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19 lines
1.1 KiB
Plaintext
19 lines
1.1 KiB
Plaintext
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An ancient bow, as hard as cast iron, that once belonged to a famed archer.
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He once slayed monsters and bandits like silvergrass in the wind.
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As he pursued mastery in the discipline of archery,
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his string sang like unrelenting thunder,
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and his arrows shone like sun-soaked iron rain.
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In his twilight years, the archer had a revelation.
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"The ultimate profundity of speech is the word withheld, and the ultimate profundity in archery is the arrow spared."
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Thereafter, he never spoke again of arrows shot out of the sky.
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Nor did he speak again of the foul monsters slain by iron arrows shot from an iron bow.
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He buried his bow in the ground and went to live as a hermit amidst the hills.
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Allegedly, the story of his death is as follows:
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Every night, as the sound of a plucked string rang out from his home, a ray of brilliant purple light shot forth, and foul monsters dared not approach.
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On the night of his death there was a storm. Amidst the howling wind and rain there was but a single clap of thunder. The accompanying bolt of lightning shot upwards, towards the sky, burning bright as the stars in the galaxy.
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