“... and so when the third Thing broke up the twelve chieftains agreed to rebel against the Sorcerer King of Angerack, except for Kalavis who was secretly in league with him. Or so the legend says anyway most of that comes from an inscription found on the Stone of Tarn which isn’t corroborated in the …” Jocasta continued talking with an excited animation which hadn’t diminished in her nearly two hour long monologue. Beren nodded along, glassy eyes, making the occasional ‘uh-huh’ and ‘hmmm’ during the rare moments she appeared to stop to take a breath. The wind was picking up as the day wore on, and the clear sky of the morning was rapidly clouding. The road to Iskura lay in a shallow valley flanked on both side by modest hills. The slight difference in topography tended to channel the winds, which kept the road open for a month or so longer than would be the case if it were in the open. Even so, with winter deepening, it wouldn’t be long before the road was passable only by sleds or with snow shoes.

“Anyway, so I don’t think that Kalavis was…” Further discussion was cut off by a weird warbling cry that echoed from the hills. Black birds burst from the forest off to their left, cawing and clawing at the air as they beat their retreat.

“What was that?” Jocasta asked, resting her hand on her shortsword. Beren was scanning the woods, though he didn’t seem to be unduly alarmed.

“Qwarath,” Beren replied tightly as he resumed his walk, eyes troubled.

“Seriously?!” Jocasta asked, her eyes brightening all but hoping up and down with excitement. Beren gave her a sidelong glance.

“The Qwararth? The troll Qwarath?” she pressed. Beren shifted uneasily, more disturbed by her enthusiasm than by the eerie roar.

“Maybe,” he temporized, “there aren’t many trolls left, on account of the fact that they maintain huge ranges. A single troll will range over a couple of hundred miles. This is kind of far south for Qwarath, but if another had moved in I’d have heard about it.”

“Is it true he is looking for some ancient artifact?” Jocasta asked. Trolls were functionally immortal and famous trolls tended to feature in the legends as boey men and heels. Qwarath was often said to be searching the lands for something, though what exactly varied from story to story. Beren gave her a guarded look as though trying to decide something.

 

“What?” she asked, planting fists on her hips, “spill.” Beren shrugged his shoulders.

“The Dwarves say that back during the last age Thurgrim Hamerson, the greatest dwarven rune caller of his age, snuck into Qwarath’s horde in the Mountains of Hraflir. Qwarath confronted him but Thrugrim claimed he came only to gaze upon Qwarath’s horde, so great was it rumored to be that it was his wish to see it before he died. Qwarath agreed that he would show it to Thrugim, but that once he had seen it, Qwarath would kill him. Thrugrim paused at each gem and wonderous item, praising its every minute detail. It took so long that eventually Qwarath grew tired and fell to slumber, at which point the rune caller stole a gemstone of tremendous power and fled,” Beren related. Jocasta listened in rapt attention.

“Why didn’t he kill him and take the rest of the horde?” Jocasta asked, engaged with the tale.

“Some say Thrugrim didn’t want to transgress against guest rite, some say that Qwarath had invoked the Trollish gods and lain might spells across his horde so that the very mountain would collapse on it in the event of his death,” Beren replied.

“What do you think?” Jocasta asked.

“I think that we should probably focus on not being eaten by a hungry troll,” he replied dryly.