“We are gathered here tonight in the sight of the moon and the trees to join together Nob and Hob in trolly matrimony. Have you both come here freely and without reservation to give yourselves to each other in marriage?”
“Yes, your stoniness!” “Where else would I be but with my Nobikins?” “I told you, don’t call me that in public!” “Oh, but it’s our wedding, Nobikins!”
“Harumph! Back to the matter at hand… Love is patient, love is kind. It stores up wrongs done to the other to wait for an opportune time for revenge. It reserves the best haunch at the cookfire for the other. It boasts of its deeds of maraudery to prove its constant provision for the other. It never trusts, and never leaves a window open to the dawn.”
“My little Hobby, oh the raids I’ve made to make our conjugal…” “NOB! Not in front of the family! What about the trollikins?!” “They know we’re getting married, for stone’s sake!”
“If we could… Nob, do you take this troll to be your wife? Do you promise to steal for her, tell her she’s ugly, and shelter her from the light all the nights of your life?” “Oh, your stoniness, my word on it!”
“Hob, do you take this troll to be your husband? Do you promise to never season his cookpot, to always muddy his loincloth, and to keep the cave dark for him all the nights of your life?” “Of course I do, my Nobikins! Oh, this is so romantic! Oh dear, I’m going to spoil my mudbath now!”
“If you’ll excuse me, your mudbath will last a moment longer. Trolls and trollikins, I now present to you husband and wife! Nob, you may kiss the bride.” “Now, my Nobikins, don’t tear the veil!”
The Word Worker 