How dashing is the rain, as it forcefully kisses the skin upon our cheeks, amidst this precipitation of damp uncertainty.
Can we please scramble across the moorlands of Provincia Britannia, whilst blazing torches flicker across blatant boundaries where royal promiscuity succumbs to reluctant allegiance to the King?
Oh, great creator of ambivalent meteorological predictions, let us have a séance as we race through thick forests where ancient runes are carved into the trunks of establishment.
Don your armour, my friend. We are approaching the threshold where history lies ages before us.