You stoop to lift a palmful of yellow glandular juice to your parched lips. As it slips down your gullet a sudden rush of images flow through your tremendously inadequate brain. You are shifting your tower-limbs over a course of centuries to drill into a neighbouring cliffside. You are emitting antibodies to destroy the inhabitants and retrieve their goblets. You are engaging in bizarrely erotic mating rituals with a rival castle, ancient masonry intertwining and melding to produce ropey strands of king-eggs, each the size of a geode and impossibly hard until maturity. You are slowly sinking with the weight of millenia deeper and deeper into the belly of the grotto. You sense an interloper entering your body and beginning to poke around your vulnerable glands. You flex instinctively and send a swarm of brutal antibodies towards the offending toad, who is immediately torn to pieces and dragged back to the stomach to provide fresh sustenance. You are vaguely pleased by this, and settle back among the rocks in your ancient den.