Grindawyer
The children do play around the fires of the forest, and the encampment.
Patient as he was, it had seemed like ages past since last they had heard a tale of might.
Or sorrow.
Lessons in life were important tot he young. Meant to let them know what was proper and what was right.
How to survive.
A gentle hand lifted to the night sky, ghosting its emberly passage through the twilight, motioning the frolic of younglings towards the bon fire.
"'Tis time fer a lesson."
Shouts of joy mingled with excited giggles, volcanoed into the air, shattering the peaceful crackle and hiss of the fires. A faint shuffle of feet, and a swift argument, involving some pushing and several childish insults over a stray log, was all the time taken for the story listeners to settle about the old man in undivided attention.
Many huddled forward, bent on remaining glued for the story to follow. Some however, knew of the old man's tricks and games, keeping a safe but ear shot worthy distance.
It mattered little to the greedy adolescents that the old man was a troll. Ropy tendrils of flesh hanging wretchedly from
his face. Rancid stains and stench, masked only by the forest and smoke, littered his body. Tattered rags and rolling
strings of long forgotten fabric hung resolutely to the ancient's wiry frame, even as they swayed in ironic freedom, within
the moors chill breeze.
What honestly captured the children's rapt and unfettered attention, besides the swirling narrative the troll-man could
dish forth, with extra helpings, were the cobalt eyes that seemed to lick at the outskirts of your imagination, and pull
from it, a tale of horror to make you cringe. A tale of laughter to collapse you in mirth, or a tale of sorrow with enough
tears and sniffles left over to fill a lake.
The pupils seemed like slim pinpoints within the tinged irises, each boring a hole within the ether of your mind, and
sucking dry the imaginative and creative that so brought forth the creatures of the night.
The old troll say quietly upon his log, watching the muddle and huddle of children before him, waiting anxiously on a
story soon to be told. His gaze flitted from each individual slowly, taking in the greedy eyes, and fearless stares of
many. He took in the cowardly slight of trembling that touched several within the back rows. Lastly he took in one
small girl, quiet and hushed within the midst of them all. Her locks were of golden sunlight, face serene and features
pale. Heart shaped face, looked up at him with such clarity and solemnity that it couldn't be resisted to gaze into those
glorious emerald eyes.
She smiled up at him, and his answering grin was one of soft contemplation.
The words began to unfold.
"Listen, fer this once time tale, shall be the ghostly haunt of dreams to be.
Know the faint of heart do fail, to make fully through this story you see.
It's know ta many that ye seek to find tha best of the best.
Nothing of the rest.
Chill to the core, or heated by laughter.
Fer tears, or giggles gon' wait 'til after.
This one shall be fer tha Elfling of Old.
Who came from the Fury.
Brave and Bold.
Found his life, and the morrow.
Then wept in grief, and solemn sorrow."
The words trickled forth unbidden….
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