Kalrek had wandered off to take his much‑needed piss, humming to himself as if the forest were an audience. Around him, the landscape stretched in eerie beauty—the roots rose like twisted ribs, moss shimmered faintly in the gloom, and pale fungi pulsed like watchful eyes, giving the whole glade an uncanny, expectant air.
"Finally," he muttered, "a moment of peace for a hero." He stretched his arms like he was limbering up for battle, then gave the nearest tree a mock salute.
As he looked around, his eyes landed on a tiny beetle no bigger than his thumb, perched on a blade of grass that he had chosen.
He crouched slightly, squinting at it, "Well, would you look at that? A baby beetle. Can you believe I'm out here hunting your terrifying uncles and aunts?"
…
…
"Don't take it personally, little guy. It's them, not you."
…
…
