In the shadowy depths of the Mountains of Malcontents, where the air crackled with the dubious kind of magic known only to the most persistent of hangovers, there lived a dwarf named Glundin Grumblebeard. Not that “Grumblebeard” was simply a family name, mind you; it was a title earned through centuries of competitive pessimism. Whereas other dwarves regaled themselves with tales of glorious battles and treacherous quests, Glundin delighted only in the gnawing futility of existence and the inevitable decline of everything he held dear—like ale, which, when not consumed, began to mysteriously disappear down the throats of more optimistic brewers.
Now, Glundin’s abode was a cozy hovel stacked to the gills with the most dangerous of artifacts: old grievances, dusty mugs, and a rather impressive collection of ancient rocks, which he termed “my mineral brethren” while begrudgingly acknowledging that they provided no conversational solace whatsoever. But what they lacked in companionship, they made up for in the occasional, depressing echo of his thoughts—a melancholic chorus that played the endless tune of “Why bother?”
As fate would have it, the village of Dourstone, perched precariously on the edge of a cliff that looked suspiciously like a bad idea, decided it was time to summon the town hero for the annual Festival of Hopeless Endeavors—a mostly uninspired celebration centered around the acceptance of one’s mediocrity. Traditionally, the honors for this dubious title were bestowed upon the most disillusioned resident, and who better than Glundin? Unsurprisingly, the town’s mayor, a particularly unfortunate individual named Clenchy Blunderpock, had been the one to propose the festival in the first place. His full moon-looking visage and penchant for musty speeches offered ample warning signs that hope, much like the city’s plumbing, had long since gone awry.
So it came to pass that Glundin found himself meandering through the narrow cobblestone streets, festooned with poorly-drawn banners proclaiming such declarations as “Embrace the Doom!” and “Mediocrity is Virtue!” Ah, nothing fills a dwarf’s heart with pride like a collection of doggerel meant to uplift the downtrodden soul, particularly when they humbly recognize that their very existence was a quarry best left unmined.
“Glundin!” croaked a voice that belonged unmistakably to Bramble, the resident bard. “You’re the guest of disillusionment today! Care to inspire the populace?”
“If by inspire you mean bore them into forgetting their woes, then yes,” Glundin grumbled, rolling his eyes sufficiently to perform an acrobatic feat. “What lonesome tuneful lament will you impose upon us this fine void of existence?”
“Something about the trials of a beleaguered dwarf, clearly,” Bramble replied, clad in garments that looked as if they had suffered a thousand years of neglect, which is quite a feat when you consider he didn’t wear them that often. It was an aesthetic choice, which failed rather miserably in distracting from the unfortunate reality of his existence.
The festival began, sprinkling nibbled thoughts of joy across an otherwise bland and dreary expanse. Glundin stood by, nursing a particularly stout tankard while Bramble unleashed a verse so banal it could have been the rallying cry for every citizen of Dourstone attempting to strangle their aspirations into submission. “Oh, the woe of the mountain, the dread of the stone, a dwarf’s path forever etched in unyielding moans!” How colorful, Glundin mused, the vibrant sad hues of every crushed dream swirling around the town like somber garlands.
He took a long sip of his brew, lamenting how this year’s festival was yet another exercise in futility. Goodness, wasn’t it just delightful to celebrate feeling utterly inadequate? Perhaps he should have prepared a statue of himself in the form of a grizzled dwarf with disappointment etched into the very stone, crowned with the greatest of honors: “Pessimist Extraordinaire.”
Yet as he half-heartedly contemplated a life more devoid of festivities, a sudden commotion broke through the numbing haze of apathetic revelry. A massive figure emerged from the crowd—a troll. Not just any troll, but a particularly obnoxious one known as Grubbleshanks, who had developed a wicked penchant for feasting on unfortunate creatures that wandered too close to his cave (and often further afield).
“Oi! Dourstone!” Grubbleshanks bellowed, a mouthful of something distinctly unidentifiable dribbling down his beard. “I’ve come to collect my toll! One shiny bauble from each miserable soul, or else I’ll squash you all into nothingness!”
“Honestly, can’t you find a new hobby?” Glundin sighed, words dripping with disdain. “I hear crafting jewelry from bones is all the rage. You’d make quite the artisan, if only you could muster a hint of restraint.”
The villagers paled, their faces contorted into preposterous expressions of concern. Ah, sweet terror, the fuel of gluttonous nightmares! They lunged towards Glundin, tossing themselves at his feet, desperate for savior, their whispers threading through the air like the miserable songs Bramble sang.
“Save us, Glundin! You’re our only hope!”
Naturally, he knew how this would unfold. Endless prattle about heroism, courage, and all those ridiculous notions that had done nothing but cement Glundin’s belief that heroes were simply overqualified fools. He sneered, contemplating once more the dubious merit of being the town’s best pessimist.
“All right,” he said, making a grand display of long-suffering fatigue, “let’s see how ludicrous I could make a riposte.”
Gratching his way towards Grubbleshanks, Glundin cleared his throat, much to the audience’s chagrin, “You bellow like an injured goat with the singing skills of a hammer, troll! I wager your toll is as worthless as these villagers’ aspirations!”
Grubbleshanks blinked in bewilderment, momentarily losing the feral gleam in his gory eye as he tried to process the potion of dwarf cynicism.
“What did you say, little one?” he grunted, leaning closer, a frown creasing his ashy face.
“I said,” Glundin emphasized, lifting his chin defiantly, “if you require a toll, you should consider something beyond mere shiny baubles. Those are only useful to creatures with delusions of grandeur. A true troll should embrace the art of finding value in what most consider trash.”
The crowd gasped. Yes, indeed, they had kept their talents hidden beneath layers of self-doubt, but now, Glundin reminded them that even the most unremarkable things had place and purpose, like that mushrooms they all consumed without consideration—they were thriving!
The troll squinted, slowly digesting this entirely new philosophy. “I can’t eat trash!” Grubbleshanks huffed, puffing air rather violently. “It makes me gassy!”
“Well, that may finally be the silver lining we need,” Glundin replied dryly, a small, begrudging smile creeping across his face. “How else would you help create such a festive atmosphere?”
The villagers burst into applause, their appreciation for Glundin’s unflinching mockery woven with the tendrils of warmth that surged through their hearts. Perhaps they were demoralized, perhaps they had accepted their mortality—but by Jove, they were going to recognize that futility could be wrapped in brilliant absurdity.
Once again, Grubbleshanks failed to understand the flow of world-weariness swirling about him, stammering, “What do you want, then?”
“I want you to unleash your worst upon us, troll!” Glundin declared, defying both fate and good reason. “Let the shadows of despair spill forth! Let none escape the squalor of our acknowledged mediocrity!”
And that, dear reader, is how the Festival of Hopeless Endeavors came to be transformed into a gladiatorial arena of absurdity, where trolls and dwarves roamed, thick in camaraderie, surrounded by an ever-growing festival of blighted hopes and dreams, marshaling not a fight of valor, but a laughter that cradled the very essence of being. Glundin’s reluctant heroism hid well behind layers of rather enjoyable self-mockery, strange bonds were forged, and so it was that Dourstone found itself more alive than any pessimistic dwarf could have imagined.
Among the ruins of squandered despair, they discovered the most curious of treasures: joy—a sentiment that danced among the dreary, held up by the most unlikely of champions, for sometimes the greatest victories arrive in the most unexpected forms of absurdity.