In the Trollshaws(#20041RnUf)

The trees here are thick, forming living walls of darkness, their twisted trunks exuding a sense of malice. There are large, wide paths cleared throughout here, made by brute force, as is obvious from the uprooted trees and tossed boulders. Something very large lives here... very large and very strong.

Off to the east, a hill rises above the forest, and a ridge of rock prevents any travel to the north. That leaves west and and south.

Contents:
Henleg

Obvious exits:
South, East, and West

AS THE storm above beats down upon the Yfelwyd, in this part of the forest even the rain itself is hard pressed to find its way to the gnarled ground. A few drips and small streams can be seen to caress the damp earth, but the canopy of trees overhead shut out all but the most insistent of rain drops. Even so, a small pool is collecting to the east, running down as it does from the slopes of the hill there, and it seems it is being put to good use.

For here, squatting down upon the ground is the figure of a troll. The poor light shows little of his character, but even as he cups his hands to drink from the pool his deep voice can be heard to mutter: "Bloody, stinkin rain... I don't like it... no fires for cooking!"

But what's this? From the same clearing, but from no person visible a second voice answers him; thin and reedy and full of scorn. "Food, food, food!" it sneers. "That's all yer think about aint it yer great fat pig! Why dont yer try ter get some exercise eh?"

The troll and... well, whatever it is which seemed to mock him (a very dangerous thing indeed, for anyone who knows trolls... and even more dangerous for those who don't) are not alone. Hidden in a thicket, his cloak dripping mud and water, with several blades of grass plastered, is Henleg. A cowl cover his features, only revealing a pair of glittering eyes which regard the terrible beast that lies near the pool. With practiced ease, the Ranger shifts slowly, so as to not make any sound, to get a better view of the troll and of its companion.

Dipping his hands into the pool, the troll grunts and grumbles to companion's words, and indeed his reply is none too polite. "Shut yer scrawny runtish face you!" says he. "If I werent fer me you'd have starved long ago...Now lemme get me a drink..."

This said, the olog raises its hands to suck up the rainwater, but even as they reach his lips he suddenly twitches and there is the splash of water upon stony cheeks. A raucous laugh goes up from the troll's companion, and it mocks him in between chuckles. "Haw haw! A mouth as big as yers, and yer cant even find it!"

"Bah!" roars the ogre. "Yer did that on purpose yer did, yer weasly little maggot!"

Henleg brow furrows as he watches the exchange between the troll and... whoever it is it talks to. The voice sounds trollish, yet... it has something that makes Henleg's blood chill. The Ranger moves a bit again, stealthily, his passage making no more noise than the dripping water and the wind, trying to position himself to see the one talking to the troll.

But no-one seems to be there; indeed, as Henleg circles quietly it becomes apparent even in the gloom that the troll is alone. Yet, that same thin voice cackles out to mock the troll further. "Says who?" it replies, "Maybe yer fingers are just too fat to fit!"

The troll snarls deeply, and counters (rather strangely), "They're yer fingers too, stupid. Now shut it!"

This is odd indeed, and the Ranger finds no logical explanation for such an exchange. The same fingers? Surely, trollish debating is somewhat weird, but could it have reached such levels of weirdness? The Ranger sits and watches, intent on discovering the meaning of these strange words.

"Yeah.." agrees the thin voice, "Mine too, yet yer only use em to feed yerself! When was the last time yer gave ME a drink eh?"

"Last time that you shut up," mutters the troll in reply. "Which is why yer aint had one fer so long!" A moment or two passes by, until the troll adds in what one must assume is a sly tone, "Tell yer what... if yer has a drink now, will yer then shut up to let me have one?"

The voice considers this, before it answers, "Fine, fine. Wet me lips then, O mighty Bo..."

Ah! Perhaps now henleg can catch a glimpse of this mysterious thing that dares to talk to a troll in such a way. With keen eyes fixed on the hulking brute, Henleg awaits, even holding his breath a bit so as to not make any noise ere the mystery is revealed.

Slowly, the olog dips his hands into the pool anew, and gently he raises them again up to where his lips must be. But even as they tilt to give the beast a drink, they instead slop down his chest, or so one would guess by the sound. It is Bo, the troll's apparent name, who laughs then.

"Haw haw!" he croons. "Got yer back didn't I? Serves yer right, Lo, and yer needed a bath!"

The voice, now identified as Lo, howls back in anger, and says in a nasty tone, "Think yer funny do yer? That's MY joke, yer fat pig! Take this!"

And then a most odd thing indeed takes place. Even as Lo finishes speaking, the troll's left arm flies upwards and seems to slap himself in the face!

"Not laughing now are yer?" sneers the voice of Lo, as Bo yelps in alarm.

Even though Henleg has been in the wild for many years,and has been witness to many things, this is something new and odd for him. Might it be that the troll is insane, and thus talks to himself? It does seem that way, although there is something strangely odd about the higher-pitched, sibilant voice. Still, the Ranger waits.

