Ruins of thought.
Amongst the hills of nameless country lies a land of ancient lore. For us, it is a secret kept long and old, a spectral amongst the shires. It is here where men quest upon the knowledge we have wrought.
Our wrinkled abbot, frail and smiling, steps lightly beneath his sabled robes. Through orchards of sweet pear, both old and growing young, he winds his way toward the depth of thought. It is in this labyrinth of question that many find themselves ensnared.
In time, a soft voice floats through the somber boughs. Slowly it curls upwards with the playfulness of ancient intent, and casts a new air of life to such knowledgeable trees.
“Everything you thought you could live and die for, every reason leading you here – all of these sounds have trickled past your introspective ear…â?
With an assured smile, our old friend lends himself reprieve near a marbled stone.
“Now, you must bestow upon these thoughts the gift of life.â?