They had not heard about magic for hundreds of years, so they put it among legends. So, when significant changes are coming - the balance of the world is disturbed by drought, the instability of power and the return of creatures coming back to life...
~ Gaspar deepens his new acquaintance - more than he could've expected.
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Returning to the inn before dark, Gaspar couldn't resist the quizzical looks of the locals. They must have heard the music, he thought, they saw where I have been and where I am coming from. Gal Andra was deeply rooted in the local legends, which fact the skald soon learned from the innkeeper.
"Lord, you must have a death wish!" he grunted handing a beer to one of the peasants. "The tower is haunted, that's all you need to know."
"This girl..." The poet did not give up. "Has anyone ever seen her? Is she really a tro...?"
The innkeeper interrupted him with a nervous murmur.
"They say," he whispered with a hint of drama, "that she goes around taverns after dark and steals food."
"That would make sense," Gaspar replied lightly. "But tell me..."
"They tried to allure her," continued the innkeeper, ignoring the poet's words, "to expose her to the sun, but she didn't give in. The vixen didn't poke her nose out."
"So, you haven't seen her." The poet eyed the innkeeper suspiciously. "You don't even know what's in that tower?"
"And what is it supposed to be if not a troll? It talks like a human, and doesn't get out when the sun is shining. Magic, if you please!"
"Don't you have any medic or sage in the village?" he asked, fiddling with the pendants. "Who can have a look and judge with a professional eye?"
"Oh lord, how can the sage be helpful here!" he waved his hand. "Well, magic, it seemed, only remained in the legends, so to summon the sage is for nothing. But here you go, one troll stepped down from the mountains, and I dread to think what will happen if more of them crash a party. A brothel, nothing else!"
"She doesn't seem dangerous," stated the poet. "Rather mad."
"Indeed," admitted the innkeeper eagerly. "But we must be vigilant because she is a woman, a troll and a witch, and this means nasty and tricky evil!"
"Well..." Gaspar scratched his head. He might have nodded at the innkeeper's words in the end didn't, though.
"And I heard the wench's eaten a mouldy cheese."
Next to the poet appeared a slightly tipsy, not much older than him, skinny man who had walked away with an ale just a moment earlier and was waving an empty mug at that moment.
"You're talking nonsense," the innkeeper grimaced, either at the peasant's words or at the thought of the obligation to move and pour him another drink.
"Did you know they eat something like this in Leida?" continued the thin man. "That supposedly rotten is better than normal, ugh! Even a mouse would die from it!"
"Wait a minute..." Gaspar straightened up abruptly, irritated by the insult to his homeland. "You don't mean to say..."
"The stench," interrupted the peasant, "is the foulness so revolting, no one can resist it. And the wench ate the cheese and asked for more!"
