"You have no idea," Rincewind mutters, oblivious. A bright green leaf drifts down from the sky, lightly brushing the top of Xellos' head before wafting away.
Rincewind, who has raised running to an art form, considers this briefly. It might work if his arms were boneless (a thought he sincerely hopes Xellos can't pick up), but arms with bones weren't made for streaming. He keeps going in his usual fashion.