Under the bridge it is dark, no light to hurt his eyes and to scar his skin. It is quiet, the soft trickle of water sounds calming him. The stone arch that stands over his head feels secure, strong. His home is rooted in giant foundation stones, and that strength works it's way up into the bridge, making him feel safe.
When the light begins to sap, and the orange glow recedes over the skyline, he takes a moment to appreciate the beauty of the dark swirling water. The eddies of gloss black occasionally ripple as fish rise to pluck mayflies off the perfect blackness of the river-surface.
He grunts, and goes back into his home; formed by an alcove in the arch of the bridge. He goes into his larder, finds some pasta that he likes the smell of, then takes it over to his pot.
He lights his fire, the pungent smoke of wet wood drifting out of his small abode. He found the strong smell comforting, covering the rot of the corpses strung up at the entrance. Putting the old, cold pasta into the pot, he stirs hopefully.
He tastes it, to test whether it is warm enough. It is lukewarm, but the fire is dying down and he doesn't want to go out to get more wood tonight, so he takes the pasta out of the pot, puts in on a surprisingly clean plate, then shuffles out of his alcove.
Climbing on the top of the bridge, he admires the stars, or rather, the black spaces between the stars.
Several villagers have fallen for last nights pasta, and they sit in huddled groups, held by long wire nooses. The troll takes his club, and -with a professional air- he cracks each ones over the head, and they slump to the floor one by one. He doesn't like the screaming.
He takes the half eaten pasta from the last night, and replaces it with todays steaming plate, setting up the snares again.
The sun is beginning to rise, and he hastens back under the bridge with his meat, to sleep the day out, happy as a troll can be.