Note: This article was published in Palladium's Rifter #34, and, as such, is now available exclusively from Palladium.  What is below is an excerpt provided to whet your appetite for this oft-forgotten species.

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She became awake, the cool stone beneath her cheek having stolen most of her heat while she slept. In the soft phosphorescence of the cavern, she could see others going about their lives; the relentless grind of the mortar and pestle cracking the shells of beetles, spiders, and mollusks, the scuffle of youth as they tussled over some choice scrap of food or the attention of a third, and the brief squeal of a pain as something became yet another piece of the endless meal which was life in the caverns. The stream bubbled nearby, and the splashes she heard told her that some had again taken to fishing for the blindfish. The males fished infrequently, and more for something to do than out of need; the blindfish were small, and while tasty, it was too far to reach the hot places where they could be cooked, whereas beetles could be eaten raw.

Standing, she looked to the walls, seeing the dark patches were someone had grown hungry and feasted upon the phosphorescent lichen which provided the light for the caverns. More would have to be encouraged, and the males would have to be spoken to; if they took more, it would be hard to see to reach the farming cave, her destination. Though the tunnel she followed was barely three feet high, she scrambled along it faster than a human could run; though it turned more than a bird in flight, and she passed half a score of side-tunnels, she never once was lost. The tunnels were not just her home, they were her birthright, and no troglodyte would be lost, even in a maze such as this.

Reaching the farming cave, she examined the field of fungus and mold that she and her sisters, aunts and cousins, mothers and daughters, so carefully tended. It smelled of generations of troglodyte waste and rotted carcasses, and she looked for a new place in which to void herself, left full from a long sleep. As she relieved herself, she planned out her harvesting, knowing that she would soon need to prepare to lay her eggs, as her mates had been very attentive recently, and her young were well past weaned. A few more sleeps, a few more meals, and she would be ready to lay again. Two of her sisters were ready, as well, as were some of their sisters, and some of their sisters; in several sleeps, there may be a large clutch here, in the caverns. It was good here.

Sub-Chief Imp-Thak Modech tried to wipe the beast's blood off sword blade, but found that its hide made a poor cleaning cloth. “SOMEONE FIND ME A RAG! I DON'T WANT THIS STINK GETTING INTO THE METAL!” The raid had gone great... this was sure to get him some notice back in Mog'dak. Ten trogs, with twice as many sprogs, and a whole nest of eggs. EGGS! Ready-made troglodyte slaves, in a couple of years. If they weren't so damn valuable, he'd be tempted to cook one of those eggs up as a victory meal, once his boys finished putting the chains on the big ones... chain a big one's arms to the necks of two little ones, and they get real quiet... not even a trog can break kobold slave-chains, and they're not going to go flinging around their little sproglodytes.

Imp-Thak watched as the eggs were loaded into the carts, savagely beating one peon who wasn't careful enough with his cargo. Some people counseled him to make money by raiding the humans or the gnomes, or even the goblins... a bit harder, since they had magic, but you got to make free with the women on the way back, and it didn't bring their value down too much, so long as all you broke was their spirit. But looking at all those beautiful eggs, their leathery shells looking bronze in the fire-light, Imp-Thak knew he preferred easy money... you could always buy women, and trogs were easy money.

Troglodytes are often forgotten by the other inhabitants of the Palladium World, and with good reason. They are few and far between, and have little impact upon the world at large. Looking at history, troglodytes are not even a footnote. There are no great troglodyte empires, no forgotten period of troglodyte glory, no troglodyte hero whose might challenged the gods and whose power shook the heavens. Instead, there is a simple people, never gathering in groups larger than ten thousand, who have lived for millennia a life unchanged by what goes on around them. Even the Elf-Dwarf war, which raged above their heads, and sometimes through their tunnels, simply caused the troglodytes to move on, to keep away from the fighting, and to defend themselves as best they could whenever necessary. While troglodytes have made no great mark on history, they are an integral part of daily life in many kobold cities, where they serve as slaves. In Western arenas, troglodyte gladiators are an exotic treat, their violence and cunning encouraged with the threat of harm to a young troglodyte, or through ruthless conditioning.

In their own warrens, troglodytes live in what scholars like to call a “horticultural, pre-pastoral society, based on non-linear, non-focal family groups, using a Neolithic tool kit unchanged since the middle period of the Age of Light.” In plain Elven, that means that they raise their own plants for food, but have to hunt animals. They do not trace family lineage, largely because their eggs are laid communally, and the tools that troglodytes use today have remained unchanged for the better part of suspected history.