Chapter Thirty-One
At least, I assume these are gnomes—they have features similar to Itzel’s. None are wearing breathing masks, all are male, and all are trying to look fierce—and succeeding admirably.
Also, they’re holding odd-looking spears instead of something more appropriate for such an allegedly technologically superior people—like ray guns. Their clothes consist of tiny loincloths made of some shiny material, and they have war paint on.
The smallest—and thus likely the oldest—of the gnome tribe shouts something in a language that sounds completely foreign to my ears and gesticulates angrily with his spear.
“It’s a hodgepodge of languages,” Itzel tells us. “I think he said something like, ‘You shall not pass.’”
Ariel takes a step forward. “Tell Gandalf to put that stick down, or
