The manor lord wore a fine belt buckle, as befit his station. Brass, it was, but polished such that it gleamed like gold. The frame curved like a C, cleverly reminiscent of a short bow, with wood grain patterns inscribed along its limbs. The prong lay upon it like a stout arrow, and indeed was fitted with a barb at the end--not so pointy as to draw blood from its master, though. Frame, prong, and bar fit to a finely filigreed chape, the bulk of the buckle. It was rimmed by raised knobs, almost reminiscent of teeth, or perhaps tiny mountains. Inside of that, the engraver circumscribed curliques and leaves, possibly ivy but certainly not oak, unless of course it was an undocumented hybrid of some type. And in the center, a boar, posing proudly, tusks thrust forward and eyes ablaze. All in all, a fine belt buckle indeed.
--From the 10-volume epic fantasy, A Song of Food and Slaughter
3rd-Worst Place to Yakira Heistand:
I was sick. And by sick I meant I was dying. I knew this because I was holding the long ropes of my intestines in my hands. They were slippery and kept falling out of my hands. There was dust in the air from the horses that had recently rushed past me and my intestines. I had to sneeze. Somehow I knew that would be a bad idea.
2nd-Worst Place to Eowyn:
Dripping dye and death, Lucy's locks loomed over gore gartered gaiters gritty with goolash. The pub was closed.
Worst Place to Ted Weber:
Grimpimple the Half-Orc sat half-askew in the leathery-odorous expanse of his Cobbler Shoppe, picking at a particularly pernicious boil firmly ensconced on his left buttock.
"If I didn't hate elves so much," Grimpimple mused out loud, "I'd have one Magick this consternance away!"
This brought about a torrent of nostalgia-sneezes of yesteryear. Grimpimple began to think about his family history and everything from his encyclopedic hearsay about the various Realms of the world.
--From The Old Bastard and the Magic Shoe, Book I, Volume 1