The trolls carried their prize through a winding path, but like trolls, had forgotten to really adequately secure said prize. Unlike a soon-to-be-roasted hog, there was no apple stuffed in young Williamson’s mouth. And so he was using this wide mouth to SCREAM and SCREECH and do his best damsel-in-distress impression in the hopes that one of his friends would hear him over this din.

Friends, yes. He had FRIENDS who were expecting him in their camp ANY MINUTE NOW! “OLIVER! WAYLON?!” he took turns alternating their names, even though he knew he’d have better luck getting Oliver’s attention than clueless Waylon’s. “WAYLONNNNNN!!!! MURDOCH!!!!!!!!!!!!” He couldn’t just roll over and become dinner! HE HAD to put up a fight!

No one immediately came crashing through the forest to intercept the trolls and their meal, however, and soon they were arriving in trolland, a camp or village or hideout of sorts, with a large cave at the edge and little stump chairs gathered around campfires gently smoldering here and there. Some trolls were napping in hollowed-out logs on the forest floor; others were wrestling over some scrap of Muggle paraphenalia; and even baby trolls could be spotted banging rudimentary rattles on the ground or trailing their parents around and imitating them by picking their bogies and eating them. One harmless group of troll ‘children’ had even found a Muggle mirror, and had propped it up against a mossy boulder that turned out to be a massive, gently snoring grandfather troll. These three were modeling and trying on various shoes they had found, and ROARED with delight when an arriving hunter troll tossed them one of Williamson’s loafers. Naturally they had no idea how to properly wear shoes, and were mostly trying to stuff them on their hands.

The victim, or rather, hero of this memory, was transported to the center of the camp. The spear he was tied to was propped up between two Y sticks that were already firmly placed in the ground. Below him, he could see a bit of hollowed out ground, with ashes and bones marking where the previous fire had been. “So we’re right on schedule, then? I’m your dinner guest?” He tried flashing a nervous smile to a troll wearing human earrings (somehow), and only received a grunt and a poke with a stick in reply.

Then the trolls began to get busy with activity, seemingly forgetting about him while several started a fight over his backpack, one attempted to eat the loafer that hadn’t been given to the babies, and a few more set off to gather firewood. He was, surprisingly, unattended, though he was also still tied to a stake and ready to be roasted.

Suddenly, a commotion on the edge of the camp drew the attention of most of the adult trolls in the space. “HUHUHH?” The troll with the necklace was popping up in the edge of Williamson’s vision, pointing and gesturing for the part of their clearing nearest the cave. “HURR DE DURRRRRRRRR! HUR! HUR HUR!!!” Oh no, was it an attack?!

Several of the trolls, ones wielding clubs, stakes, and one with a hammer, were drawn away to the commotion, whatever it was. Williamson couldn’t see much besides red sparks flying up from the treeline; his vantage point was really very upside down, so those observing this memory should be grateful that it’s now viewable from a third person perspective and not a nauseating first person vantage point. While most of the adult trolls (excluding the mossy oak grandpa) were off at the edge of the forest, the child trolls wandered forward to poke at Williamson and giggle.

“Pantoofel!” the littlest one tittered, pointing at Williamson with his own loafer. The troll had no horns coming in yet, and had almost soft round features, yet still reeked like a can of expired sardines. But since it was just a baby, Williamson pulled a face for it and made it laugh.

“Hey,” he got an idea, since he had their attention. “How about YOU just… untie me, and we can be friends!” The troll tilted its head at him, not understanding a bit. He tried again, grunting in an impression of the chief troll that was going around telling all the other trolls what to do: “Hurrdedurr? Mer mer GRRR?! ….PANTOOFEL!” Williamson SHOOK his tightly bound wrists at the troll, begging them to PLEASE untie at least his hands.

Pantoofel, it seemed, was the magic word. It almost looked like a lightbulb went on in the troll’s head. “PANTOOFEL!” the trolly baby agreed, biting down on the loafer to hold it firmly in its mouth so its hands were free to untie Williamson. Another troll baby came up and started tickling the first baby, then attempting to get the loafer from its mouth, but was unsuccessful. Williamson’s hands and front half of his torso was free by the time the helpful troll baby turned around and started smacking the other baby with his shoe.

Carefully, and hurriedly, he was able to crunch himself up to untie his legs and feet. Then he fell roughly to the floor of the forest, knocking the stake off its Y hooks, and eliciting a loud SNORT from the sleeping grandfather troll. “Oh Merlin, sweet Merlin, just let me get away now,” he muttered to himself, standing up and frightening the troll babies with his height. Naturally, they ran away screaaaaaaaaaaaming bloody murder and attracting the attention of the other trolls. ”Not this again!” Williamson yelped, casting a quick and half-successful disillusionment charm on himself, even as he began running for the edge of the forest where he’d seen the red sparks. That had to be his friends, right?