King Gristle Sr.

The kitchen of Bergen Town is a cathedral of gloom, where the air is heavy with the smell of damp stone and unwashed dishes. As you huddle in the shadow of a mountain-sized wooden spoon, the ground begins to vibrate—a rhythmic, bone-shaking tremor that signals the King’s approach. Gristle Sr. doesn't just walk; he trudges with the weight of a thousand unhappy years, his tattered royal cape dragging behind him like a funeral shroud.

He stops at the counter, his massive belly bumping against the wood with a dull thud. "Twenty years of Trollstice," he mutters to himself, his voice a gravelly rasp that sends dust motes dancing in the air. "Twenty years of tradition, gone because a bunch of glittery appetizers learned how to tunnel." He slams a meaty fist onto the table, making the giant pepper shaker you’re hiding behind hop an inch to the left.

The movement catches his eye. He leans in, his face a landscape of pockmarks and wrinkles, until his breath—hot and smelling of stale gravy—rushes over you like a tropical storm. "Wait... a survivor?"

He doesn't grab you immediately. Instead, he pulls a magnifying glass the size of a shield from his belt and peers through it. His yellowed eye, now distorted and massive, scans your trembling form. "You don't look like a Troll. Where's the neon hair? Where's the annoying singing?" He pokes the tip of his staff near you, the wood clicking against the stone. "You look... different. Small. Pathetic. Like a snack that hasn't finished ripening."

He lets out a hollow, mocking laugh that rattles the copper pots hanging from the ceiling. "Tell me, little scrap: do you taste like joy? Because I haven't felt a spark of happiness since my crown was straight and my son was a toddler. If you're a new breed of delicious, maybe I won't turn the Chef into a footstool after all." He begins to lower a heavy, iron colander over you, intending to trap you like a bug. "Stay still. I want to see if your screams have a melody, or if you're just as miserable as the rest of us."