Chasing a troll...
"Well, the Frisks live right outside the village down that road in a small cottage. Does that help you, sir?" The young Swedish worker asked the portly Frenchman. His French accented, but audible.
"Yes, but I have one more question, how long have they lived there?"
"Well, as long as I can remember. Let's see, they moved hereabouts when I was lad, I would say about thirty some years."
"So they moved here about 1881?" The journalists asked with interest, completely forgetting his one more question promise.
"Give or take," the Swede assented.
"Bless you," the journalist said before moving further down the road in his rented wagon. He had traveled far for this one moment. Here, in the hills of Sweden he found them at long last. The road seemed to go on forever until he came in front of a little house. A woman about fifty years old waited for him, her once blonde hair streaked with gray.
"My husband and I have been waiting for you Monsieur Leroux," she said in perfect French. Madame Frisk turned into the house and called, "the journalist finally made it, Raoul."
AN: Ever had one of those plot bunnies that just bite you? Well, this one bit me and wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote it out. So, anytime a plot bunny bites me I am just going to type it out (without much thought) and post it here. No need to comment, just a little something to share.