Of Gnolls, and Trolls

by MW Cook

Ordinarily, in the most expensive sense of the word, A gnoll and a troll (who is perhaps still gassy from eating a mole) make a horrible fighting team. Firstly, the troll is (depending on which fantasy you ally yourself with) either a hulking, massive, stone-skinned, drooling idiot, or he is an alacritic, lanky, wacked-out-hairdo, assassin. Secondly, the gnoll is weilding a flail. All this is to say that it doesn’t actually matter what the troll is like, because the gnoll will ultimately forget mid-swing, (which with a flail is perhaps enough time to reminisce fondly on the apt shape and beauty of the object it will intersect with because there is no preventing the meeting) and be forced to allow his weapon to make profound arguments on the skull of his comrade. Needless to say it would not be a positive factor in their quest to take over the traveler’s of the tree, as well it would not be helpful for this story’s plot, although come to think of it, I am almost certain it wouldn’t matter considering who else is writing this epic tale. Thankfully in this story neither the troll or the gnoll of the grassy knoll realize this, and so they, like many unprepared monsters of old, catapult themselves at the adventurers with a fervour any Monk would nod at, only to be met by Shane and his light-katana. The 9th decided at this exact moment to sit on a purple-freckled rock, cross his right leg over his left, and tie his shoe. Little did he know how superfluos this maneouver would be.