It wasn’t a fine day when the merfolk stormed the shore. They didn’t go very far before they met an army of angry pixies that threw rocks at them while they threw rocks back. It was ridiculous the way they dodged and threw like school children. It all played out like a game of capture the flag. The pixies ducked in under the flailing arms and fins and clobbered the queen, pulling her hair until she screamed “uncle”. They hoisted an abnormally large conch shell trophy up into air and climbed over it, desecrating it in any way they could. The merfolk turned away and dragged themselves back to sea limply.

It came as no surprise, however, when the bruises on the elves ballooned into orange goiters that itched and made them hop around and yell. It was cursed to foul a sacred object.

They squirmed and screeched and pushed it toward the sea. To be rid of the curse, they had to be rid of the object. But just then a giant came loping over the beach and picked it up, swatting the tiny elves away like flies.