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- Yo, old man. The lady needs a moment to gather her courage, so listen to me for now, I'll tell you an epic tale.
Once upon a time there was a very weak warrior who greatly disliked women — they seemed to him to be vile, lowly creatures, and the mere thought of physical intimacy with these beings made him sick, such revulsion he felt, as if ants were crawling through his veins, as if he faced the prospect of housing a centipede in his ear canal and gorging himself on live cockroaches. At the mere sight of them he would frown, so hard that his brows once fused together — that's when he decided he needed to leave human society, lest something bad surely befall him.
And so he went into the caves — cold and dark, but free of that plague. Life there was hard for him, and there was no one to rely on but himself, and the little he managed to scavenge or craft — all of it was taken by a mischievous little snow fox. He was furious at her and tried for a long time to catch her, but all in vain — she was too quick, how could he — a weak warrior — compete with such a trickster? But this strange acquaintance was in essence not a curse but a blessing, for it was only through this peculiar communion with the fluffy minx that he kept his sanity.
As the years passed, the warrior grew accustomed to cave life, grew strong in spirit, hardened in body, filled his inventory with epic crafted gear — no one would have recognized him now. Yet this change brought him no joy — the little fox had stopped visiting him. And why? If she had simply grown bored of him, that would be sad in its own way, but at least she'd be safe and sound. But what if that wasn't the case and the reason was something entirely different, more tragic and sorrowful? This question gave the warrior no peace, and it became his reason to explore those parts of the underworld where no human foot had yet trodden.
In his search, he twisted the head off a minotaur — a giant with a man's body and a bull's head, made soup from a chimera — a monster stitched together from a lion, a goat, and a serpent, wrapped gorgon hair around his fist — a creature whose hair grew snakes instead of locks, many deeds did he accomplish, but by the time he found his little fox, he was badly wounded — anyone could see he didn't have long left. The little fox was saddened by this state of affairs and asked the warrior what he desired in his final moments. What he answered her, none of the living can say — his words remain shrouded behind the dark veil of historical oblivion, but on that day the little fox transformed into a beautiful human woman, and then she drowned in his snow-white desire — as white as her fur had been. Or was it he who drowned in her soft fur, resting both soul and body from the burdens of mortal life?.. The bards and historians differ on this matter! But the truth is that in his final moments, the long-standing malice that had reigned over the warrior's heart finally ran dry, but soon so did he, leaving behind only a skeleton with a shattered pelvis. And the little fox? Flashing her golden eyes, she vanished into the annals of history like a ghost roaming everywhere, continuing her great hunt.
Days, weeks, months, years, decades will pass, and then one day a descendant of that fox and that warrior will appear on your doorstep, and from his lips will flow words telling of their shared story... He will place his palm on your shoulder, — Sarabas places his palm on the old man's shoulder, — and say "thank you for loving foxes", "thank you for opening your heart to our memories".
Heroist
