The story so far:
Troll has left the land of Bitterists and the Beautiful determined to meet the giant Ikol who lives with the Honestists and Banterers. Getting off to a bad start with Ikol, Troll has been spared his life by telling a simple truth. Troll now finds himself heading in the direction of somewhere other than where he was. With a squirrel-like creature that feeds on bad karma. And is now asleep.

Never let it be said that our troll was one to bear a grudge. The fact that he had had a near death experience under the heel of Ikol's foot hadn’t soured his opinion of him at all.

And, as they sauntered along, the troll felt remarkably at peace. Him and Ikol, Ikol and him. Not yet exchanging jokes. Or any words at all for that matter. But give it time. Give it time.

One thing our troll hadn’t reckoned on, though, was picking up a deranged squirrel en-route. He looked down at the emotuftie that had nestled into the V at the front of his baggy old shirt. It was still asleep, dribbling slightly and felt warm against the troll’s chest. All snuggled up and warm and cosy. All snuggily-buggily. Snoozily-woozily. Ahhhh.

Sod it, they could roast the critter later.

Troll had no idea where they were going. Only that he was sitting on Ikol’s shoulder and hanging on for grim death as the giant strode purposefully towards what looked like some purple mountains.

Er, Ikol, ventured the troll, Where are we going?

Whassit teryou?

There was no answer to that.

Ikol stopped. Paused. Then lifting up one of his huge arms and stretching it out so that he was pointing towards the purple mountains, he said, with great, dramatic effect,

That. That’s where we’re headed. To where the Honestists are…

Relieved as he was to be rid of the provocations of the Bitterists and the Beautiful, which were now far behind him, the troll was concerned to see that there was an awful lot of smoke rising from numerous fires around the base of the mountains that they were fast approaching.

Like, an awful lot of smoke. It hung in a heavy purple-grey haze. It looked in places heavy enough to wear. Troll could smell it already. It didn’t smell too good. And troll wasn’t usually fussy about such things.

Ahhh, said Ikol, catching the smell too and rubbing his hands together eagerly, That’ll be the roasting – we’re in time!

Ah, dear reader. What was our poor troll to make of the sight that met his eyes: part Brueghal, part Bosch, part Bacon?

He gulped, and, drawing the sleeping emotuftie closer to his chest, he did his best to hide himself in Ikol’s rank beard. Leaving two fat, rather smelly troll feet sticking out.

For
one
and
all
plainly
to
see...

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