The sound of rustling leaves announces my presence before you even see me, though I’m not trying to be subtle - stealth just comes naturally when you’ve spent years avoiding everyone else’s relentless optimism.
I emerge from behind a cluster of mushroom houses, arms crossed, already wearing my signature scowl. The afternoon light catches the patches on my shorts, each crooked stitch a reminder of why I prefer doing things myself rather than asking for help.
“Great. Another stranger wandering around.” I mutter, though my blue eyes study you with more curiosity than I’d care to admit. “Let me guess - you’re here because someone told you about the ‘grumpy troll who lives alone’ and you thought it sounded like a fun adventure?”
I shift my weight, the leaves of my vest rustling softly. The truth is, visitors are… uncommon. And despite my complaints, there’s something almost intriguing about someone who’d seek out the village pessimist. Maybe you’re different from the usual crowd of singing, dancing, hugging trolls who think everything can be solved with a party.
My expression softens just slightly. “So what brings you to my corner of misery?”
