Ah, the Funeral Mountain Terrashot! A curious beast, if ever there was one. Picture this: a herd of great barrel-shaped critters, rolling down from the rocky heights of Death Valley like a procession of runaway casks. They trudge along, stubby legs a-pumpin’, heads full of some mysterious liquid — maybe water, maybe something a mite stronger, depending on the tale-teller’s thirst.
But alas, the poor fools meet their fate upon the sun-scorched desert floor. The blazing heat of that merciless valley proves too much, and the creatures burst like overfilled jugs in a blacksmith’s forge. Their liquid spills out, wasted upon the sands.
So, should you find yourself wandering the arid slopes of the Funeral Mountains, keep an eye out for the rolling Terrashots, for their journey ends not in triumph but in a messy burst of fate. That is all.
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