The elf and the dwarf, tired of the journey (not that the elf would ever let on that he felt it in his feet, but every now and then he landed full on the ground to give his body a chance to rest instead of the incessant pretending to glide across the ground that costs so much thermodynamic energy and is frankly just show-offish nonsense), decided to picnic by the river bank they had come across.
It was a lovely spring day where the sun shone brightly in a cloudless sky, and the birds were chirping on the branches of the trees that had been placed by the river by the landscapers hired for this gig. A few of the birds were placed there too by the animal wranglers, but new AI models would simplify that soon.
They sat by the river’s edge, and were delighted to see what had been provided for them:
“Pass me that fruit,” said the elf, as the dwarf began munching on a loaf of bread.
“Sure,” said the dwarf, handing him a green, glowing round object that to the dwarf signified radioactive danger, but to the elf meant a cool, refreshing piece of fruit.
“Got any sausages over there?” asked the dwarf of the now aggrieved-looking elf.
“Are you kidding?” he replied. “After the animal right’s people protested, you think you’re going to find sausage? Besides, you told me once what’s in that, and I still find it shocking to think on it.”
“Yeah, well, you try stumping around in these boots without a nip of protein now and then. Besides, whenever have you folks cared about pigs anyway? I’ve never heard of pigs in your lore, just bunnies and foxes and birds. You probably think pigs are stupid anyway.”
“On the contrary,” said the elf as he waved his arm, “three of them were quite clever once with a wolf.”
“I thought those were the three pixies,” said the dwarf.
“They were, originally, but all that ‘hair of my chinny chin chin’ bit caused our Ministry of Reality to point out it must have been pigs all along.”
“Whatever you say, bub,” munched the dwarf on a particularly delicious group of nuts that those environmental types substituted for sausage.
“Welp,” said the elf as he leaped to his feet — only because the script required it, but his calves were aching. “Ready to move on?”
“Sure thing,” said the dwarf as he rose to his feet. “What’ll we do with these baskets and the trash?”
“It will be dissolved into the ground and air like mist on a breezy day,” said the elf.
“Ah,” said the dwarf, “gotcha. Craft Services.”