Massage elves! Arriving on little feet of soothing! Their pitter-patter practically tickles the floor as they rush into position, surveying the scene – the scene: YOU, stretched out and looking stressed and in need of ease – and setting to work. Happy, happy work.
Tiny trebuchets of warm mud roll into place and FWOWP mud is thrown onto your skin. Elves then either climb onto you or rappel down on threads of yarn and pat all that mud down (with, again, their little feet of soothing!), humming happy high-pitched tunes as they do. Their breath, smelling of incense (they eat them like they’re pretzel sticks), keeps the mud warm. Their hands rub your scalp: never near so strong as to cave in your skull but enough to send a shiver of contentment through your head. One can never truly have a headache around an elf. (Rowling had that all wrong.) It’s remarkably soothing, having dozens of tiny skilled hands patting you and kneading you. Back of the knees, even. How often do you get several hands lightly touching there? (Don’t worry, they don’t trigger the tickles! Even on the ticklish! That would be the opposite of relaxing.) All this is to music, on special instruments specially made for elf hands – yes, they have the world’s true tiniest violins – blending with their happy tunes. Harmonious harmonizing happens. It’s like your brain lobes are being massaged as well. They’re that good. They’re massage elves.
(Feel better, Kat!)