Frog-looking bog monster little lad sat on its hollow log common to the swampy land of the Mog. It burped a swirling purple spark that sat in the humid stench and hovered just long enough for an ankle to brush past it, setting off a rush of little stars and twirls up through the hairs of an uncautious fellow traipsing through the Mog. The frog-looking thing was swooped up into the arms of a young and gentle and caring knight, who placed it just so on their head for good luck. Not a moment was spared and the knight was off again, hopping from one giant lily pad to the next.
Lurking below the lily-pads, a mudfish thing stared up and wondered When oh when will they fall? Small fellow, I beckon below. The knight could not hear the thoughts of the mudfish thing, having mastered the art of ignoring a pestilent beast of the Mogwild. The knight, they figure, speaks to whom they wish and listens to whom they wish, not a hungry fish nor a leadering outposter on the boundaries of was-home will tell them what to think and do or yell their thoughts like their spew is worth the effort. Should they, oft they, listen to the word of the wise, the world would be smaller and more terrifying. They saw what they saw in the lake’s surface tension, what they saw they did not recognize as their own, and so off they were to see other lakes and other skies unridden with beastlings and fly-things of the treetop Mog.