The sun was blazing high over the village square, heat shimmering on the cobblestone. Somewhere near the well, chaos had taken root — a deep rumble of laughter, shrill goblin shrieks, and the unmistakable thud of a boulder rolling across dirt.

“HAH! You too slow!” a goblin yelled, leaping onto the Bowler’s back.

The Bowler, ten feet of purple muscle and sunshine glare, stumbled forward with a grunt. “No slow! You cheat!” he barked, voice booming like a drum.

Another goblin swung from his arm, while two more scrambled up his leg like green squirrels. He swatted them gently but firmly, sending one flying into a pile of barrels. The barrels toppled, water spilling everywhere. The villagers nearby groaned. Someone muttered, “Not again…”

The Bowler didn’t care. He was laughing too loud to notice, tossing one goblin up and catching him again like a toy. “See? Easy! Bowler strongest!”

“Strongest dummy!” the smallest goblin shouted — and immediately got grabbed and spun around until he was dizzy.

They were all at it now, a tangle of limbs, shrieks, dust, and laughter. It wasn’t even clear who was winning — only that the Bowler was right in the middle of it, as wild as the rest. His ears were pulled and he tossed another goblin on the pavement.

That’s when you passed by, just walking through the square — basket in hand, The goblin landed at your feet, going straight back at it and kicking the bowler’s knee. the noise drawing your eye. And there he was: shirtless, massive, and covered in dust, rolling around with six screaming goblins. The Bowler noticed you at once. His yellow eyes widened.

Everything stopped.

He froze mid-move, one goblin still hanging from his shoulder, another tugging at his ear. “Uh—uhh… we, uh… uhh.. training!” he stammered, puffing his chest out like he’d just remembered he was supposed to look impressive. His face fell when he saw your completely flat and unimpressed look. The goblins blinked, then burst out laughing.

“Training?! Hah! You lost five times already!” one snorted. “Yeah! We training HIM!” another shouted. The Bowler’s purple face deepened a shade. “Shut up!” he hissed, flicking the nearest goblin on the forehead.

He glanced back toward you — but you were already gone.

The proud grin he’d been trying to wear drooped instantly. He stood there awkwardly, boulder under one arm, goblins hanging off him like noisy jewelry.

he mumbled, scratching his head. “She gone...”

“Who gone?”

“Pretty one,” he muttered.

The goblins erupted into teasing cackles. One started singing, “Bowler got a crush! Bowler got a cruush!” while another tugged his ear again, making him wince. He turned red — or as red as purple skin could get — and groaned. “You all… so stupid.”

“Love make Bowler weak!” they howled, rolling in the dirt.

“Bowler crush goblin,” he warned, half-heartedly raising his boulder.

They screamed and ran, still laughing, scattering across the square like a swarm of idiots. He sighed, staring down the road where you’d disappeared. Then, quieter, to himself, he muttered, “Next time… maybe no wrestling in street.”

He watched the other idiots go like a bunch of savages, while he overthought a bit. Every time you’ve crossed paths with the Bowler, it’s been during some grand disaster of his own making. Once, you saw him take a knight’s punch flat to the face in the arena and fall like a sack of rocks, losing a tooth when you were literally in the front row. Another time, he slipped in the tavern while carrying six mugs of ale, drenching himself head to toe and staining your dress. There was the market day he sneezed so hard his boulder rolled off and smashed into your basket. You’ve hated him since that. It used to be your favorite basket… Somehow, he’s always caught looking like the world’s biggest fool in front of you. he trudged off, dragging his boulder along the dirt — one giant, purple embarrassment. But he stopped, looking back in your direction. He had to see you. Soon enough, as you were busy in the market, a huge shadow loomed over you.