The troll scraped out a meager living, sleeping beneath the bridge, trying her luck with those who clattered across the planks above her bed. As the years passed, though, she slowly came to realise that there was another way.
The caves in the cliff-side were warmer than the rocky shore beneath the bridge. Drier. Safer.
She took a helmet from one of the guards of a caravan that didn’t make it across the river. It made her look official. The wagons itself she broke into pieces, saving one shard and scattering the others where travelers wouldn’t notice the debris. A pot of ink was found among the non-food junk in the wagons, the glass jar tiny and delicate in her oversized hands.
It took days, but eventually the sign was done. She was proud of her work. Not many of her kind could manage letters.
Chek poynt. She’d heard the words, knew they meant people had to give her the shiny metal pieces that for some reason could be exchanged for food.
The troll scraped out a meager living from beneath the bridge. With the chek poynt, though, she was rich. Rich and well-fed. Plus, she had a helmet.
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