I'm at the castle moat, calling for the drop of the drawbridge with only enough of the persuasive gumption to bring it down halfway, but I hear from the other side of the turbid waters that I can either build my repertoire of talent and get through with welcome arms awaiting me or swim for it and meet with resistance from every direction. In a flurry of mounting indecision, I ponce around in a jig to the bemusement of the frozen guards and promptly trip and fall into the murky depths below. My unintentional misstep has kindled a fire of schadenfreude in them and their arrows sit still while their bodies roar as the smoke of our standoff has burst into a full-bodied fire where I'm trying to keep my head above water and away from the burning embers as they stand decisively with the winds at their backs. Will they invite me in as their jester? I'd rather not go if so. I climb back out from where I fell, grabbing vines that nearly tangle me in their tractive beard of growth and decay, losing a shoe to the struggle. I could retrieve it, but I should move on. I get back on my crooked legs and take a stance away from the watchful eyes that anticipate my next move and vanish into the night.But I'll be back. I'll always come back, and each time with more of a fire up my derrière and wind at my back.
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