"Yes, you immediately saw the truth, Pon Para," says Gronput. "Too many wounds! The man had many, like a man who has fallen under hooves. But the healer, she smiles - arrogant little smile, like when I get a good deal and your mother doesn't, eh? And the man... it's the word? "

You remember the wounded man's expression. Not horrified by his injuries - more embarrassed by them. There was no fear on his face. "And you said, because you knew right away, 'Troll that saved me, that's impossible.'"

After that first encounter with Gronput, you searched every mosaic you could find that showed people being healed and healed and put together. You learned as much as you could from these images, and while you could never understand the lightning wand or the sword made of blood or the goblet full of tears, or what they did, you learned how people were put together, inside and out. on the outside.

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You turn to look at Gronput. The troll stands on an irregularly shaped pillar covered in intricate and incomprehensible knots. The substance of the column is neither metal nor stone. Gronput is an old troll, his furry body all gray, his vulpine muzzle almost white, though his teeth and eyes are still sharp. Like all trolls, he is small, fast, and frail-looking, with small horns curving backwards. Jewelry for sale hits his wide belt. It's hard to imagine these creatures in their thousands, armed with spears of fire-blackened wood, fearlessly facing their parents and the other heroes of the War of the Behemoth.

However, there is something different about Gronput this year. His eyes look feverishly bright, his expression wild. His lips curled back involuntarily in a snarl, as if he'd seen something terrible. He looks scared. You never knew that cheerful, contented old peddler would show a trace of fear, even when he was haggling with your mother—and everyone is afraid of her.