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Alvor lived with his cat in the little log college in the foothills of the Dovery Mountains.

He led a good life here in this beautiful land. In the spring, wildflowers dotted the fields

and meadows around his cottage. In the summer, the grass was green and tall and shimmered in the

breeze. In the fall, the green turned to gold and brown and the sharp peaks of the mountains grew

prominent on the horizon. Wintertime was pretty too, Alvor thought. The first snowfall looked like a

dusting of outer sugar on the land. As the days moved shorter and the night grew colder, the

dusting of snow transformed into a thick layer, hiding the intricacies of the land beneath.

Clear icicles formed on the overhang of his roof and glistened in the few hours of daylight.

At night, the northern lights shone overhead like an ever-shifting twinkling curtain of green.

Overall, Alvor loved living here in these foothills. This was the cottage his parents had lived in,

and his grandparents too. This was his home, and to him, it was perfect nearly all the time,

except for New Year's Eve. This time of year, men trouble for Alvor and his cat. For many years now,

New Year's men trolls, and everyone knows trolls are trouble. On New Year's Eve, Alvor would lay

out a fine holiday meal on his table with fish, bread, and cream porridge. He would set each place

carefully with a plate, a fork, and a white cloth napkin. He would set red gandles on a dish in the

middle, each tied with a delicate green bowl, and then Alvor and his cat would leave,

trudging out in the knee-high snow, down to the next village. There, he'd take a room at the

inn, and spend the evening eating a simple meal at a table downstairs. That's because every new

...