A dusty and travel weary figure scours the surrounding forest. A closer look reveals a cloaked man, stout of stature and fully bearded. He can easily see above the tree line from his hilltop vantage, yet he stands with his head cocked to one side as if listening for something. Rumors and whispers have brought him here, hoping that the forest spirit that is said to reside here will finally guide him to his destination. Quietly, ever so patiently he waits. Suddenly a gust of wind rips his hood from his head, revealing a dusky complexion and green eyes the color of soft spring grass. He smiles. The spirit has granted him passage and shown him the way. He replaces his hood and shoulders his pack then turns and walks into the dense foliage, leaving no sign of his brief stay.
Not wanting to loose sight of his guide Orlin sets a steady pace. He knew the trek would be long but time and distance had long since taken it's toll. He has been following the spirit for three days now stopping only for water and quick meals provided by the forest. With the sun marching precariously close to the horizon, the forest shadows seem soft and extraordinarily long to Orlin's weary eyes. The sounds of a brook catch his notice and briefly he is fully awake again.
It takes him a few minutes to locate the small mountain stream. It is cool and clean and perfect for a moments reprieve. He sets down his pack and asks the forest for permission to indulge. The water is cool and soothing to his parched throat. Orlin sits back for a moment allowing him self to rest his tired feet. meaning only to pause in his journey for a short while he is utterly unprepared for the depth of slumber that over takes him.
He bends over the small pool for another drink. As he does a hideous visage stares back at him. He flings himself to the side knowing it must be too late to avoid a killing strike. The strike does not come however. As he tumbles on to his back attempting to face his assailant he finds nothing there. Slowly he reaches for the axe at his belt wary of the creature that must still be there somewhere. His hand fumbles it's familiar task of drawing his ancestral weapon. The weapon feels smaller than usual. Finally freeing it from its bandoleer he brings it into view. It was not the ax that changed but his hand. The axe falls from his hand. Disbelieving he shakes his hands as if to shake loose the foreign limb, three fingered and greenish gray. It was a familiar sight to Orlin, he had fought trolls before. Now by some curse he had become one.
He flees. As he runs his legs begin to wobble and flex. He stumbles forward his arms stretch out to catch him and become legs.
Now he is running on all fours. Long lupine legs carry him nimbly through the forest.
The forest floor give way beneath his feet now and he is falling. His wolfen paws uselessly scrabbling for purchase that is no longer there. His paws expand now. They begin to catch the air. They widen further, feathers exchange for fur.
He is soaring now, caught in a warm air updraft. Safe among the clouds now.
The winds change suddenly and violently. Lightning rends the air.
Thunder crashes and Orlin starts awake. He is back by the small mountain stream. The forest spirit waiting patiently turns to look at him but as always says nothing. Orlin laughs it off a little, "Ha, thats a new one! Troll huh, now oi turn inta a stinkin troll." He turns to gather his things, "well oi guess we'd best make 'aste ta tha Grove o' tha Sundered Valley."
The spirit nods and turns to lead on into the forest.
Not wanting to loose sight of his guide Orlin sets a steady pace. He knew the trek would be long but time and distance had long since taken it's toll. He has been following the spirit for three days now stopping only for water and quick meals provided by the forest. With the sun marching precariously close to the horizon, the forest shadows seem soft and extraordinarily long to Orlin's weary eyes. The sounds of a brook catch his notice and briefly he is fully awake again.
It takes him a few minutes to locate the small mountain stream. It is cool and clean and perfect for a moments reprieve. He sets down his pack and asks the forest for permission to indulge. The water is cool and soothing to his parched throat. Orlin sits back for a moment allowing him self to rest his tired feet. meaning only to pause in his journey for a short while he is utterly unprepared for the depth of slumber that over takes him.
He bends over the small pool for another drink. As he does a hideous visage stares back at him. He flings himself to the side knowing it must be too late to avoid a killing strike. The strike does not come however. As he tumbles on to his back attempting to face his assailant he finds nothing there. Slowly he reaches for the axe at his belt wary of the creature that must still be there somewhere. His hand fumbles it's familiar task of drawing his ancestral weapon. The weapon feels smaller than usual. Finally freeing it from its bandoleer he brings it into view. It was not the ax that changed but his hand. The axe falls from his hand. Disbelieving he shakes his hands as if to shake loose the foreign limb, three fingered and greenish gray. It was a familiar sight to Orlin, he had fought trolls before. Now by some curse he had become one.
He flees. As he runs his legs begin to wobble and flex. He stumbles forward his arms stretch out to catch him and become legs.
Now he is running on all fours. Long lupine legs carry him nimbly through the forest.
The forest floor give way beneath his feet now and he is falling. His wolfen paws uselessly scrabbling for purchase that is no longer there. His paws expand now. They begin to catch the air. They widen further, feathers exchange for fur.
He is soaring now, caught in a warm air updraft. Safe among the clouds now.
The winds change suddenly and violently. Lightning rends the air.
Thunder crashes and Orlin starts awake. He is back by the small mountain stream. The forest spirit waiting patiently turns to look at him but as always says nothing. Orlin laughs it off a little, "Ha, thats a new one! Troll huh, now oi turn inta a stinkin troll." He turns to gather his things, "well oi guess we'd best make 'aste ta tha Grove o' tha Sundered Valley."
The spirit nods and turns to lead on into the forest.
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