Curesoon awoke, but when he opened his eyes, he wondered whether he had gone blind because he still could not see. He found himself stretched out upon his back in putrid-smelling mud, and the deep impression he had made gave him the idea that he had landed with some force. Moreover, his whole body violently shivered from laying in the damp cold muck.

Sitting up, he quietly felt around in the blackness with his benumb fingers, but he found only more foul-smelling filth. Then, when something slimy scurried over his outstretched hand, he recoiled with a jerk and wiped his hand on his tunic with a grimace of disgust.

Slowly, as the fog of sleepiness began to clear from his mind, he recalled the memory of the stone that had sprouted thick bent legs and the foul face that had roared.

“Could it have been a dreadful nightmare?” he hoped aloud in a whisper to himself.

“I ‘sure ya, my swee’ sleepin’ beau’y, ya ain’t havin’ no dream,” a coarse guttural voice called out in a tone that was obviously meant to ridicule.

Whoever it was, they sounded enormous due to the strange throaty resonance of their voice.

The suddenness of the spoken words startled Curesoon so that he yelped loudly and flinched in the darkness.

“Ha! Ya’re nothin’ but a scared li’l’ maggot!” the voice scoffed again. “But weren’t ya bold enough when ya came trompin’ inta my bog?”

Franticly, the bard began again to feel about in the rotten-smelling mire. He hoped to come across one of his swords or perhaps even a way of escape. He would have joyfully welcomed any comfort at that moment.

“No need tryin’ to ‘scape now. I’ve caught ya like a pre’y li'l' bug, but I ‘asn’t quite made up my mind whether I’s gonna just eat ya or take my time squishin’ ya ta jelly.” The deep voice began to laugh cruelly, but the laugh slowly became a hoarse cough that the speaker fought to suppress.

Staring into darkness, Curesoon collected all his courage, and after a hard swallow, he began to ask to whom the voice belonged, but his own came out in a high-pitched squeak: “Who…”

In answer, there came a booming mixture of laughter and coughing. When the fit had passed, the voice returned deep and raspy: “Ha! Ya squeak like a li’l’ rat!”

Curesoon swallowed again, and then restarted his question with such sudden boldness that he even surprised himself.

“What sort of man are you that abducts a soul and then gloats over the evil he’s done?!?”

“Oooh! So ya are a bold, eh?” the voice said with a sneering tone. “But ya’ve marked me all wrong!”

“What do you mean?” the bard asked though he suddenly felt his heart quiver at the guess his mind made.

“I’s no man! I’s called Bogra, but, in yar tongue, I’s named Baleful many years ago by a ‘andsome li’l’ lord, much like yar’self.” The voice growled menacingly. “And while I’m at it, I’ll answer the question ya asked tha’ fre’ful li’l’ farmer.

Suddenly a red flame flared up flooding the cave with its light. This came from a strange torch which sprang to life like a match when it is struck.

The torch’s red light illuminated the darkness enough that Curesoon could see the same huge ugly face from before. Again, it was bend toward him, and its gray parched lips parted to show its jagged teeth as it formed the next sentence with sinister articulation: “There cer’inly still are such things as Trolls in the world!”

With a start, Curesoon quickly slid backwards upon his backside in the mud until he found himself sitting against the cave’s damp wall.

“This can’t be a Troll!” the bard’s mind screamed. He had always heard that Trolls were a dim-witted race who spoke very few words. By all accounts, this Troll seemed far too talkative. But then, the voice of Guileless abruptly echoed within the bard’s head.

“Trollops are far worse than Trolls!”

As he shivered in the corner of the den with these thoughts swirling within his mind, the great Trollop took the small torch and placed it into an ornately carved wooden rack which hung high upon the muddy wall.

The sconce was of such a quality that Curesoon doubted it could have been made by the giantess. He was quite sure that the brutish woman had, instead, thieved it from some other poor unsuspecting soul.

Baleful turned back to the bard and asked with a jagged grin: “Now, I’ve told ya my names. Ya gonna tell ol’ Bogra what name ya’re called by, eh? It’d be rude not to.” She was rather enjoying the plain expression of fear upon her victim’s face.

“My… Uh… My name is… Curesoon,” the bard stammered out before he could catch himself.

“And where’d ya say ya’re from?” the Trollop asked with a sudden pleasantness that caught the other completely off guard. It was nowhere near a lovely tone when compared to other races, but for the giantess, it was a drastic change from her earlier manner.

