Wonder not. I think no hand of man may touch the vision in this glade. Though you may reach, you’ll never reach. Always just beyond your grasp, the elusive, ruby pommel glimmers before your eye. It’s not, I must confess, for you. And no, it’s not for me.
An ancient king cast off his sword. He may return someday. We keep this dream and guard the glade. We warn those who would grasp, you’ll never grasp. Starved, you’ll die, it always just beyond your reach. A trap for would be kings, but some find here the wisdom that they seek.
Tale Told 