a lean few years - the little men insist the harvest has been bad, and since you lost a fight with your old boss, Skrag, you've been on your own. It's not proper - trolls are meant to travel in bands, or to settle down under bridges or old ruins. Without brother trolls to scrap with and make jokes about, you're as bored as you are cold and hungry.

All you've got left in the world besides the clothes on your back and your own two tusks is...

>Your birth-stone. A hunk of old brickwork with your name carved on it in the old words. It's bound to you - you can't travel without it, but it wards off the daylight a little, so the sun just burns a bit rather than turning you to stone like it did your old dad.
>A good stick - a stripped oak bough, sturdy for swinging or walking with.
>A solid cook-pot, given you by your mother when you were whelped. You carring it slung over one shoulder - means you can cook decent stew and carry enough water to keep the stone-sickness off when you get wounded.