Trolls come in many shapes and sizes, some of them nastier than others. The forest troll is relatively tame in that regard, with a single head and standing a diminutive 8 feet tall. 'Diminutive', however, is a relative term, and not one usually applied to forest trolls by humans, a species that all trolls invariably find delicious. Sorth Draco would certainly not have used any word like 'diminutive', to describe either the troll standing before him or the rock it carried. The troll wouldn't have used the word either, not because Sorth was particularly imposing, rather because its tiny brain couldn't articulate any thought more analytical than "Manflesh good".
Although Sorth would modestly admit to being quite skilled in offensive magic, his staff didn't feel like much more than a simple wooden stave, as the troll's knobbly green hide looked very thick. He suspected his companion Bob might stand a greater chance against the creature, but the idea didn't cheer him much.
The three of them stood for a long while, the slightly quivering Sorth pointing his staff at the troll, Bob holding his longsword before him and the troll's arms simply hanging limp. It growled softly, weighing up the respective looks of both men.
Sorth tried to swallow, but his mouth was totally dry. He glanced at Bob, who stood stock still, slightly crouched, in his battered and ancient armour. The evening light glinted off his sword's blade and illuminated his one eye, which stared resolutely at the troll.
With a huge roar, the troll raised its crude bludgeon, and would have brought it down upon Sorth had a black-shafted arrow not thudded into its head. The troll dropped his rock and screamed, clawing at the arrow. Another arrow struck it in its huge hand, the tip protruding a good three inches from its palm. Overwhelmed with pain and confusion, the troll collapsed onto its knees, wailing an uninflected roar. A green-cloaked figure jumped from the tree branches above it and landed upon its shoulders, sitting astride them like a child carried by her father. The ranger drew a short sword from its belt, and ducked as the troll swung its gangly arms in an effort to grab her. Working without hesitation, the ranger leant forward and, using the troll's tangled hair as a handhold, dug her sword into the creature's neck. Within minutes it was over. The troll's decapitated body dropped its arms, then slowly pitched forwards, the ranger deftly leaping onto his back and tossing the severed head away. She sheathed the sword and pulled her hood back, letting her hair flow, long and red. And considerably better groomed than that of the erstwhile troll.
Sorth pulled his dropped jaw back up and regained enough composure to say "Wow".
The rangeress smirked. "Oh, trolls are nothing. I've taken on all sorts. Orcs, dragons, werewolves, you name it."
"Yes, but even so," the flabbergasted Sorth replied. The woman stepped forward off the troll's corpse. "So who are you?" he asked.
"Deanna Argent, at your service" Deanna replied, extending a hand to shake but quickly withdrawing it, as it had been holding the troll's greasy locks.
"Sorth Draco, at yours," Sorth responded, shaking her other, thankfully clean-gloved hand. "And this is Bob."
Deanna proffered her hand to Bob, who simply stared at it, unblinking and silent, his sword hanging from his hand.
"Is he...?" she started.
"Oh, don't mind him," Sorth answered. "He's... complicated, but he's mostly harmless."
"Right..." Deanna said hesitantly. She regained composure. "So, you two camped anywhere near here?"
"Actually no, we've not got a camp."
"We should head to mine, then. This troll may not have been alone..."
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The sun had dipped below the horizon, and the moon shone brightly in its stead. Sorth and Bob sat upon a log sitting in front of a fire, both hungrily tearing at a roasted deer's leg. Deanna sat on a rock on the other side of the fire, washing her limb down with a mug of beer. She wiped her mouth clean.
"So, what brings a mage and his complicated friend out this far into the wilds? Surely not the excitement of facing trolls."
Sorth chewed and swallowed a chunk of meat. "Even I'm not quite sure on that question."
"Oh really? How very odd. Well, how about another question: what's the story behind Bob?"
"That story is a long one. But I think we have time," Sorth replied, glancing up at the stars. "It all began..."

The story was indeed a long one. The fire had burnt down to embers, and the moon sat much higher in the sky. But, even as she tossed more wood onto the fire, Deanna sat enthralled by Sorth's strange and arcane tale.
