The Bore's Den

It is here that Le Sanglier sits, brewing fire in her cauldron and feeling the seasons ferment around her. Islands arise in the briny sea of thought. Volcanoes erupt. Flames spit and surge. Beyond the fire and the flame lie frozen wastes of ice and fog. And bobbing along, in a tiny ship of heart, goes she.
 

The wildboar inside

What's all this about wildboars? In what woods lives this wildboar? Why does this wildboar seek to distract itself by posing as a sexy French version of its pedestrian English self? Le Sanglier will tell you now...

I was born with a wild and gullible heart. Being wild I sought danger. Being gullible I was afraid.

Or... am I actually the Wild Bore? Oh. I have to think about that.