Snip: Rural Troll Goodness

Grant headed down a sloping hill, his wings helping with balance, over the metal and wooden bridge that crossed the creek, and further down into the timber. General Hjalmar meticulously placed on large foot in front of the other as he trod down. Hjalmar was a broad, rocky troll, the color of tan sandstone.

Grant stretched his wings. He soared past Hjalmar, half rolling, half running down the grade. Just as he was about to hit the bottom, his wings sharped upwards, and he skimmed over the rooty surface. He dodged in the nick of time before he hit a tree and he righted himself, hovering above the ground.

“Humph,” said Hjalmar, although Grant could hear the approval in his rusty voice. “Just like your father!”
It was the highest compliment that the general could have given him. “Dad wouldn’t have hit the tree,” Grant said modestly.

“You didn’t hit the tree,” reminded Hjalmar, trudging forward. “You almost hit the tree. I wish I had wings. You and your dad have an easy time getting around these hills.” He sighed as he thought about navigating the drop off in front of him. “Feel free to fly ahead.”

“I could carry you,” Grant said.

“No,” said Hjalmar. “I don’t think both you and David could carry me. Scoot. You don’t want to be late.”

***

Just about half a scene today, so no need to up the scene count.

Catherine

Mirrored from Writer Tamago.