You're stalking a Trophy Elk the size of a mastodon, in the roughest country this side of Jurassic Appalachia. Heart rate is through the roof, we're talking 200+ bpm for hours straight, your caloric intake matches your passion for bagging big-ass bulls and hoisting them to the heavens on the strength of your honest, hard-working, humble back, and you can't wait to trade the taxidermist a carton of cigarettes for his services. The rack looks great on your wall already, hanging above the mantel, a fire roars in the hearth, your primal instinct: satisfied. What's missing in this life? Nothing. Because you own a Dragonslayer, and that's the only reason you were able to do any of this.