The sun hung low in the western skies. The last rays streaking through the branches of the turning foliage. The smell of liquid courage in the air. I make love to my left for what may be the last time. I don my heaviest armor, the ever holy Armor of Deetelion Deepwoods. I pray to the machine spirit and perform the sacred rituals, taught to me by the priests of Mars themselves. The twirling blades of death remain sharp in the wind, churning the air until they finally create a mighty gale. The likes of which hasn’t been seen since the release of Spinal Tapelious Scent of the Gauntlet. I in my armor and my chosen weapon of doom in hand, I enter the thickening forests of my lands. In high gothic I scream out my battle cry, the echoes of which reach the edges of property and beyond, “Imago Leroy!” Vast volumes of flying Mosquite Dragons awaken from their daily slumbers to meet me. Swarms so thick, only the light of the Astronomicon itself preventing me from losing sight of my path. My mouth sinched shut from the daemons. I clear my back gardens of ever thickening blades of green and by the will of the Emperor I return. I return without injury to my homelands, to the warm walls of my sanctuary, my bastion. As the last rays set I know I will live to see a new set rise in the east and my journey into the forest is staved for another quarter moon.