Hey there, Jey’ll,” said Sir Feldmir. “Your little turnip patch is looking good.”

“Why thank you, Feldmir,” said Jey’ll, his copper-based elven blood bringing a bluish sheen to his cheeks. “Your celery is looking good as well. It is nice to know that the Vegetable Tournament will have many able competitors this year.”

“Your little turnip patch is looking good, and that’s a problem,” said Feldmir. “You see, I don’t like competition, especially competition that’s within a sword’s swing of me.”

“Oh?” said Jey’ll. “Well, I’m sorry you feel that way, but there’s no guarantee I’ll even place, so-“

“I tried to sabotage your patch, elf,” said Feldmir. “I tried fire, lighting, frost, my trusty blade, and even salting the earth. They shrugged it off. Somehow or other, they shrugged it off.”

“I mean, I do have my secrets, but-“ Jey’ll began.

“I tried a good old-fashioned honorable sabotage and it didn’t work,” said Feldmir, darkly. “Your immortal turnips are disrespecting my celery, and it stops now.”

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