The bridge seems by now to be as old and true as the stream beneath it; dependable, safe, and a milestone for many between home and away. Its structural soundness and sentimental worth are what makes it so special, not only to those who cross it, but that which waits below, for any unsuspecting prey.
The Troll is a filthy, deplorable being; the faerie world's reprobate; a catastrophic failure of nature; a blackened wart that disrupts fine flesh.
"Are they so nasty behaving
because they look nasty, or do they become as vile in form as they feel in the judgment of the world?" the man asks his companion.
The other man holds a finger to his lips the final several yards to the bridge, indicating not only the need for silence, but that he will answer in due time.
Swiftly but quietly, he sneaks alongside the steps of the bridge, draws his sword, swings around, slices at the shadowed creature, and returns carrying its mangled head, shaking his own, "It is not my concern how it happened, my friend, only how to end it."