You awaken early after a near-sleepless night to find your mother already dressed. She watches you with a troubled expression.

"I suppose you spent all night wandering the woods with Gronput," she says. "Ah, of all the trolls in the North, why that useless dreamer? The trolls come here to trade, and to assure us there will not be another war. Not to discuss philosophy and ancient ruins!"

She saws at a loaf of dark bread, her bronze knife gleaming in the dawn light that floods through the open door. People wander past outside, trying to listen in on the chieftain. You consider your words carefully, trying to figure out how to placate your mother without lying. How can you justify your time with Gronput in a way she–and the rest of the Pine tribe–would understand?

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You could try charming your mother with tales of trollcraft and Gronput's repair skills, though she will interrogate you about their techniques. A son with knowledge of the natural world might describe the trolls' game trails, which your mother would like to know about. Or you could simply endure your mother's complaints with stoicism and diplomatic skill, that you might seem like a dutiful son to the gossips skulking outside.