Today, while indulging in the ritual of the Cave of Treasures, in that most ancient part of Old Russia known as Skywatch, with several fine compatriots of mine, there happened upon us a fresh young knave, barely level 8 was he.
He crept, rather cautiously, across the snowy rock and dried grass to the place where we stood all in a line, ominous and foreboding, like a firing squad readying our rifles for a well-rehearsed execution, and eventually came to sit himself upon the nearby rock.
Quite bewildered, he watched as we continued our methodical and surgical practice until such time when, finding no answers within his own inexperienced mind, he thought to pose a question to us.
"Why do you shoot at this cave?" he queried. "Has it payed you some great insult? Surely it is but a damp hole in the ground, unremarkable as any other. Pray then, what wrong has it done to deserve such a harsh and dutifully exacted vengeance?"
All at once we were taken quite aback, as puzzled at his question as he was with our work. Then, with a quick glance to one another, we laughed in unison; a knowing and admittedly patronizing laugh.
"Do not question it." I beseeched him. "Simply join us, if you are so curious."
He seemed troubled by this for a moment, like a frightened animal; uncertain of the intentions of the one who would offer it a meal so freely and without expectation of repayment. At last, he stood as cautiously as he had crept to this place and joined us in our line, the shortest and least impressive among us but, undoubtedly, the boldest.
As we opened fire once more, I was sure that each one among us was still smiling beneath his mask, that nostalgic and intoxicated grin, soaked with memories of the days when we were so naive as this young squire.
Together, we knew that one day, he too would stand where we stood, long after our bones had been scattered across the many worlds we'd sworn to protect, and at this time he might also think fondly of his earlier days.
He would joyfully reminisce about the days before he knew the pains of unjustly receiving a blue object from a legendary purple engram and before he was gifted his hate for the one they curse in the blackest and foulest tongues of the land, from the highest spires of the gilded Tower, to the lowest and darkest pits of the Last City below.
That foul trickster, that hooded demon...
"Cryptarch", they would hiss, and his very fibers shook with all the terrors of a thousand unrequited souls, longing for exotics. For now, he knew not what it meant. For now, it seemed, ignorance was truly bliss.
