The elf and the dwarf were strolling along the meadow — no, scratch that, the elf was tip-toeing along to make the dwarf feel bad, while the dwarf was wondering what union rule required him to wear heavy, clunky, sound-enhancing boots that automatically made observers say they were “stumping” along, which when you think of it is kind of a slur toward the height of dwarfs, plus he thought are you even supposed to say “dwarf” instead of “person of short stature”, and is that even accurate when he was just as tall as an orc and not a few men, and quite a few women —
So as they approached the brook that bisected the meadow, and the fish were jumping into the sunshine (which for a fish is playing with suicidal tendencies best handled by the league of piscis psychoanalysts), when a fox sipping at the brook looked up at the approaching duo.
“Good day to you, fair fox,” said the elf looking quite pleased with himself.
“Oh, good God,” thought the fox, “another banal beginning by one of those golden haired types. I’ll never get my chores done if I get into one of those long-winded, ‘I’m sorry you get treated poorly by others, but never by me’ conversations they loved to blather on about.”
“Good day it is,” said the fox with a smirk, as he quickly scampered away, vowing to send a strongly-worded letter to the paper about what nuisance elves could be, if he could find the owl who had that typewriter.
“What did say the fox?” asked the dwarf using another of those union rules that required him to mix up the order of sentences to sound “other” but really just fed that dwarfs=dopes trope that he was convinced elves spread around, but it could never be proven. Not yet.
“He wished us well, and suggested your step is heavy,” lied the elf.
“All that one squeak from?”
“You’d be amazed,” waved off the elf as he crossed the brook somehow without his feet getting wet (which is actually done with mirrors, but you have to look very, very closely, and ideally go frame by frame), and then glanced over at the dwarf pouring buckets of water from his huge boots.
Boots came back on and they continued — prancing and stumping — until they reached the village. They walked to the village green in the center, and met the men and women and children of the village gathered to celebrate some sort of festival that was one of the more obscure, plot-required festivals that nobody really felt like going, but cast rules required attendance.
Nobody was glad to see either the elf or the dwarf. The elf because their food would now be put down as coarse and unimaginative — which for a stew is kinda the point when you think about it — and the dwarf because now they would have to hear endless complaints about his journey, the way his feet felt in those boots, and mostly about his travel companion.
One young lad had a bright idea and swiftly ran to the hut of the village elder.
And thus was everyone spared an insufferable evening when the elder appeared and shouted loudly for all to hear:
“The End.”