His feet, then knees
sank into the loam
as if he or it were
made of mist. With
a barbarian shout,
he sprang antlers
from his forehead
and grappled, clung, climbed
his way out of the trap. "Nothing
will delay my quest!" he stormed,
his face aping the thundercloud pout
of a toddler. His enemies, since
there had never been many
of them (he had never
been any good at
making enemies) fled.
He strode forth, his
resolve as fluid and coursing
as ever. There before him,
he stopped. The object
of his quest. What the hell
was it? "This better not
be one of those quests
where you have to go
on another quest to find
out the secret of the thing
you got the quest
before," he warned.
Thus warned, he set about
figuring out how to pick
this thing up and transport it
back to the quest-giver. She
would know.
She was wise. "Damn it!"
she cried. "What the hell
is that?" "Uh," he explained,
lamely. "The object
of the quest?"
No.
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