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[Nott, whose hood has fallen off in the scuffle, surfaces as if from beneath an alcoholic ocean, greasy mess of hair flipping back and falling all over her face. Her small, clawed hands are on his knees and she shoots him a very triumphant smirk somewhere through all the teeth.

Somewhere a bard is composing a song about a swamp creature, inspired by this image of a goblin achieving a pointless victory.]

I'm tackling!!! Like a real person!!! When you least expect it!!! I win!!!