This damn story was supposed to be a brief fluffy thing about an elven poet smooching a lady, and now I find myself saying things to myself like, "not a family ghost as in dead person, but a family spectre as in 'a spectre is haunting Europe'," and "eidolons of possible futures playing with the big picture of elven culture like it's an RTS," and "there's not enough smooching in this,"
"elves don't have the word 'propaganda' for the same reason mermaids don't have a phrase for 'oh no, I'm all wet'. (still not enough smooching)"
They breathe the dewy air, look across the field at the Fürstens’ ranks.
“Should I know some kind of battle cry?” Pepperidge asks finally.
“Oh, there’s surprisingly little poetry in actual battle,” Longeye says sadly. “Before, usually. Some after. Lots, enough time after. During, mostly just screams.” She retrieves a smile, though it’s not as bright as usual. “I could teach you to yell Up Your Bumholes! in an old enough dialect, but we’ve not the time to correct your accent.”