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The first time you ever see her, you're five sweeps old and very, very arrogant.
You spot her on a ship drawing close, as buoyant as yours is sunk. Her hair reaches her hips when the wind is still, and it billows out behind her like a cape when the wind is not. Her horns are tall, one pointed, one pinched. Her glasses are large and round. Your spyglass tells you all of this. And, though you know too little, you already admire her too much.
When she reaches the shore, she disembarks from her ship, setting two cardinal boots down in the sand. A mass of blue fabric (a pirate's coat, you suppose, although it seems too big for her) rests on her shoulders and pleats at her wrists. She walks to you, and you lower your spyglass.
"Do you live here by yourself?" she asks you. No formal greeting of any sort precedes it--she simply starts by commenting on how lonely you must be. Which, for good reason, is a sore subject with you.
You nod and say nothing else, finding it hard to focus your gaze on a single point. Her lips are thin and painted blue. Her nose is long and elegant. Her eyes are peculiar: the right eye has one pupil, the left, seven. She is unusual and lovely, especially up close, and you decide to forgive her for offending you on those grounds alone.
She nods in turn, her mouth forming a slight grin. "Can I play with you, then?" she asks.
And you, being the pompous adolescent that you are, confess your undying love in the most self-aggrandizing way possible.
"Young maiden," you start, "you have lit a fire in me, that cannot be put out by all the sea."
She raises and eyebrow, and she trades her smile for a look of confusion. "I'm sorry, what--"
You shush her and take one of her hands in both of yours. "My eyes have not seen beauty until you, not even when the mirror is in view. For all my looks and all the charm I own, you truly are the greatest vision known."
She wrenches her hand away from you. She looks more confused than before. "What are you getting at?"
"I'm getting at a masterful vignette," you continue, a little annoyed that she's not as entranced as you anticipated, "greater than Romeo's to Juliet. You see, I'm flushed for you beyond belief." You lower yourself down on one knee, looking up at her with your best smile. "Please, be my matesprit, and save me some grief."
She looks at you for a long time, and you at her. She doesn't say anything. You eventually stand up again and dust off your trousers, which are lousy with sand. Then you sigh, more out of disappointment in her than in yourself--how dare she not be awed by your prose?--and, as you turn to leave, she starts to giggle.
Your cheeks turn a light shade of violet. "What?" you ask, a little irritated, a little embarrassed.
Her laughter dies down after a moment, and she wipes her eyes. Her grin seems more villainous than it did at first. "That was adorable," she starts, "and I'm flattered, really, I am. But honestly, do you really think I'd be into you?"
You frown at her. "Excuse me?"
"I mean, come on." She gestures to you, all of you, with her hands. "The cape, the highlights, the accent, it's all so phony. And what the hell was with the rhyming?"
"It's iambic pentameter, you lowly peasant," you snap back, "poetry of the heart. Have you never heard of troll Shakespeare?"
"Oh, I've heard of him." The way she says it makes you think that she doesn't respect him or his works very much. You're offended on his behalf. "And if I'm a peasant, what does that make you? A slave?"
"It makes me a prince, obviously. I'm leagues above you in both behavior and blood."
She laughs again, curtly this time, and steps closer. "I'm sure you are," she muses. You scowl, and she adds, "If you're going to try to woo someone with lame poetry, though, here's a tip. Use a fucking sonnet." She pats your shoulder. "And find out their name first."
You swat her hand away. "What might yours be, then?"
"Vriska Serket," she replies. "I don't look forward to hear it coming from your mouth. Ever."
"Well, Vriska," which you stress to get a rise out of her, "you may call me Eridan Ampora."
She rolls her eyes. "If you're not going to FLARP with me like a normal troll, then I'm not calling you anything."
"I might consider it, if you do something for me first." You cross your arms. "If sonnets are so great, would you mind reciting one for me?"
She groans, but she doesn't seem all too exasperated by your request. "Fine, I'll play your little game," she concedes. "Give me a minute, though."
You nod, and she takes a few moments to collect her thoughts. As she does so, she tilts her head and rubs her chin, looking down at the ground. You think that, despite her irksome nature, she is still sort of pretty when she is quiet.
"My dear," she starts, "you are mistaken in desire. Your pan and pusher just do not connect. Your efforts to find love, desperate and dire; my interest, your rhymes do not affect." She slings an arm over your shoulders, and your scowl deepens. "You're douchey and insufferable--a prick! You don't know what fresh hell you're up against. You're ignorant, impulsive, and a dick. Quite frankly, all your 'wits' seem too condensed."
You struggle to find an insult to fire back. "Well, you're no prize, either."
She puts a finger to your lips. "Don't interrupt," she tells you quietly, and she continues. "If Romeo is who you wish to be, then Juliet is someone that you lack. The quadrant they belonged to sickens me; I think of you elsewhere--in shades of black."
You raise an eyebrow in slight surprise. You didn't think she would prefer you in any quadrant, much less one that requires each partner to think of the other as an equal.
She looks out at the vast ocean, then back at you. "The perfect line, troll Shakespeare does write of."
You wait a moment for her last line, before you realize that she wants you to prompt her for it. You clear your throat and ask, "Which is...?"
She grins again, haughty and mischievous. "'If love be rough with you, be rough with love.'"
And before you can say something in reply, she kisses you, hard and quick and neat and nonpareil all at once. Then she leaves you, boarding her ship and sailing away in the direction from which she came. She leaves you, which your cheeks flushed purple, your lips a faded cerulean, your blood boiling, and your pusher thumping out the ba-bump, ba-bump reminiscent of the iambic pentameter that you thought you had mastered by now. You stand there on the shore long after she is gone, and you think to yourself that, yes, you have found the perfect troll to hate.