The market was not as busy as usual, thanks to the cold. Serpho himself never knew what trigged the sudden spells of frigidness that marked Derse's climate, but he certainly knew that he wasn't fond of them. The cold made his horns ache, and he wasn't about to lower himself to putting on those horn…mitten…things his carapace had knitted him the last time it had been like this. Real trolls didn't need horn mittens.

"I wonder if my horns will grow icicles…" Serpho mused aloud to the open air. It wasn't as if he had any customers before him. The bread and pastries stall his carapace had him manning in his place was as unpopulated as most any of the other stalls occupying the market space. Well, that was save for the one with the soup. They were packed. Lucky bustards.

Under normal circumstances, Serpho would be there himself, cup of steaming soup in hand. He'd have bartered a loaf of bread for it, or some such. It wasn't entirely uncommon for the different carapaces (or in Serpho's case, trolls) to trade surplus goods at the end of a work day. But right now, he was staying put, for his carapace's state. Serpho would man the market, while his crippled caretaker took care of the shop. In some ways, he supposed it was better than being cooped up in the bakery like he normally was.

But then again, the bakery was actually warm. Unlike out here, where he was freezing his horns off. Those horn mittens were beginning to hold appeal. His will was weakening.

"If someone does not come and buy something on the count of ten, I'll leave," Serpho reasoned, aloud and to no one, once again. "One. I'll simply tell Dad that it started snowing. Two. In the market only. Aaaannndddd, I had to flee, lest I die. Because snow could kill an unwitting and unprepared troll like myself. Three. Conveniently, however, I was accosted by a beautiful-slash-handsome troll who required my assistance, and I had to rescue him-slash-her. Four. Whereupon, I went on an exciting adventure, had sloppy make outs, and returned back the bakery to do…something not exciting. Five."

That was more than likely not going to work and he knew it. How tragic. All right, fine, he could play hard ball.

"Revision: I will tell Dad that I was sold out of cookies. Six."

When Serpho's circumstances did not change, the young troll finally conceded defeat. He just wanted to start heading home, by now. And there were only two ways to get rid of all of his cookies: He could either eat them all himself (which he knew from experience resulted…badly), or he could give them away. The latter it was. After taking a deep breath, the troll shouted out into the market place,

"WHO WANTS FREE COOKIES!?"