the young prince shift, drawing his weapon as a hulking figure emerged from the mound.
Nearly ten feet tall and built like he could wrestle an ogre, the figure seemed to loom with an air of barely supressed rage, of a fury that was kept barely chained and leashed. The muscles only added to that, thick and heavy while still keeping to mind more of an athlete, of someone who was born to wage war. Plate armor, likely riveted onto his flesh, covered most of his body, a second skin of gleaming steel, the exposed green-blue flesh partially covered in moss. Tusks jutted from a mouth that was set in a perpetual frown, as ruined eyes kept track of everything.
"Uther." The trolls voice was the scraping of daggers on daggers, of clashing axes. "Came over for dinner have you?" The creature sneered as it loomed, as it looked down on the pair, the threat clear from the monstrous savage. There was of course, only one way to respond.
"And so that's when I beat a necolyte to death with another one!" To be sure, the stories were violent, the glee clear in the trolls voice as he describes his own old war stories, barely beer offered to go along with the roasted boar and honey glazed carrots. "Sure, some of the creepy little bastards get off on dying, but thats no reason not to indulge them."
As Arthas laughed, Uther relaxed, watching as the belligerent crusader of a troll shared the tales. In many ways, the troll was a good source of lore for any number of esoteric threats, well versed in hunting down and brutally killing threats beyond the borders of the more civilized realms. "You must hate the orcs." It was a reasonable conclusion that Arthas reached, given the gory tales, even as the troll shook his head and leaned back, eyes towards the ceiling.
There is a sense of calm, of deliberation from one every bit as savage as the orcs (even if he could somehow wield the light). "Not really. Sure, they could be arrogant little shits, but they were born in a world that tried to kill them. Draenor was hard, so they had to be harder. Course, most would not go out of their way to make trouble for their neighbours, even as some, fat on success, did." The troll took a swing of his flagon. "Then you got Gul'dan. Sure, he was able to get the clans to unite into a Horde and got them to turn on the Draenei before selling them out to the demons, but?"
The troll looked annoyed. "The Draenei, despite what they think and said, and likely what they believed, did a share, a small share but a share, in provoking the orcs. The draenei capital? Built on the ruins of an old slaving empire that used arcane magic and brewed up cursed plagues after trying to dominate the worlds elemental spirits and blowing up the most holy site for all the orc clans. And every time that people ventured into the ruins after it was swallowed by the earth?"
The troll snorted. "Plagues, droughts, famines and disasters inevitably followed, leading them to declare the land taboo. So, when a race that used arcane magic settled there?" There was a powerful snort. "Between that and several times claiming holy sites and hunting grounds for themselves? Retaliation raids were launched, punishment expeditions sent and you have a situation where a warlock whispers that the draenei live so long because they are devouring the spirits of the world, that they have found a way to sup on the spirits of the ancestors and in general all the recent troublesome events? The Draenei's fault."
The massive figure shakes his head. "Then they were sold out. So no young prince, I do not hate the slaves. I hate the collaborators, I hate those that sell out their own people, their own world. I hate those that become their masters in miniature. But my hate? My hate is reserved for the masters, for the Burning Legion."
Years later, in Eversong Forest
Arthas
He came because his troops reported an absurdity. A troll wielding the light and protecting elves? Frankly, he wanted to see this sight, to see if there was really a troll like this. Perhaps, as Frostmourne whispered, there would be a new Death Knight joining the ranks of the scourge? Something to consider, before he had to duck, a blazing tomahawk made of the light nearly taking off his head. And then he spotted the troll from years ago, from that simple roundhouse, now with a pair of axes in his hands.
"Young prince." The trolls words are cold, as he moves as those hands and arms blur, as he is a whirlwind of steel and light, an ever escalating force of violence, blades of the light erupting from the ground, radiant cracks appearing and spreading, blinding storms of the light as he ever presses the attack. Still, he will give the offer, because this one amuses him, as the children cower and flee, the troll moving to kill any of the dead that look to pursue them. He manages to open his mouth... before a bag of salt is thrown into it.
"You a dead man Arthas. Back into the ground with you." And then the storm of steel is on him and there is no time to spare any thought to the others, to anything more than trying to fight Pala'Din, the trolls most belligerent crusader.
AN
Basically, a Troll that dual classes Fury Warrior and Retribution Paladin using Dragonflight talents... and spends all his time fighting the undead, demons and shadow critters he can find. But yes, basically the ultimate in 99% of what he does is autoattack