The next morning had a practical air about it. Ganainm had overslept. Not that there was any schedule to be kept, but the girl dozed off for so long that even despite that fact she'd woken up late. When she scrambled her wits together, a stinging pain of hunger jabbed at her belly. It seemed as if all the sleep she had skipped while in the Realm — and all the meals too — were now coming with a trifold force. Thankfully, the trolls were ready.
Stew and cheese. And milk. That was breakfast. Now, one would maybe expect the trolls to make a comment along the lines of 'we (the shepherds) have been up for over five hours by now, so this isn't really breakfast'. Comments like that were seldom taken kindly towards by any outsiders, a certain amount of gatekeeping blooming more greatly than the cherry trees in the Orchard. Thankfully, the trolls were not like that.
"We like sleeping too," said one of them, judging by their voice's tone, a woman. "And I do not mean that as a 'we all like to be lazy'. You were not lazy to sleep for a long time my new friends," she turned towards the girl and the Knight as both were halfway through a piece of cheese. "Rest is important and should be taken advantage of. It's the only thing that won't mind that."
Ganainm nodded in thanks and peered back into the bucket of stew laid before her. Of course, the trolls wouldn't have human-sized equipment for them to eat from or with. So, a bucket it was. And what a bucket it was.
Oaken. Carved. Scenes from trollish legends etched upon its sides. On the one given to her, Ganainm identified 'The Tale of the three Evil Goats.' A cautionary tale for young trolls telling of how not to trust a plump goat on its way across a bridge. The moral — in short — was as such: do not wait for the plumpest goat, just eat all three of them. That was good wisdom.
Somewhere towards the meal's end, a conversation about the beast ensued. Ganainm and Katsugi asked for details on its appearance, but the trolls weren't able to say anything of substance. After all, when the wolfman hunted, they were sound asleep and singing. When it came to the attacks locations there was also little to be done.
The spots seemed random, all very far away from one another, with a few of them even too close. At last, they had decided the repeated attacks in certain places must've been from the time where two shepherds passed each other on the field.
The one thing what seemed consistent, were the numbers. Each flock that had been struck had what would be considered an overabundance of sheep. It's not that a troll couldn't have more than a very certain and specific amount of sheep in their flock, it was just the almost zealous determination of the werewolf.
At first — meaning during the first few attacks — no one truly noticed. Only the numbers-loving of the shepherds took note of a few of their sheep missing. The rest didn't care, all until they realised they had lost some of their flock as well. And by now, every single troll of the Hills counted their sheep whenever they needed, and wherever they went.
"So," a troll began, a light shoulder tap of his grabbing the girl's attention. "What's the plan?"
Ganainm's eyes opened wisely, yet without missing a beat, she answered.
"We shall arrange a trap for tonight. My friend and I will uh... observe how the creature interacts with bait and even from how far can we be smelled by it."
That was a perfectly acceptable answer, and the troll made a remark on that very topic. The rest of the day was spent in preparation.
The first hurdle thrown below Ganainm's and Katsugi's feet was that of a lack of bait. To our heroes' dismay, none of the shepherds — not even at an explicitly verbal plead from the troll spokesman — wished to part with more than zero of their sheep. Which is understandable.
And yet, at long last, and with no small of a sacrifice (Ganainm had to sing a song and Katsugi had to dance to it) to amuse the reluctant troll enough for their mood to allow bents and curves to be introduced to their moral code. For the girl, the entire experience of singing had been a horror. She'd sang before, way before, with the fairies, but here? This was something else. For the Knight though, the dancing was not as bad as she frankly had thought it would be. As everyone thought probably.
After acquiring the bait, a lovely little sheep named Sheila, one with an as-of-yet not fully-developed neck, the main part commenced. At first the smelling test was conducted with the humans themselves, but — as it turned out — it was the troll's sense of smell that outperformed humans by miles of progress. The team then determined the best place to hide behind — a hill — and an optimal distance for both smelling and seeing (another hill).
Night fell quickly that day. It was very convenient, for the trolls were gone early and Ganainm and Katsugi were left alone to make the final adjustments to the trap. Its — the trap's — structure was very simple. The wolfman only kidnapped sheep that were either above what he considered an appropriate number for a flock or ones that had wandered off.
When darkness had made itself into a vast blackness of navy blue upon the sky, the pair hid behind a hill. And waited. And waited.
Then, a sudden movement.
T'was but a bug, a small insect buzzing in the evening air. Ganainm's muscles flexed as the first heard the noise, but then immediately relaxed on realising what had produced it. With a degree of amusement, she then observed what resulted to be a moth, make its way all the way to the fading bonfire in the distance.
Then, a sudden movement.
The girl and the Knight both turned on their feet, trying to keep as quiet as humanly possible. And they observed:
A large, stark figure, flowing with silvery fur of graphite greyness slowly marched on all fours up Sheila the sheep's hill. The animal bleated loudly as it noticed the shadow unveiling before it, but a mere second later, it was already gone.
The only thing the pair was able to observe was the rough direction of the werewolf's exit. Hell, Ganainm thought to herself, this'll take another try. At least. The sheep's bleating stopped as soon as the shadow had gotten to her. Was it dead? Had it been killed? She couldn't be sure.
The whole thing happened so quickly the pair returned to the troll's settlement with an air of disillusion about them; almost a thirst for more. She honestly expected more. Maybe a distant howl — either to frighten the sheep beforehand or to make the pair's skin crawl — maybe a bit more saliva. A bit more teeth. A touch more fang.
Instead, what they'd got was just that. A silvery shadow. A fume, a smoke. Something one could barely lay their hands on. And if one finally managed to, it would seep away through one's fingers. But, pray tell, how does one catch smoke?
