Chapter 1, Where our hero departs

"Stop sniveling about like a fleshling and eat your bone stew, boy. How will you ever grow if you can't even stay together? Your left shoulder is a mess of cracks". Mother Marblechunk glared at the little troll in front of her. Hrafnir sighed and poked at the slimy bones and hooves swimming around in the big black cauldron he had in front of him. He was almost a hundred years old already but only about the size of a small barrel.

He secretly liked the cracks. If he let them grow big enough he could plant little flowers in them and their scent would follow him around wherever he went. His mother did not like that at all; she'd yell at him whenever she found out and pull them out by the roots. That always hurt.

Reluctantly he finished his dinner and had several granite-rich rocks on the side for good measure. With big soulful eyes he looked pleadingly at his mother until she gave in.

"Go then boy, on with your adventures."

With a big grin carved on his little gray face Hrafnir ran out of the cave with his mother shouting after him, "all this running about isn't worthy of a proper norse mountain troll you know! It breaks pieces off and keeps you small! Slow down my rockling...". She would see him run off, worry cracklets appearing all over. "He'll be reduced to rubble soon. Woe is me..."

For a mountain troll, Hrafnir was very agile and quite fast paced. The other trolls in the clan of mount Starheim were thick and slow, feeding off the rich mineral veins and digging further and further into the mountain's bowels. Grandfather Hron was the biggest of them all; as wide as the short side of a barn and with a voice which caused minor earth quakes whenever he got upset. Luckily that didn't happen very often.

Hrafnir rushed towards a small glade in the outskirts of the Ever-Stretching Forest where he knew he would be able to see something truly magical. He carefully picked up some bluebells and some lily of the valley on the way; making sure he got plenty of dirt and all of the roots and arranged them on his wide back and shoulders. The sun was close to setting as he arrived and sat down in the centre of the glade. Sitting perfectly still he was almost invisible.

Several hours later the first misty streaks had long since risen from the grass and enhanced the scent of the flowers surrounding the little clearing. A shiver of excitement ran through Hrafnir when he heard the tingling voices of the mist elves coming to dance in the moonlight. Their flowing white robes swirled around him and the beautiful choirs chanting were to him like the little pieces of glass he had found under an old fire place and saved for years before finally succumbing and tasting their crisp sharpness.

It took him a long while before he could focus enough to hear the words they chanted, but as he realised what was being said he started to tremble. The song was about a sister of theirs; lost to the mountains in a cruel game between rock and air. She had gone on a quest to reach the top of mount Starheim because she wanted to get closer to the moon. On her way up the mountain one of Hrafnirs relatives had found her and she never returned to her friends. Sad and upset he listened to further tales of crimes against the elves of the mists in what seemed an endless war between his brutish kin and theirs. Tears welled up in his eyes but he remained sitting down covered with his flowers. The chanting went on for hours and it was not until the first rays of dawn that the elves faded back into the shadows of the forest.

Birds were chirping in the early morning sun. Hrafnir sat defeated in the centre of the glade. He knew his kin could be cruel but never before had he felt so distanced from them. Taking up a big chunk of grass and earth he swore an oath to seek out his destiny away from the mountain. Devouring the earth made him slightly queasy but he sniffled bravely and then lay down to rest.