"...and, half-dead though he was, we were able to restore his body and vitality. But his mind was practically gone. Something had happened on that plain far worse than just a mere battle, and whatever it was was so horrific as to shatter his mind completely." Sorth took another pull of beer and glanced briefly at Bob. Throughout the entire story he hadn't reacted in the slightest, sat totally still upon the log, gazing passively at the fire through his visor's one good eyehole.
"I sometimes wonder if there is something up there," Sorth continued, "simply disconnected from his conscious mind. But, if there is, I've no idea how to bring it forward. And there you have it."
Deanna nodded slowly, still digesting the amazing story. "Well, that was... interesting."
"But anyway, enough about me. What's your story?" Sorth asked. "What's a rangeress like you doing alone out here?"
Deanna moved her vision from Bob to Sorth. "Oh, I'm not alone. My friend should be somewhere nearby..." She raised her thumb and forefinger to her mouth and produced a sharp whistle.
In response to the whistle came what looked like a wolf. But unlike any wolf Sorth had ever seen, this one was the size of a man stood on all fours. Its shaggy fur was dark grey with a much lighter belly. A thick leather collar sat around its neck and a brass ring encircled its front left ankle. Crisscrossing its back were strange thick lines, bleached a stark white. The wolf trotted up to Deanna, who placed a hand around its neck and gently tickled its chin.
"Sorth Draco, meet Silver."
Silver the wolf looked at Sorth, and Sorth looked back. The wolf's eyes almost shone in the dark night, yellow as gold, but curiously emotive. Silver regarded Sorth with a wary curiosity, and walked up to him, sniffing and tentatively laying a paw on Sorth's knee.
"Hello, Silver" Sorth said, briskly rubbing the paw. Silver's mouth broke into a canine smile and his tongue lolled from it.
"He likes you" Deanna observed.
Sorth moved his hand from Silver's paw to his head as he moved closer to Sorth, bushy tail wagging.
"Silver... Seems an odd name for this particular... breed... Might I ask how he came by it?"
Deanna sighed. "I suppose. It's not quite as long as Bob's, but..."
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It was a cold and dark night. A chill wind blew, not strongly but enough to sting exposed skin, and a thick layer of clouds obscured the moon. Deanna clasped her hands under her coat to keep them warm, idly fingering her wedding ring. The flickering light of a lantern approached from behind her, casting a pale orange light on the sparse foliage of the forest's edge. The town healer drew up to Deanna's side.
"Everything back at the apothecary's ready, Mrs. Argent."
Deanna said nothing in response. The mage looked up at the overcast sky, and what little light could be seen through it.
"Mrs. Argent, you may have to consider the possibility that there is nothing we can do for your husband, especially at this time of month..."
"No," she said quietly, distracted by her thoughts. "We have to try. He'd do the same for me..."
The healer drew a deep breath. "Alright then. Call me if... well..." Deanna silently nodded and lit her own lantern.

The man crept through the undergrowth. His lean body was smeared with dirt, and his clothes were no more than meagre rags. His forearm was wrapped in bandages that were stained with his dried blood. The bite had long since healed, albeit badly, but it still stung, especially when the moon was waxing. He continued darting between the trees, his bandage occasionally snagging on a low branch, but soon stopped and quickly turned. The light of a flame could be seen flickering in a nearby clearing. Few of the townsfolk would dare enter the forest under normal circumstances, and even fewer would now. It could only be...
The man slunk forward to better see the clearing. In the middle was a figure clothed in a thick fur coat, holding up a simple metal oil lantern. She gazed at her surroundings intently, an expression of desperation haunting her features.
"Deanna?!"
"Zack!!"
The woman dropped her lantern and rushed forward, embracing Zack and holding him tightly, tears of joy streaming down her face. They stood like that for some time, before Zachary gently drew back.
"Oh, Deanna... You... you shouldn't have come for me..."
"I know, I know!" Deanna cried, "but I love you! I couldn't bear to be apart from you!!"
"You have to, Dee, for my sake if not yours. There isn't anything anyone can do for me now, and I don't want to see you hurt."
Deanna sniffed and wiped the tears from her eyes. "There is hope, Zack. The librarian found something from ancient Castellus about..."
