The man at the pile

Out by the outskirts of the city, there exists a kindly troll. Wearing thick greshire overalls, and with a permenant easy smile and noxious smell, this troll mans the Natare mulch pile.   There's always been someone at the pile, turning and shredding those matters too noisome to exist in the polite society of upper Natare. The pile is always full of the good mulch, the stuff that makes fussy plants thrive and hungry plants sated, and the journey to just outside the city is more than worth the effort of borrowing a barrow and making your way to such a 'joyous' place.   The man at the pile is always ready to share a story or a drink strong rich tea always brewing off a camp fire-flower. People trade trinkets and bits and bobs for a barrow and then the man at the pile makes his way to the night market to get what he needs.   He is the muscle on the turning fork, filling your barrow with thick dark mulch even as you question why anyone would pick this back breaking task as their calling.