Author's Note: my life is over.

"No, no, no. Let me tell you something. You haven't seen the likes of a great warrior until you've seen me in action."

Two elves eyed each other, and then eyed the repulsive clodhopper before them. The handsome, pointy eared men had entered Terran Forrest territory attracting very little attention—with the exception of all black female cats within the vicinity—mostly due to their dashing good looks and the cloaks they wore to hide their ears, for everyone in Faloran was good-looking, and it would have certainly been a surprise if anyone wasn't.

Even the repulsive clodhopper trying to hold their attentions wasn't a bad looker himself. A livewire with a smug smile. He had probably heard their announcement a few days ago that they needed new recruits to journey with them to find a leader, or, more vaguely, The Chosen One, who would eventually aid them in saving the world. As tradition would have it, they would need to traverse several lands before reaching the base of the Mountain of Shame, where a singing blade (a little off-key, some rumor) lured heroes from all over to wield it once more.

This livewire didn't seem like much of anything. Throughout all of the Terran Forest, he was reputable for being a scruffy good-for-nothing twenty-something year old. Talentless, disagreeable, lazy and vain. And a compulsive liar.

"The name's Kyle," the good-for-nothing crowed. He then took one of the cloaked men's hands, who had an equally disagreeable look to him, and shook it vigorously. "You're going to need someone like me to help you save the world."

The elf sighed and pulled his hand away. "Here comes another hopeful, Turnip."

The other elf, Turnip, said to Kyle:

"Kyle, let me tell you something. You really can't get famous doing this line of work. And you barely make ends meet—because all the money you supposedly and irrationally incur from Rabid Beasts Who Have No Jobs is usually spent on weapons, rations, and bar tabs—"

"Turnip, that doesn't help—"

"And even if you see a great woman you like, she will probably want you to settle down, which is something you can't possibly do when you're saving the world from impending doom and all. It's rough. If nothing else bothers you, think of the women, Kyle. All the women you won't be able to marry or date."

"What?" Kyle craned his neck.

Turnip paused. He looked at his companion, who was fighting off a black cat from crawling up his pant leg.

"I am not a scratching post," the elf growled. The cat mewed.

Turnip then remembered something that an excerpt from the ancient Big Book of Useless Information could have told anyone else. The excerpt, paraphrased here (for it is actually several million words long), simply states that that:

"There are several languages in Viraldi that miraculously have no relation to each other whatsoever, so finding an origin language is 'near impossible'.

Colloquial phrases used on one half of the world are bound to be mistaken for polite misgivings on the other half of the world. Take, for instance, the Quinchu Terran forest territory word for flower: 'Kakadel.' Halfway around the world, for the Terran Forest people of Tran, this would be a considered as a term for: 'I am sorry for eating your baby.' Of course, all universal translations—rustic, aristocratic, collective, desert or even underwater—are made in an unnamed language brought by a Celestial god in a Mythril-plated Ship Who Crash-landed Thousands of Years Ago (title exacted from "Useless Myths and Folklores").

This Celestial god Who Crash-landed Thousands of Years Ago in his Mythril-plated Ship called the unnamed language 'English,' but as not to offend the Underwater Kingdom of Sapfa, it is referred to as 'The Unnamed Language' (in English), and the script used to make the formation he called the 'alphabet' is known as 'The Unnamed Language's Characters,' also referred to in this matter as not to offend the Sapfa, who happen to control the water flow of the Seven Glowing Canals and a good part of Viraldi's commerce."

This, Turnip figured about halfway through the excerpt, could account for Kyle's misunderstanding. He had lost his train of thought, and tried ardently to remember what he was going to say in the most appropriate and universally accepted language by most capitalists' standards. He stood there for many moments, all weight shifted onto one foot, in a thinker pose.

"Oh!" Turnip beamed. "Let me explain this in a language even someone as stupid-looking as you could compre—"

"Wait, wait. What language were you just speaking?"

"It doesn't matter anymore," Turnip said.

"But I want to know," Kyle insisted.

Turnip waved his hand over Kyle's face. "It no longer matters."

Kyle paused. "But I want to know."

Turnip turned to his partner, who had successfully kicked off one of the cats. "Kain. Our powers don't work on him."

"I heard you." Kyle said.

"What?" asked Kain, steadily declining into depression.

"Kain," Turnip repeated, this time making sure to speak in their dialect, "My powers of manipulation don't work on this man. Perhaps he is more than what he seems."

"Says you," Kain huffed. "The only one who has ever been successfully subjected to your manipulation powers is York. And he is a dog."

"Well, I think I manipulated him quite well." Turnip pressed his two forefingers together and pouted.

"You used a bone," Kain said.

"By any means," Turnip insisted.

"I'm irritated," Kain said.

"I can see that."

The two elves looked at Kyle, who had started poking a hole in a tree next to him with a twig he had picked up off the ground.

"Ahem," Kain cleared his throat.

Kyle looked at them. "Well, take it or leave it? I'm probably the only one with enough balls to actually go with you."

"He's got a point," Turnip said.

"I know." Kain then sighed, switching dialects: "Well, you need to sign this enchanted contract then. In any event you escape without permission, you will be struck down by a bolt of lightning."

"Okay!" Kyle chimed.

Women had eventually crowded around Kain while he was conjuring the contract. "Don't touch me."

"I'll gladly take them off your hands," Turnip smiled gleefully. He waved a hand over them. "I will take all of you off his hands."

The group of women smiled and started nestling against Turnip, who turned to Kain. "See? They do work."

"Don't talk to me. Sign this contract, Kyle the Good-for-Nothing. Then, we will start our journey three days from now. Until then, we will stock up on provisions and kill Rabid Beasts Who Have No Jobs to acquire some gold pieces."

"Yeah, yeah," Kyle said. He signed the contract hurriedly and grossly illegibly. What should have been "Kyle" turned out as "Sdrfgh," who happened to be an old mendicant living in the mountains not too far off.

In any event Kyle tried to escape from the party or the mission at hand, Sdrfgh would be the inadvertent, unfortunate recipient of any lightning bolts.