Chapter 6, Nightfall by an Ant Hill

The ants had been very busy all day, moving little pine needles around and scurrying about building their hill. Their ambitious work intrigued Hrafnir, who had been sitting in the same spot for several hours, thinking and occationally huffing to himself. Suddenly he started noticing that that it was evening and Mirra hadn't returned yet. He stood up, tilted his head and said "well, that is odd", meaning to address noone but the absence of his friend.

"What's odd? Oh. This is a new place, where am I?"

The mountain troll twitched and jumped, a type of movement not very adjusted to his physique, and as he stumbled he accidentally stomped on the ant hill he'd spent most of the day observing. "Ow! No! Poor little things, I didn't mean to!"

He clumsily backed away from the disrupted ant hill.

"I can't see very clearly", the disembodied voice continued, "is that you, troll?"

"What? Yes, I am me. Who else would I be?" he questioned, slightly edgy.

"This is very strange. I seem to have followed you along. Yes, this is the water lily I gave you", the voice continued as a shimmering blue light started to pulse around the flower he had gotten from the little ghost the previous night.

"Leliana? What are you doing in my flower?" Hrafnir turned his head to his shoulder and looked awefully puzzled. Quick changes in the environment, demolished homes and disembodied voices isn't really something that mountain trolls who aren't that prone to quick thinking can adjust to with any ease.

"I don't know. But it's definitely more exciting than the lake. Are those ants?" The blue light floated near the ant hill and slowly started to take the form of the little girl he'd met the night before. She reached out an ethereal hand and gently nudged the hill. The ants didn't seem to notice her, more of them had started to pour out and they were very agitated. "I had no ants near the lake. There were some frogs, and sometimes hares and deer would come to drink at the waters. I always thought mankind had a lot to learn from ants. They live their entire lives working hard and give up their entire existance for the communal good. Men are not like that."

"Neither are mountain trolls. They mostly just eat and smash things." Hrafnir looked down at the ants with some measure of sadness.

"But you don't. You travel, and you listen to stories. You shouldn't compare yourself to your kin" said the little girl, looking up at her companion again. "I'm sure you could create something lasting and beautiful if you wanted to."

Hrafnir shifted his weight uneasily and pondered this. Then he remembered! "Mirra! She's gone! We need to go and see if she's in trouble."

"Who is that?" answered the ghost, rising up and looking at the night sky. "And what an odd name she has. Is she an adventurous mountain troll, like you?"

"No. She is a forest troll. She is small and furry and likes squirrels. She rode away on her squirrel many hours ago and should have been back by now. That makes me.. Worried." He paused, uncertain of this emotion he hadn't really experienced before.

"A squirrel. I like squirrels too, there were a few by my lake." Leliana started to glow brighter and a smile spread across her face. "I can approach the creatures nearby and hear if they've seen this Mirra and her squirrel if you want me to?"

"Squirrels speak? I thought all they could do was squeak!" Hrafnir responded.

"No, they don't speak.. Not with words. But most forest animals are solitary and shy, they notice intruders and chatter endlessly about it afterwards in their own little ways." She smiled and faded again, condensing into the will'o'wisp he had seen when they first met. "Just wait here" she whispered and moved away with remarkable speed.

Alone again and quite confused, Hrafnir moved a few more steps away from the ant hill which was mounting an attack on his left foot and sat down on a fallen birch tree. "I am really sorry for the damage I caused little ones but revenge is not good. And you wouldn't want my help with rebuilding. I'm clumsy!" he told them.

In his solitude he remembered stories of the vengeful actions of his tribe against another, the southern tribe of Mount Glimmering. The almost electric cracking and deep rumbling of Grandfather Hron as the giant chanted tales of boulders thrown far and wide, smashing against rock and mountain and flesh during stormy nights long before he was born. He shuddered. His tribe would go into a slow, rocking frenzy when the tales were sung and madness would shine in the charcoal pits of their eyes.