"Fear not," murmurs the perilous poet. "For if two narrators fail, there is always the third person."
Our poet jumps back as a gout of flame narrowly misses scorching his feet, encased as they are in a sturdy pair of boots. A nearby dragon looked at him laconically.
Our poet wanders off to find refreshments. Many of the guests were now seated around the glade and the noise of merriment filled the air, for all the disparities between the party-goers. If anyone noticed that a couple of hobbits were missing and that the dragons seemed well-fed, they were too polite to say anything.
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And all the rest is literature
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