They are below, buried deep below, and no hand can lift them up. What darkness there, what eternal shadow, reigns—but he, he is not what I’ve come to speak of. There are stories, my friend, and whispers, that you, young fool that you are, are trying to go there, to seek wisdom in hell. None can. No one returns.
If none return, then how speaks ye of it? How knows ye what lies below? What says ye of Odysseus and Orpheus—or Persephone? How know we of Tartarus and the pains there endured but that some traveler goes between?
Tale Told 