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And lo!, shall the writer take up his word-honed sword with fire curled 1

and, thus, with terrible visage shall he ride forth from the Book Fort

on the grim business of war, and lo! shall there be a mighty slaughter!

Words shall fall by their thousands, and paragraphs shall cry out for aid,

but no aid shall there be, not from the heavens, not from the good earth, 5

for the Writers shall have puissance, such that none may stand against them,

be they ever so skilled with blade or bow, or ever so bent on exacting vengeance,

for was it not written, in grimoires of old, "The pen is mightier than the sword?"

And so, at the height of writerly might, at the apex of the ghastly wordwar,

just as the flower of slaughter had reached full bloom, watered amply by blood 10

the Writer came across figure, cloaked and hooded, standing, silent and menacing

in the middle of a dusty road. The Writer had forgotten silence, forgotten stillness

for he had grown all too used to the clamor of battle and the wild dance of the blade,

and the stillness and silence of the figure offended him, and so he took up his sword

and slashed at the figure with exulted yell, seeking to sweep it aside, as so many before. 15

The storied blade was quick, but the figure was quicker still, and with blinding speed

the sword was stopped -- caught in the hand of the figure, its bare flesh unmarred,

through miracle or magic or some forgotten art of the warrior, none can say.

And the Writer was sore surprised, for none before could withstand the terrible blade,

and so he spoke, with voice like the honing of a rusty edge, thick with menace, 20

"What manner of beast beest thou, that thou art not cut with steel, nor burned

with hellfire, but stand unmarred and unbowed, as would an unfeeling stone?"

And the figure replied, with a voice terrible like the rolling of distant thunder,

"No beast I! No man! But a thing that is not unto anything thou hast words for!

For thou art the Writer, and thine are the words, aye, thine but for a little while, 25

for thou art like unto an inconstant lover, and thy words are soon lost to thee.

While I, I am the First Reader, and the words lost by thee and thine, come to me

I am their steward  and their protector. And thou, proud Writer, hath taken up the blade,

and hath carved a mighty path for thyself, but attend Writer, hearken to my words,

thy path is an ill one, and leads to ill ends, for it shall take thee nowhere by down, 30

down into the Abyss, and the pain, misery, strife, and utter darkness withal!

Hear me Writer, for I am the sole thing that standeth between thee and it,

and much as I've guarded your words, I must now keep and guard thee."

And with those words, the First Reader removed his hood, looked the Writer in the eye and spoke:

"I mean for starters why on God's Green Earth is it an epic? Poetry? Really? You aren't any good at that. And that reminds me? What meter is that? Iambic I-can't-countemeter? Also what's with the Ye Olde Butcherede Englishe in the dialogue? Thee? Thou? I mean what? And another thing, what's with you and adjectives? Seriously. You are like HP Lovecraft on a dexedrine bender. You sound like the bastard child on the KJV and the Eye of Goddamn Argon! Exulted yell? Exulted yell? Do they have opaque lithe noses, as well? Good grief! And speaking of that, what's with the character of Writer? Is he a warior, what? What's a wordwar, come to think of it? And another thing..."

And there was much rejoicing.