To the west, there was the Pale Moon Forest, home to fairies, nymphs, meadow goblins, and other creatures deemed too irritatingly twee to live anywhere else. To the east were the Plains of Gylph, home to some of the more marginalized elf tribes, as well as herds of the endangered Big Booty Buffalo, which had been laughed out of existence everywhere else. Barely visible, far to the north, was the golden capital city of Castle, from which they had all departed months before on their (now completed) quest.
Kit, the Flying Boy Archer, described a jubilant loop above their heads, wooping as he went. Gurtong, the dwarf, leaned on his axe and glowered at Kit, the other people in his party, the beautiful view below, and his own reflection in the axe blade.
"Let me conjure lights to guide us on our journey down," said Anton, the Useless Wizard. He waved his wand enthusiastically and everyone in the party went completely blind. "Oops," he said.
"It's ok, I can still lead us out of here," said Tracker. "I'm a tracker."
"The blindness should wear off in just a few hours," said Anton helpfully. "Really sorry about that."
As they descended, Orf sang a traveling song of his people:
O the bowels of my heart
And the soles of my hands
Shiver with the glory
Of sweet Kingdom of The Land
O Please see us on our way
God of mountains Zarsangliff
O God of plains Byixcil
And great Kernponiphoniff-
-finolaxo, I offer praise...
He was too out of breath from singing the name to continue.
Yes, it's the perfect form for surviving a car crash. But it's also the perfect form for so much more, like surviving the trauma of reading any news headline in 2016.
It's just a little confusing, is all.
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