I went to Cheney to visit Susanna yesterday, and had a great time. After going out to lunch, she, Ben, and I all sat around watching me play World of Warcraft. I love games like that—which is why I forbid myself from regularly playing them, because I can’t seem to play in moderation. But, this just once wouldn’t hurt, right? 😉
Anyway, I created a character—a night elf hunter, as a matter of fact. He was an mighty man, whose name, in the annals, was said to be Zagmurf. Yea, and in the first year of his hunting Zagmurf did slay many beasts of the forest: nasty spider things, and boars, and a rabbit. And Zagmurf waxed strong in the ways of questing, and he did level up.
But lo, Zagmurf’s bow-hunting skills were wonderful great, even to exceed all in the realm of Shadowglen. Yea, he slew the beasts from afar, and their poison spraying upon him was like the soothing fall of rain on his skin. And in the second year of his hunting, Zagmurf did gain the Stalk Beasts skill, and received many a ruined pelt as his prize. Nevertheless, Zagmurf was a friend unto the beasts, slaying only that which was meet. And he was beloved of the woodland creatures.
Yet in the third year of his hunting, Zagmurf was afflicted with an strange ailment, and did linger on the threshold of death, even until the forest animals did howl and cry at the sickening of so mighty a man. And in the fourth year, Zagmurf gave up the ghost, and returned to crumble unto dust upon the earth. And in that very hour, a boar did break forth into song, singing:
The mighty hunter, Zagmurf, is dead!
whose marvelous skill was exceeded only by his care.
May his bowstring spring ever-tight!
May his knife-blade glint ever-bright!
Though his body rot in the grave’s earthy bed,
In our mem’ry he’ll always be fair!
And when the boar had sung his verse memorial, he was seen to shed a tear. Then stood forth a deer to speak honorful words over the corse of Zagmurf, saying:
“Behold, all ye who loved Zagmurf! and hark, though your fathers were slain by his bow! Here lieth a man in the glory of death. Yet better it were”—and he paused, and with his mouth layed a wreath of ivy upon Zagmurf’s cold brow—“to remember the glory of life which he showed us.”
And he kissed the man’s face, though its aspect was funereal-somber. The deer then righted himself, and continued:
“Indeed, mayhap his love—which was great—shall be magnified in death, unto the gain of the living. Yea, haply his power—which was fearsome—shall not weaken with his flesh but shall invigorate us to yet nobler deeds of valor. And haply his heart—which was great—at his passing beat not its last beat, but its first unto our lasting welfare.
“So all hail Zagmurf! and all praise! For he was, verily, an mighty man!”
Thus fell Zagmurf, the mighty hunter, whose ways were the ways of the just. And he quested no more in the land of Shadowglen.
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