"That weapon you carry doesn't look very effective," said Lora.
Sticky followed Lora's gaze, to the stick that supported his bundle. "It's not a weapon, it's a typing wand."
"Wand? Like sorcerers use?"
"No, of course not. It's for typing with. You know, letters, forms ..."
"Oh. So you can't do magic, then? That's a shame. It would've been handy."
"Writing things is a kind of magic."
"You can't kill trolls with it though. I guess if you threw a type-writter at one ..."
Sticky shook his head in exasperation.
Trolls being nocturnal creatures, with no exceptions, the two troll hunters had to wait till nightfall for any to appear. They passed the hours of lingering daylight gathering a particularly strong type of vine Lora had knowledge of, and trudging deeper into troll territory.
"To be courting danger again after only having left it," Sticky mused. "Perhaps this fresh air has gone to my head."
"Are we in Zigpwt, or whatever it's called?"
"No, we're east of there. It's a region known as 'Pwng.' There are far-fewer trolls here. Apart from that, I don't know much about it. The only thing one needs to remember in troll country is that there are trolls about - and it's a fact not to be taken lightly."
"I don't like this place at all," said Lora. "The trolls have spoiled the landscape."
"They do like to bash things," said Sticky, "and inanimate objects - trees and such - don't generally put up much of a fight."
"Then I shall fight for them. Hear me, Brothers! Hear me, Sisters! I will avenge your tortured souls!"
"Shh!" said Sticky, clasping his rather small and ineffective hand over Lora's mouth. "I hear something."
Lora nodded. They crept/flew towards muted thuds and the crunching of leaf-litter. Their keen eyes peered into the gloom of a clearing, where they saw a troll - a very large one. Its dark, matted hair spilled down its back. In the curves and recesses of this singular mass, patches of moss grew. Above its broad and muscular shoulders sat a suitably broad face, mostly taken up by flattened nose. From each corner of its mouth poked a pointed tooth - one up, one down - and its eyes had a dullness to them, like those of a docile animal.
It certainly didn't seem docile, given its current occupation. It was hunched over a small hole in the ground, with a club the size of a goat poised at the ready. A ground-squirrel popped its head out of the hole and the club came crashing down. The squirrel had obviously had practice though, for it disappeared into its hole unharmed.
The troll grunted, lifted its club again, and sauntered over to another hole - there were many dotted about the clearing.
"See what I mean about bashing?" said Sticky.
"Are they always that ... big?" said Lora, with a hint of fear and uncertainty.
"This is an outlander. They're known to be scarcer, larger, and an awful lot fiercer than your average troll."
Lora squinted at it in the failing light; calculating, sizing it up. Sticky firmly believed that no matter how many times you carried the one, you always wound up outnumbered when it came to outlanders.
"What's the plan, Sticky?"
"Plan? I thought you-"
"I've never even seen a troll, except in pictures. You're the expert."
"Wouldn't you rather start with a smaller one?"
Lora just gave him a funny look. Sticky sighed, and put his mind to problem.
"Okay. Much as it pains me to suggest this, trolls like to catch imps. They're under the impression we're 'lucky.'"
"What, like a Djinn or something?"
"You could say that. Anyway, while I'm distracting him, you can work your magic with your club."
Lora glanced at an oak growing nearby. "I'll get up that tree - I'll never be tall enough, otherwise. You'll have to lure him over."
"All right."
"Good luck!"
With that, Lora shinned up the tree with the ease of a spider. Sticky stowed his bundle, took a deep breath, and flitted into the clearing.
A little should be explained, at this point, about morals. Elves have a noble moral code that is generally infallible; except, of course, when it comes to their enemies: trolls, goblins, and such-like. Trolls, on the other hand, have never bothered much with codes - moral or otherwise. Sticky? Well, Sticky was doing his job, and he wasn't exactly fond of the brutes.
"Ho there, troll!" he squeaked.
The troll made a grunting noise, which could've passed for 'huh?' with a stretch of the imagination, and looked up from its fruitless pursuit of the squirrel.
"'Ullo, an imp!" it cried, its eyes wide with glee.
The brute swung at Sticky with what must've once been the trunk of a sizeable tree, and Sticky dodged - just barely. He hadn't counted on that, so, with considerable fear of being squashed flat, he fled towards the oak where Lora hopefully lay in wait.
As expected the troll lumbered after him, laughing and swinging its club. Sticky hovered now beneath the boughs, with the troll fast approaching.
"Are you ready up there?" he called.
"Almost," came Lora's voice. "My hair's caught in the - nrgh! - branches."
Swish! Sticky dodged another blow, and flitted around back of the troll. A hand the size of a dinner-plate reached around; momentum brought the rest of the troll with it. Sticky folded his wings and dropped to avoid the crushing grip of the lumpy, calloused fingers. The troll reached out again, but, with a shriek, a tangle of hair and green cloth fell upon its shoulders, accompanied by several branches. It stood paralyzed by confusion and surprise as Lora thwomped it repeatedly over the head with her club.
The girl hadn't been kidding when she said she was proficient. The third blow knocked the troll out, but she seemed unaware of this and kept pummelling while it toppled backwards. Mesmerised, Sticky realised he'd also end up flattened if he didn't move out of the way. He took flight, snatched up Lora in his claws, and lifted her to safety as the troll thudded to the ground. Catching their breath, they gazed upon their achievement.