"Yer gonna regret that!" roars out Bo, and this time his right hand raises up to slap himself again. There is the flat sting of heavy flesh upon heavy flesh, and then both the voices of Lo and Bo snarl to each other. The ogre clambers to his feet; fists clenched and seems to swivel about for some reason...

...Until suddenly the reason become clear. As the troll turns about to give Henleg a better view... it can be seen that this hideous beast has not one ugly head, but two! With blazing eyes and frothing lips the two faces glare at each other, and each seems to hold a fist ready to belt the other.

"Don't even think about it..." warns Bo, a fat head on the troll's right shoulder. "Yer the clever one, and I'm the strong one, remember?"

An audible gasp can be heard, coning from Henleg's open mouth. Few times has the ranger been shocked as he is now. But soon he recovers, and the gasp is followed by the sound of rustling branchesand leaves... the Ranger has moved.

This does not go unnoticed by the troll, at least, not by Lo; his second head. "Ere, what was that?" he frowns, and his eyes peer out into the gloom in the direction of Henleg's gasp. "You hear that?"

Bo is about to look round, when he growls and shakes his head. "Oh no yer dont..." he says indignantly. "Yer aint fooling me like that. I aint taking a sock to the jaw when I aint looking! Yer may be smart, but I aint so dumb neither..."

It is Lo's turn to growl, and he reaches out his hand to slap down the other. "Shut up, dunghead. I heard something... I don't think we're alone..."

Indeed, not alone... for a cricket chirps happily nearby. The wind howls, and the rain falls unendingly, dripping into tiny pools that have formed in the mud. Plenty of sounds, even in a land as dangerous as this.

Bo seems satisfied by the noises of the forest, and says as much, but Lo is not so easily convinced. "I tells yer Bo," says he in his reedy voice, "I didn't hear no crikkit. I heard a gasp, and it weren't no orcy gasp neither. Cant yer smell it?"

The troll's other head sniffs the air, and replies, "Naw, just smell wet. I can't... oh, wait... there it is..."

And with that, four hungry eyes gaze down to peer into the undergrowth. Both Lo and Bo are on the hunt now it seems, and the beast takes up a mace in his right hand from the ground. Creeping forwards, as best a two-headed giant may, they sniff and grunt to each other in their search for whatever lurks in the shrubbery.

Henleg is not anymore near this horror he has just seen, but he has managed to move in a southerly direction, creeping from tree to tree, as a fleeting shadow. His movement is stealthy, covered by the rain and wind; his odor surely masked by the mud that covers him from head to foot. His hand is near the pommel of his sword, yet he does not unsheath it... at least, not yet.

"Bah!" roars the voice of Bo, by far the more surly of the two heads it would seem. "Yer lost it! See? Nothing there no more!" The beast's mace swings out into the foliage, dragging aside bushes and tearing up weeds by the roots as he clears a small path through the undergrowth.

But Lo, peering down at the sodden earth beneath them shakes his own brow. "Will you shaddup?" he hisses to his fellow head. "I can't hear a thing with all that racket. Now look..." adds he, pointing down to the prints in the mud that Henleg's boots and limbs have made. "It's gone that way..."

Both Lo and Bo look up, and with gleeful leers they nod ere they stomp forward to the south.

A sloppy Ranger? Well, it seems surprise has made Henleg forget the very basics of what he was taught by elves and other Rangers, when he was younger. But after seeing such a horrible sight, one needs forgive such sloppiness. The Ranger moves as fast as his legs can carry him, and soon he finds what he sought.... a deer trail, much used, with plenty of tracks. he starts to follow this, hoping that the troll won't be so keen on tracking.

Indeed, he is in luck, for as the olog crashes into the foliage in pursuit, it just so happens that the further south he goes, the lighter and brighter the greens of the forest seem to become. Stumbling across the deer trail, Bo lets loose a cry of triumph, and looks ready to charge on down the path; but he is kept in check by a sharp hiss of warning from his companion.

Lo peers about, squinting now, and he growls. "Hold up me chubby friend... aint yer seen what I see's? That filthy yellow lamp in the sky aint gone to bed yet, and we're running out of cover... whatever it was, we're gonna have to leave it.." He points down the trail, where indeed the light of day can seen amid the trees; dim though it is from the storm.

Dim, but a life-saver for the Ranger, as he flees now with all speed south. This sight has terrified him more than anything he has seen... and Henleg has seen much, during his time in the wild lands that lie between the Last bridge and the Bruinen. He runs then, as fast as his legs can carry him, seeking to tell of this new abomination to the Chieftain.

And Lo and Bo, or perhaps Lobo would be easier, turn away from their pursuit, grumbling as they head north back to the clearing; doubtless blaming each other for letting their visitor slip away. It hardly sounds like they have a fun evening a-head of them <ahem>.