[As though conjured by the judge’s words, the stone of the arena fades away from view. In its place stands a flat, grassy meadow, cut through by a clear stream that burbles and twists its way through the landscape. On the other side, as promised, there stands a hill. It is a gentle swelling of earth, topped by the most vibrant, vivid swath of grass imaginable. Something about it calls the eye, captures the imagination. For all its simplicity, it inspires in the viewer a longing that cannot be denied.]
[Standing over the stream there is a
bridge of old stone. The angle of it is steep, and somehow, no matter where you stand or how you look, the light does not quite penetrate the shadows beneath it. On a sign of weathered wood beside it, carved in a childish hand, are the words "Troll bridge."