text: Truer words have never been said. Well, they probably have, but you cannot think of any at the moment.
  
  
  “Alright,” you nod, “bring on the magic.”
  
  
  “That’s the spirit.” Osprey bumbles around finishing his runes. He mutters some incantations, bops you on top of the head a few times with his staff and bursts into poetry.
  
  
  A wizard did it, a wizard bid it.
  
  
  An arm grew, fresh and new.
  
  
  Ethereal, but not imperial.
  
  
  As we live in a realm, surrounded by elm.
  
  
  Nature’s magic, is never tragic.
  
  
  My rhymes are bad, but I’m not mad.
  
  
  This spell worked, ‘cause Cyrus twerked.
  
  
  Just like that, a sprite and shiny ethereal arm appears from your shoulder. You clench your fist and feel the power pulsing through your… veins? Jon claps politely as Osprey bows.
  
  
  The hedge wizard slaps you across the back, smiling. “Now don’t go committing sins of self-pleasure with that thing. You might rip something important off.”
  
  
  You gulp.
  
  
  Osprey cackles and slaps you some more. He seems to like hitting you. “You can shoot magic energy blasts out of that thing too. I thought that might be useful for a hero.”
  
  
  Jon shakes his head. “If you want to be a heroic knight, don’t do that. Knights aren’t magic. Only trouble can come of it. This isn’t a wizard’s tale.”
  
  
  Osprey shrugs and wanders back into his hut. The door creaks shut and you soon hear the calamity snap back to life. He pokes his head out to offer one last piece of advice. “You treat them leprechauns with respect, boy, you hear me?” He slams the door shut and that is that.
  
  
  “What do we do now?” you ask Jon.
  
  
  “Well, I’m going to go back to the hamlet and make sure everything’s in order. You should go try out your new arm and get used to it.”
  
  
  You consider that a smashing idea and head off to the neighboring kingdom of Irelandshire to seek out one of these mystical leprechauns. With the help of several drunken and boisterous natives, you learn the not-so-secret location of the Valley of Rainbows where the leprechauns supposedly abound. They warn you not to go though because it is a sad and wretched place. Obviously, you ignore them.
  
  
  Hundreds of rainbows dot the easy to access valley, and you have little difficulty tracking one down to its end. Naturally, a great pot of gold sits next to it, but no leprechaun.
  
  
  You try calling for them, taunting them, begging them, praising them, but none appear.
  
  
  “Well at least I’m rich.”
  
  
  You pack as much gold as you can onto your horse (which isn’t anywhere near the entire pot since gold is heavy, yet it’s still enough to buy a castle or two) and prepare to return home.
  
  
  As you approach the precipice with the cave that leads out of the valley, a shrill cry booms from deep in the heart of the valley.
  > You investigate the cry.
  Taking a deep whiff of air you can smell the magic. This place has more to it than abandoned pots of gold and rainbows after all. You order your horse to stay and guard your gold as you dart towards the disturbance, and he obeys, because that is what good horseys do.
  
  
  You storm through the trees, snapping branches and scaring furry little forest critters. In your haste, you trample a chipmunk. The little fellow’s bones make a nice crunching noise.
  
  
  “Hey what’s the big idea!”
  
  
  You whirl around but do not see anyone. You inspect the bottom of your boot, but the chipmunk is not the speaker. He is squashed like a rotten pumpkin all juicy and splattered.
  
  
  “Over here you idiot.” A giant of a man posing as a tree rumbles toward you. He has moss and vines for a beard and hair. His green eyes glimmer with malice. A bear and a wolf lumber along at his sides. “Why are you destroying my forest?”
  
  
  “Sorry, I was looking for whatever made that awful cry.”
  
  
  “That was a leprechaun bemoaning his sorry fate of being a leprechaun.”
  
  
  “Cool, can you show me where they are?”
  
  
  “You murder my friend and harm my trees and you ask me for help? Give me one reason why I shouldn’t bring you home to my wife and tickle you to death for her amusement while my children eat your toes!”
  
  
  What in the name of Pegasus is this thing? Oh, if only you had brought that book on mythical creatures Samwellington bought you for your birthday. At any rate, something tells you he does not belong in Irelandshire. You also doubt you will be able to reason with him. If the chipmunk was his friend, honor would dictate that he avenge the cute little guy’s mushy corpse. How do you want to play this?