The knock on the door came again.
Gork crashed to his knees, reverberations echoing around the rock walls. The blow would have killed almost any other species. He was proud of the lass. She was coming along nicely, barely 60 years old and already stronger than most of the other trolls in the tribe. His musings were cut short by another crunching blow from Grekka’s club, this time belting him square between the shoulder blades. He fell forward to all fours and shook his dazed head. Enough was enough. He wasn’t going to be beaten by a girl, even if she was his daughter. He swept his granite arm backwards into her knees and she staggered sideways giving him a moment to heave himself back to his feet, using his club as a crutch,. They faced each other, concentration etched into every stony line of her face, her jaw jutting squarely.
The knocking at the door became insistent.
They circled. Gork’s studded wooden club swinging lightly at his side. Her eyes flicked briefly to his brow signaling her intentions. The inexperience of youth.The hefty weapon arced, as he had anticipated, towards the side of his head; his own splintered against her side just below her arm. She staggered off balance, her left foot lifted as she teetered on her right. He was distracted at the sight of her toes. She had been carefully cultivating mosses and lichens of different colours on each toenail. Where did she get these feminine notions? The offensive foot caught Gork under the chin, snapping his head backwards. Unexpectedly limber, he thought, as he tipped, slow motion, bouncing heavily on his shoulders, his scuffed leather helmet rolling away on it’s giant spiral ram horns. It had been a long time since he had last been de-helmeted. He looked into the face looming over him. An ecstatic smile split her face and Gork noticed for the first time in the dimness of the cavern that she had made up her face too. Enamel paint if he was any judge; fuschia for the lips and bitter chocolate for the eyelids. He shook his head with disgust but conceded the battle.
“Aye lass. You won this one, I’ll answer the door. Your turn next time”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it shall we?” She heaved the club to her shoulder and headed back to the couch.