A Bridge of Riddles

The chasm yawned before us, a jagged scar across the earth, its depths lost in a swirling mist that whispered of forgotten things. It was far wider than any gap I’d ever seen in the familiar meadows of my home, a gaping maw that seemed determined to swallow the very sunlight. A single, ancient stone bridge, no wider than my outstretched arms, spanned the terrifying void. But it wasn't the dizzying height or the sheer drop that stopped us; it was the troll.

He sat squarely in the middle of the bridge, a hulking silhouette against the pale sky. His skin was the colour of damp earth, rough and lumpy like a giant's potato. Moss clung to his shoulders, and his eyes, small and beady, glinted with something that looked suspiciously like amusement, though his frown was as deep as a canyon itself. He was enormous, his thick arms crossed over a belly that strained against his leathery tunic.

“Halt!” his voice boomed, a gravelly rumble that vibrated through the soles of my boots. “None shall pass my bridge without a toll!”