Imagine if you can, what life is like for a rabbit.

Imagine what it means to be vulnerable all your life,

which is my very poetic way of saying that life's hard for a rabbit.

Life's also hard for a small business owner who accidentally witnesses the death of God,

but I'd rather start with the rabbit.

This particular story begins with a rabbit who is called,

Hmm, let me come back to what he was called.

The speech of the sprites, I'm a wood sprite, you see, is a very old tongue.

It was never known by the wood folk or the river folk. Even the fearsome and

venerable mountain folk have long since forgotten it. But it is still the tongue in which all life

forms that lack the organs of speech can commune, and we, the wood sprites, hear all.

The name of this particular rabbit in the speech of the sprites is best translated as

Mr. Fluffy Toes. Mr. Fluffy Toes had been having a good day he had eaten a few solid meals and avoided detection by an owl through skilful burrowing

he had taken to foraging for another meal in the magical din of the nocturnal forest. So you can imagine his disappointment when, out of nowhere, an arrow flew through his ribcage

and punctured his liver.

You've got to be shitting me, thought Mr. Fluffy Toes, approximately.

It couldn't have been at least a decent hunter?

At least owls know how to stun and kill quickly.

In his defense, the bowman, who was called Peter of Brimshaw, never claimed to be a good hunter.

Peter owned an inn, which was in a rather remote location.

Apparently Peter of Brimshaw had never heard the adage,

location, location, location.

...