The wintry winds howl a horrible wail, whipping white watery snow against the weathered watchtower’s westernmost wall. Yes, it is indeed a dark and stormy night, but darker and stormier and maybe just a tad more purple than your run-of-the-mill dark and stormy night.
Somewhere deep in the forest a unicorn frolics in a magical glade, as elves watch and scamper amongst the trees, polishing their bows with the blood of dwarves.
“Killed a big fat one today, Elfrond,” says Elfmoor. “Bastard was trying to chop down a cherry tree. Can you believe it, a fucking cherry tree? Sacrilege.”
“Have you ever wondered why we hate the dwarves so much?” asks Elfrond.
“What do you mean? They’re fucking dwarves! And this one chopped down a tree. A cherry tree. Only thing that rivals my love of trees are cherries. And music. And song. And like five other things.”
“Yeah, I’ve just been thinking lately. How did we get these sweet bows, if we didn’t chop down a tree to shape them. And how do we burn fires without firewood? And why exactly do we hate the dwarves?”
“It’s canon. Don’t ask questions.”
“What’s a cannon?”
Suddenly, the elves quit bickering. Something that only happens once in a thousand years occurs. The glade explodes with magical aura as the unicorn releases its legendary rainbow fart. Magical anomalies, such as this, signal only one thing: the birth of a hero.
Elfmoor takes a big whiff of the magical aroma. “B. E. A. Utiful. Times like this make life worth living.”
Elfrond shakes his head. “Elfmoor, we’re immortal. I’ve seen this like ten times already. And every time this happens, it means something evil is about to come afoot."
“But the hero always wins.”
“Have you ever heard the term collateral damage?”
“Is that a sword?”
And there you have it. The magical unicorn fart that marks your birth. How exciting! I wonder what type of hero you will grow up to be.