((Forgive me, it is a bit more backstory than slice of life. But I think it’s good!))
Arathi Highlands was quiet. A soft wind blew through the grasses of the plains, a couple of orange-colored raptors striding through the long grass. The soft footfalls of the young troll girl could be heard, but just barely. The green-haired menace, her mossy green skin wet from a dunk in the pond, padded her way softly toward the village elder. He sat away from the rest of the Witherbark village, his back to the water and huts. As his dull grey eyes stared out, unseeing, his ear twitched.
“I hear you, young one. Come sit with me, Tazzy.” Taz’rea wrinkled her nose, sticking out her tongue. She hated it when the elder called her that, but she knew better than to argue. Out of all those in the village, old Anje was the only one who tolerated her. She knew she had to stay on his good side. She plopped down beside him, the little troll holding a tiny nearly destroyed doll in her hand.
“Now, child, what is it that you want?” Anje asked. He held his hand out to her, allowing her to grab his hand. Her shoulders slumped forward, and she looked defeated.
“Why don’t they like me, Anje?” the little troll asked. Anje sighed. Taz’rea looked up at him with eyes of emerald green, curiosity and pain swirling around and fighting for dominance.
“Let me tell you a story, child. A story from your birth. When you were born, you were very sick. Our witch doctors and healers worked hard day in and day out to heal you. They didn’t even know what ailed you. We all prayed to our Loa for your survival. Your ma’da, she was desperate. The tribe had heard rumors of healers in the mountains. Healers that had dealt with something similar. Your ma’da and fa’da, desperate they were. They left you in our care and ran to the mountains to find someone to save you. Only your fa’da returned. But his wounds…were too deep. He died shortly after. And miraculously, you began to get better. You never responded to any healing, but it seemed to the tribe that…the death of your parents caused your illness to subside. That is what some of them believe. Others believe you might be cursed. The rest just blame you. Unfairly, but they blame you.” The old troll shifted his weight in the grass.
“Now. Go, child. I grow weary.” Taz’rea wrinkled her nose again, the distaste written on her face. She stood up, scampering away from the elder with her doll in her hands. As she made her way back to her tiny excuse for a hut, she pulled at the dead moss hanging off the little doll. She needed to remake her, but she didn’t know how. She placed the doll gently in the fur she slept in, before creeping out of the hut and stealing toward the one who had what she needed.
The old Witherbark troll who lived in this one was away, for once. Her daughter was having her first child, and the old monessa was there with her daughter. Taz’rea crept into the hut, her ears flicking this and that as she listened for the old Witherbark to return. She quickly snatched up a needle, some thread, and some more of the pretty fabric the monessa collected, and hurried back to her own hut.
That night, Taz’rea taught herself to embroider. She had learned how to sew, by watching the old troll woman. She had made the little doll out of scraps stolen from the woman’s hut, but now, as she began to sew some colored thread into the cloth, she realized she could make it pretty! She spent all night stitching the new butterfly into the doll’s dress, excited to show Anje in the morning.
The next morning, rain fell. It drizzled onto the roof of the little hut, dripping through the cracks and onto the sleeping troll child’s face. She awoke with a start. She had to show Anje!
When she reached Anje’s hut, her ears drooped. There were trolls everywhere! She hurried back to her hut, keeping out of sight. She didn’t want to be a bother to anyone. It wouldn’t be until several hours later that she would realize that Anje was gone.