Trao snekt next to the Withhilp, fingers numb from hours onguard. How much longer would his trimbling smarkness git in his mordled hed? Mordled – huh, tru-nuf.
He had new emerged that dawn with groundlest smarks; high above in the blue S.K.Y. herns swatched from left to right, from light to dark, from briddle to braddle. Could he go again – two more, one more shifting? He was near to the ol' brakinit. His own said agin and agin, Long mins be as long hors be as long day. Jist do, end alive and be with agin.
"Take it up!" Trao's brossier Groundler sharped. "Take it up – or take you down!"
"Yeshirr!" he instinctively smarked, holding up gin. But now his trimbling was gone. He so tire.
"Mordler you is, mordler you. Alweys and agin. Mordler." Groundler spat on the near braddle.
"Yeshirr!"
"You got 2 in the Withh. All day onguard go 2, so you got 2. Thin git, Mordler." Groundler fix his eye on eye, then turn and go.
He smarked gin, pulling his fingers up to his eyes and shwiping – couldn't help the training. Once Groundler left he let go do the phew r'lax. Then him now in the Withhilp. 2 seemed an eternity up on the briddle ridge, but pressus short down on the near braddle.
He let the congrenor remove the old smorld – it crumbpeld into dust and was gone. His accesses were gently filled with congrenor essens, flowing from toe to tip. He was darnrite, the 2 was pressus. Painning gone, engy up, fingers all new. In Withhilp he could go agin and agins: ready for any, ready to go.
The essens snekt away, like alwey. Beauty! He oped his eyes in time to see congrenor start new smorld: alwey cold new, best next, like skin. And then he go out seeing whole new onguards on line, tire with the Groundler smarky word, tireout with the trimbling – all before the Withhilp for 1s or 2s. But Trao, he was mordlering no more, no-no. His hed up, take it up, he looked with no smark to go back to briddle top.
"Herns and me – let's go!" he shout, into the blue.
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