Thousand: Three Hundred Ten

a fisher gnome could suit up a fishing line? And I do have a way with words, if I do so say myself, the fisher gnome said to himself several times, rolling the words about on his tongue, spitting them, snorting them, yelling them to make the hills resound. If! I! Oo! Ay! Oh! I! Elf! came back the hills. I make words that last. And I’m always ready for the end of the world. I’m prepared. The “silver cages” must be fish traps. The fisher gnome didn’t know of any silver ones, but they could look silvered in dawn