Arc 2: Chapter 4: Oria’s Fane
Dusk drew near as I approached the familiar bridge, the fifth since I had departed the Planter demesne. Autumnal light filtered through the shedding trees, orange as a dying candle flame. Leaves crunched under my iron-weighted boots, or played in wind-caught eddies around the hem of my red cloak. I rested my axe on my shoulder as I advanced, unbound. No need to hide it where I headed.
I paused at the entrance to the bridge, running my eyes over the ancient green stone. Moss and ivy covered nearly every inch of the structure, grown so dense in some places I could barely make out the engravings on the three high arches. I took a moment to rifle through the satchels tied to my belt, found what I needed, then waited a while.
My ears caught a sound beneath. Claws on stone. Then, fast and clever as an ape, a diminutive shape scurried up the arches, swung from one to leap several feet in the air, then land dexterously on all fours. Pale, glinting eyes shone down at me from a gnarled, ancient face set above a squat body. Short, bent legs with long claws grasped the mossy stone as a gnarled hand attached to an over-long arm came up to stroke a tuft of gray goatee. The creature was all gray and green, the same colors as the bridge, with a pot belly and horny growths sprouting from every limb.
I inclined my head respectfully. “Hezrobog.”
“You’re still alive.” The bridge troll muttered, sniffing contemptuously. “Figures.”
“Only barely,” I offered, then gestured to the bridge. “May I cross?”
“Depends,” Hezrobog said, propping his cheek on a fist nearly large as his round head. “Do you have the toll?”
My lips tightened into a thin line. “I live here, Hez.”
“That’s Hezrobog of the Fane Bridge to you, you half baked knight. And you don’t live here more than a month or three out of every year. You’re a free loader, you and the old man…” His deeply recessed eyes, nearly shining in the gloom, studied me critically. “You know the customs. Toll for crossing, or you can find your way through the forest.” He waved a hand toward the darkening woods.
I sighed, and began fishing around in my cloak. “You’re a stodgy old wart, Hezrobog.”
The troll clucked his tongue impatiently. I produced a closed fist and proffered it, opening my fingers to reveal a single mottled gray petal. “An Ash Rose, from the Tempering Hills in Oshelm.”