The clink of wooden mugs, the scuffle of feet, and the cheering of men and women alike fill the small tavern like a contagious wave. On one end sit the trolls, whom are a gargantuan people who are only keeping to themselves. Behind the bar are sat the elves, the obvious owners of the tavern. They're a short race, pale in flesh and blonde in hair. They sit smiling and talking amongst themselves and to the dwarfs, a stocky group with large beards and a cap on each of their heads, made of worn cloth. The groups seem to intermingle and live together in perfect harmony and tranquility.
The tavern soon empties out after a long night of drinking and laughing, everyone leaving except the elves, who stay behind to clean up after the rowdy but good-natured crowd. As the trolls stumble from tree to tree in the bitter winter night, talking and laughing, the dwarfs follow behind, snickers on their faces and schemes in their minds. The trolls walk up the mountainside which lays to the left of the path protruding out of the tavern in both left and right, and walk to their caverns which they call home, filled with scattered debris and assorted cloths which they call beds. As they lay on their beds, shadows of small people light the walls along with quiet cackles, the crackle of the fire invites them to the world of sleep, and they soon fall into a sleep which seems to be impenetrable.
The next morning, the trolls wake up to a hideous mess in their cavern, ransacked with footprints on the smooth sand which lies upon the ground. The crisp chill of the winter air escapes out of the outside and into the cavern, which is then companied by screams and dejected wails which echo throughout the forest which lies below the cavern on the mountain where these trolls live. As the biggest one inspects the small footprints, he sniffs, and in his own mind, concludes that it was the dwarfs and to the agreement of all others that live in this particular family. They all climb down the mountain at once, a grimace upon their faces and hate struck upon their hearts (Because as everybody knows, the home is the most important thing to a troll other than mead).
The trolls storm into the same tavern they were in last night, but in a much different manor. The two men of the group go inside, while the others wait outside and sit quietly. The two men walk over to the place where three dwarfs are sitting, and grab their table, full of mead, assorted cakes and roast mutton. They swoop the table from underneath the dwarfs, and at that the tavern went quiet. The bards stop writing and singing, the barkeep stops serving abruptly and the men and women that occupied the tavern stop laughing and talking. The dwarfs attempt to scurry away from the large trolls, but to no avail. The trolls pick them up, the first troll has one in each hand and the second troll holds just one. They leave with the dwarfs just as quickly as they entered, and soon the tavern was back to its usual cliche. The trolls move quickly down the virgin snow which lies in the wood behind the tavern, the thick pine trees and furs used as cover from the passerby on the path. Soon the trolls turn from their usually nonchalant and neutral selves to a brutish creature, beating on the dwarfs with such fury never seen by a man and when they finally throw the dwarfs to the ground when they're done, and the lesson was aught to be learned, the trolls move inside the bustling bar for a drink, and the dwarfs, after a while of course, also moved into the tavern and order the usual mead and cakes.