As Zaph sat there, contemplating the universe and his place within it (as one does in such situations), he pondered over the great existential questions: Why are we here? Is there life beyond the stars? And, most importantly, why is there no toilet paper in magical realms?
In our latest escapade, we encountered a peculiar and slightly unhinged "physician" obsessed with eradicating the pain of life through, of all things, macabre surgical practices. Convincing him to lead by example in his bizarre crusade, we employed a blend of reverse psychology and sly persuasion. We suggested that true pioneers must demonstrate their convictions, especially in the avant-garde field of silence-eliminating surgery. To our amusement and relief, he eagerly agreed, seeing himself as a trailblazer in a strange, new frontier of medicine.
In the dimly lit, somewhat melodramatic setting of an abandoned church, our intrepid party faced wraiths – the universe's answer to the question, "What if shadows got bored and slightly malicious?" Visible only in light, these wraiths took an impish delight in extinguishing candles, plunging us into the kind of darkness usually reserved for inside jokes among bats.
As we stumbled around, relighting candles with the urgency of someone who's just remembered they left the oven on, the wraiths seemed to chuckle in the draft, playing a spectral version of hide-and-seek. It was a bizarre dance, a peculiar blend of a séance and a slapstick comedy, where every flicker of light offered a brief, teasing glimpse of our elusive adversaries. In this absurd tango of light and shadow, we learned the hard way that in the world of wraiths, it's not just the candles that lose their wicks.
