The Forest Mountain Troll
by Eric J. Krause
There once was a Mountain Troll who wished he were a Forest Troll. I can guess what you're thinking: What's the difference? A troll's a troll. That, friend, is where you're wrong. And if a troll, either from the mountains or a forest, heard you say that, you had better hope you can outdistance him in a hurry.
This Mountain Troll, called Cogburr by his peers--though when he wasn't around, the names they used often made even the most hardened troll matron blush--would stand at the edge of his cave and look wistfully down to the forest below. When he was picking the ripest rocks for the nightly feast, he'd regale his fellow harvesters with the sights and sounds from the green patch he considered heaven. At said feasts, he'd ask endless questions of the elders and hunters about the Land of Trees and the troll inhabitants.
Cogburr's behavior continued season after season, from the dark blizzard nights of winter to the bright burning days of summer. His peers, the hunters, the elders, even the younglings, asked him to stop and be a proud Mountain Troll. He couldn't; that green canopy simply held too much mystery, too much excitement.
One fateful night, during a feast, Cogburr proclaimed he would leave in the morning to visit the forest and the Forest Trolls. He ignored all of the warnings and curses and retired to his cave to get a good night's sleep. Said sleep, however, didn't last long. A dozen of the more burly Mountain Trolls grabbed him by his limbs and dragged him to the lip of his cave. They hurled him off the side of the mountain towards his beloved forest far below.
The moral, you may ask? Simple. Mountain Trolls fucking hate Forest Trolls.
