The woodtrolls had many types of wood to choose from and each had its own special properties. Purple flames blazed all round the stubby logs as they bumped and tumbled around inside the stove. Yet it amused him now to think of his parents' surprise when he had appeared: dark, green-eyed, smooth-skinned, and already with unusually long legs for a woodtroll. It had been painful, so painful, being different when he was growing up. 'From the moment you were born,' she began, as she always began, 'you were different. 'A tale can have many endings,' she said sadly, and watched the purple light from the fire gleaming on Twig's high cheekbones and sharp chin. He's grown so fast, she thought, and wiped a tear from the end of her rubbery button-nose. Spelda tousled her son's thick black hair. 'I thought I'd already heard the ending.' 'This time it will be a little different,' he heard his mother saying. Like so much of the food which the woodtrolls relished, Twig found tripweed disgusting, particularly pickled. Twig felt her warm breath on the back of his neck, and smelled the pickled tripweed she had eaten for lunch. 'But I know that story, Mother-Mine,' Twig protested. 'I want to tell you the story of how you got your name,' his mother said. Twig leaned forwards and opened the door of the stove. Twig sat on the floor between his mother's knees, and curled his toes in the thick fleece of the tilder rug.
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