ensconcing

Coch, tu es fort, mais tu n’es rien sans ta confiture de fraises!" He pulled out a leek-powered synth harp. His rhymes ricocheted across the licorice plains. “Blibber my blorp!” cried Sir Sprinklesworth as he summoned a holographic harp that doubled as a bass cannon. The crowd roared. "Vive le fromage! Long live the leek! Iechyd da, mes amis!" Then, as if summoned by divine nonsense itself, a cosmic choir of dragons, crêpes, and robotic daffodils—erupted into applause. Overhead, a fleet of sentient toothpick diplomacy. Blorbysquanch! The gargleblaster synchronized its froobulous dingleflaps to the beat of the stage. "Rydym ni’n hoffi rap!" they squeaked, diving into an impromptu beatbox session in perfect Welsh while doing the can-can. "Gallwch chi rapio