A Fireside Tale

Might I trouble you with a question?

Do you like to fly? No, not in an aeroplane... What do you know of the deep magic, child? Ah, you must think this nothing but the nonsense of an old woman. Perhaps it is.

Oh ho! Got your ear, have I? Very well.

Long ago in the elden realms of man and beast, a mossy mountain stood proud against the sapphire heavens. They who gazed upon it, named it the Quixotic Crags, for none dared make the journey and traverse the treacherous desert which lay beneath, teeming with necrotic scorpions and venomous serpents.

After many seasons passed, a wanderer stumbled into the village. His dry lips were cracked, throat parched with powerful thirst, long hair knotted and unkempt. All were astonished, for he had come from the poison sands.

The village chief demanded an audience with the stranger, that he might explain how one could survive such a perilous crossing. But only when his tongue had been wet and belly filled did the traveler speak.

A great war ravaged his homeland, forcing the refugees to flee into the desert lest they be cut down by the invading horseback warriors. It was a bitter life they led. Many a sleepless night was spent listening for the scuttle of scorpions or slithering asp. They drank from desert flowers which grew on thistle bushes and fed on rats and serpents which hunted them.

Many succumbed to the stings, collapsed in the scalding heat, and withered away from thirst, but a few brethren clung to life with white knuckle grasp, refusing to let their bloodlines end in such an ignominious wasteland.

Ah, I seems I have gone beyond my time. We shall finish this tale another day, my dear - if you are still interested, that is...