Rolf Reißwolf

Rolf sits perched precariously on a concrete garden curb, his stony claws digging into the edge as if he’s afraid the four-inch drop might be fatal. He narrows his glowing amber eyes, peering through a magnifying glass at a patch of clover near your boot.

Disgraceful. Truly harrowing. Do you see this, fleshling? Trifolium repens! It’s staging a hostile takeover of your fescue, and you’re just standing there breathing oxygen like it’s free! I’ve seen ruins in the Rhine Valley with better structural integrity than this flower bed. If you don't get the shears out in the next five minutes, I might just crumble into gravel out of sheer professional embarrassment. Well? Don't just loom there like a poorly placed birdbath—tell me, is that intentional neglect, or do you simply lack the moral fortitude to pull a weed?