Deanna stopped, her eyes slowly widening. The cloud cover had started to break, and the full moon emerged from behind them. Zachary's eyes widened too, and his breath caught in his throat. He staggered backwards, his muscles tensing. He started gagging and fell to his knees. Thick hair started to grow on his chest, and his fingernails lengthened and curved into black claws. Zack choked and stared at them in horror. With an agonized groan his back arched. A horrible cracking could be heard as his mouth and nose began to change shape, elongating into a lupine muzzle.
Deanna could only watch in shock, her tears flowing anew.
"No... oh, no..."
Zachary writhed on the ground, his skin disappearing under coarse fur and his limbs twitching and cracking as they adopted a new shape. His protracted groans slowly became a high, animalistic whine as his throat changed. Deanna's body was wracked with sobbing as he looked on. Where her husband was standing, there now lay a huge wolf. It gingerly got to its paws, still whimpering slightly, and turned to face Deanna, yellow eyes tinged with pain and sorrow.
"Zack..."
A brief flicker of recognition passed across the wolf's face, but soon vanished as it narrowed its eyes and crouched. It snarled at Deanna, the sound slowly building into a furious growl.
"Zack, no..."
The bushes on the far side of the clearing rustled, and the healer emerged.
"Mrs. Argent? Are you al-- Segmar almighty!!"
The healer froze as he saw the werewolf, who briefly glared at him before returning its attention to Deanna. Neither of them moved, until...
The Zachary-wolf pounced. There was its loud roar, a cry from the healer, the hiss of magic being conjured, a crash as the bolt struck home, and a loud yelp...
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Sorth sat as enthralled as Deanna had been.
"... of course, you shouldn't cast any magic in haste," Deanna continued, "and a stasis spell is no different. It took three weeks before it started to wear off. By the time Zack came to, it was apparent that he'd been permanently changed by the spell. He was forever a wolf."
Sorth looked once again at Silver, who looked back sadly and punctuated his gaze with a small whine.
"But there was good news. His half-sleep had given him time to calm down. It turns out that a typical werewolf is only violent because it's been driven mad with the pain of transformation. Once it's worn off, they're much more amenable to reason, and you can get a collar on them. Zachary's mind is still present, but there's a lot of wolf also there. Domestication required judicious use of a silver poker."
Silver stood up and was going to investigate Bob, affording Sorth a view of the bleached scars in his fur. In the soft firelight, they sparkled ever so slightly, like his metallic namesake.
"Eventually though, he returned to as much of his old self as could be expected and the rest is history" Deanna concluded, a few tears of memory streaking down her cheeks.
"Wow... and the anklet?" Sorth asked.
"Well, Zachary's old wedding ring was silver," Deanna explained, fishing a necklace out of her shirt. Around the end of it were two delicate silver rings, a tiny sapphire crowning each one. "The brass anklets symbolize our love just as well." She lowered her sock to reveal an identical anklet around her own left leg.
Sorth remained silent for a space. "That is... quite a story," he presently said. "You have admirable devotion."
Deanna smiled. "Zachary was the only man I ever truly loved. Everyone always said he was lost when the werewolf bit him, but I could never believe it."
Silver now sat in front of Bob, glancing into his helmeted face with his head tilted. Bob glanced back, with his usual hollow stare.
Haltingly, he raised his hand, as though remembering something long forgotten...
He slowly petted Silver's head, hesitantly at first but with mounting confidence...
"Hunter" he declared in a deep, hoarse voice.
Sorth leapt to his feet. "Segmar above, Bob talked!"
"Has he not said anything before?" a perplexed Deanna asked.
"Not since I first met him. He didn't really do anything much. This is a first."
Bob kept stroking Silver, who was loving the attention. Bob too seemed to derive some satisfaction from the experience. Sorth knelt next to Bob, peering intently at him.
"Bob, what actually is Hunter?"
"Hunter," Bob happily agreed, glancing at Sorth. For the first time in decades, Bob's gaze carried actual emotion. He even seemed to be smiling.
"Maybe he had a pet dog or wolf called Hunter as a child." Deanna proposed. "It's hard to forget something like that."
"Perhaps..." Sorth kept studying Bob, who was now holding a delighted Silver in a loose hug. "Look, where are you two headed?"
Deanna shrugged. "Nowhere special. Why?"
"Because if we might be allowed, I think Bob and I might tag along. We'll see if Silver helps unlock anything else in Bob's mind..."