From hark comes but a whimpering whisper, but a breeze on the north sent winds... ever blown. The sound of but a deathly voice lying, on an ash ground raked tenforth or more times. The whispering winds tell us of stories, and so they come seeketh a shelter now. I the historian, lecturer, scribe. A man of many long names, yet one life; shall give stories to last immemoriam. From but a small village brought up by sages, brought up by the withering, those of age. Wisdom was passed down to me, a dream lost… Of who can I ask for a close embrace? Of who will not pain me to ever grief? The lives of humans are fickle yet I… The lives so short and swift, am I… human?

It’s the will of almost all of them to… live forever, smile forever, and not… not one of those things can exist with ‘nother. Yet no peace nor smiles will bless their face, the earth chaining them to a grave long gone. The wind had scratched the names off, smoothness remains, the immortals wander but a corpse now… Man had long found immortality by... my birth alone with the graves of knowledge. Sages past but a whisper immortalized; books holding their wisdom ever to mourn. If not a fitting grave for those forgot, forgot by all but the knowing, known ones.

Who am I to say? But a boy born now, one born where knowledge is plenty yet few, few dare to take it themselves, stuck in fear… fear and eternal, willful, ignorance… The world has long gone to ruin, few stayed, an arc to the heavens above lifted; the few who remained too poor and disheveled… A religion sprouted up, fear of words, the ones who abandoned them to this grave… they… they were very fond of these old things…

“Why is that?”

Who knows? They are all the old ones left long… long ago… Let me tell you, a story by the last… The last “true” humans, who knows if they live?

I will tell you the tale of many old, some stories lost to time, others in rhyme. Some stories are dubious in nature, others, certainty in the present time. I hope you enjoy, the stories before...