“I didn’t.” The bard raised his chin in a sudden gesture of defiance.

Baleful burst into a fit of thunderous laughter. “Look at the li’le lordling! So noble!” Her words ended in a fit of raspy coughs.

Curesoon frowned but made no reply.

“There’s no need tellin’ me,” the giantess admitted when her cough subsided. She then pointed at the shattered bits of his shield that were scattered around upon the floor of the cave. Most of its emblazoned colors could still be discerned through the mud that was smeared across its shards, but in the red light its blue field appeared to be black.

“I do ‘pologize for bustin’ yar shield.” The giantess lowered her eyes in a false expression of remorse. “I’ve got such an awful fury. It’s just, when I saw tha’ coat of arms…” She caught herself with a cruel chuckle and then let the sentence die unfinished.

She quickly returned to her fun. “At any rate, I know who ya are: Ya’re the son of Acumen, lord of Eagle’s Peak.” Baleful said this in a voice that was meant to mock Curesoon’s manner of speaking.

A look of surprise flashed across the bard’s bearded face, and this caused the Trollop to burst into more coughing laughter.

“How…?” He caught himself when he realized his reaction was only confirming her guess. With a sickening feeling, he slumped down upon a large gray stone.

Baleful steepled her enormous fingers, set them against her wart-covered cheek, and blinked her huge black eyes to mimic a lovely expression. “Oh, don’t be so shocked. I’s no soo’sayer. I’s listenin’ when ya told tha’ silly farmer yar lovely li’le story ‘bout yar poor missin’ wife and childrens.”

A flash of rage shot through Curesoon. Standing on the rock he had been sitting upon, he pointed an accusing finger at his captor and slightly raised his voice. “You know, just because you’re big enough to bully others doesn’t mean you should!”

“I’s not always big, and more than a few bullied me!” Baleful growled in a threatening tone that quickly cooled the bard’s anger.

After a moment of silence, Baleful thrust out her massive gray fist causing Curesoon to flinch. However, after only a chuckle, she slowly turned and opened her hand to reveal his now soiled, but still colorful, hat.

The bard made no move to take it, and so Baleful plucked it from her palm and gently dropped it onto the bard’s head. It landed askew making him look slightly comical.

“I used to lis’en to the li’l’ lord’s bard. ‘E wore a mo’led hat some’in like yars,” the Trollop said with a cold sneer. Making herself comfortable, she suggested prettily, “So ‘ow’s ‘bout ya give ol’ Bogra a tale? And maybe, if I’s like it, I won’t crush ya inta jam.”

Curesoon took a deep breath, closed his blue eyes for a moment, and then let out a quivering sigh. When he opened his eyes again, a look of resolve had settled upon his face. Straightening his hat, he glared up at the giantess.

“And what story would you have me tell?” the bard asked and then clinched his jaws.

Baleful shrugged. “‘Ow’d I know what stories are rattlin’ ‘round in yar pre’y li’le head?!?”

With a grumble of frustration, the bard sat back down upon his rock, put his elbows on his knees, rested his chin in his hands, and tried to think of a story. After a few moments, he began the first tale that came into his mind.

“In the beginning the King of Heaven created all that…”

“King of Heaven? I’s don’t wanna hear none of tha’ nonsense!” the giantess growled impatiently.

“You don’t believe in the King of Heaven?!?” Curesoon was so stunned that he forgot his fear for a moment.

“Why should I?!?” The Trollop scoffed. “E’s never helped me none!”

“But…” Curesoon began to protest, but she interrupted.

“Don’t ya know any ‘bout Trolls or one with lots of blood spillin’?” Baleful’s tone was lustful, and this caused Curesoon’s anxiety to quickly return.

In that moment, the bard felt an urge to despise this beastly woman, but putting his feelings aside for the sake of his life, he quickly searched through his mind for a story about a Troll.

Curesoon was struggling when he suddenly gasped. “Oh!”

The Trollop’s great black eyes gazed at him with a stare that seemed to pierce his very soul. “Ya do know one; I sees it by the look in yar bright eyes,” the giantess laughed while fighting back a cough.

The bard answered with apprehension. “I know only one, sir…” He caught himself. “I mean, madam!” He stammered for a second. “But… But, I’m quite sure you wouldn’t find it entertaining.”

“Tell it, and ol’ Bogra‘ll be the judge!” Baleful demanded with such forcefulness that Curesoon flinched.

“Very well… Madam.” The bard conceded nervously.