Now withé one swift sweeping gesture as to what would make a normal man being bow low like subservient daffodil flower plant to the eastern winds on Mount Blumpet blown clear o’er the rollingly tall grass Plains of Tash’ierm, yellowed with the seasons blight, and down through Valley Brusslemore till it reached he Forest werewhich now we stood and were tipped forward. Arose she did the Queen Elaine for how solong had she been monarchess o’er these fairey folk of the woods I cannot say but I do for a certainly know the Book of Days Gone By was written seven and several long centuries before the birth of Acron the Desolator, He who smoted the world up and down and back again. She spoke with a faintly voice reminiscent of honeysuckle pixie dust to our ears and we, that is to say Drasdenofagus and myself, did listen with great intent and did obey her every whim with eager minds therefore to come. And she spoke:
“Hark the Harold cometh hare. Enough of a bore t’would spark an interest yet not with thee. But another task have you unfulfilled yet still. Where a wick Beast-Man roameth and ravage thee land far further away than thee spreaded winged eagle canst fly. There shalt thee findeth thee Quagzor, ravageth and tarnish him till life and soul departeth from betwixt his body and his being. Then there will cometh the hare.”
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