After days of intense training and musculation, he was able to swing his pickaxe like no one before and was reducing the mountain to dust.
Yet he knew what was awaiting, he felt it's pulse with every hit, it's suffering with every new open vein, spilling ore like blood.
Deeper and deeper he went, in quest of rare minerals, of the purest ones to become rich like in his dreams.
His greed was leading to certain death and he could feel it in his bones. He cracked open another giant geode, a green liquid started to flow along the wall of the cave.
As it started to corrode his boots, a foul vapor emerged and blurred his eyes. He took a few step back and lost his balance, felt on his back.
The earth started to shake, scared and shivering he started to cral back. A shadow began to fall upon him, his last vision was a huge green hand.
His skull cracked open like the geode did, blood for ore, or so the elders say.
Generation after generation, hunters tried to hunt the beast, eventually hitting it with their arrows. Yet they knew the mine was forsaken.
After centuries, the eleventh son of the first troll hunter finally pierced the skull of the troll with an arrow.
He finally came back to the village, holding the bloody corpse.
The loot will be well used and the first miner will not be forgotten.
