Lore, Sagas, Scenic, Short story

Between, below.

Between the reeds which cover the ancient path is a whisper heard by few. Guarded by time and inconvenience, it sits quietly out of the way.

At the foot of an unassuming arm of mountains ever so greater, lay a valley whose ledges sit overgrown by weeds and scrub to bring the unassuming to their deaths in the void below.

But those who know the way know the secrets far beyond. They know not to follow the paths made by ancient hands, not even to strike their own through bush and brush and more.

In among the darkest green of this unremarkable wood, beneath a quiet sky of blue with floating clouds bearing witness, lay a secret in the earth known by so very few.

I would not say, and will not tell they way which one must follow, but through both wood and earth one goes to find the greatest secret, one which even the Sorcerers know nothing of, one which even the Sages think of in rumor and whispered truth.

Deep beneath a mountain which would bring no second glance, and a wood like any other, lay a city in the earth, carved by sweat and tears. A home for items and for trade of that which is not sold. A place where neither merchants or strangers deal nor come with invitation.

It is a city made by hand from that which was made by earth. And within it lay relics from bygone lives and ages long forgotten. A city which keeps safe all things not meant for man. A city whose age is greater than empires from faded past, a city whose name means nothing, for it is a name that is never heard.

There are secrets in those relics, secrets even of the Gods. They are the few who know the secret from ages gone and coming. A secret met with the Dual God’s smile, and an understanding silence from those who reside in that place.

There is a secret in the earth, one older than any other. One known to very few, but one necessary for the world. Only those who understand will appreciate that truth. But the whisper remains a secret, blessed and hidden far away. For fate repeats its pattern as it writes and weaves. And bloodshed comes in waves of certainties and uncertainties alike.


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