A Sage’s journal entry [archive].

Perhaps we Sages are not immune to the chitter chatter and spreading of stories we do not know. As the washer women and the drunks go on of sights they have never seen and voices they have never heard. Perhaps it is built into our race, our blood, our very being to spread the stories of folk in every place far flung about the world that we enjoy for a moment to tell each other stories. Stories unseen in any tome or history recorded by the hands of our kind.

Afloat.

A boat forever in port, a captain that never had sailed. It was a weaver of tales and stories, forgetful in his old age.

The yellow fox and the Clúanaire [archived].

Of the many things in the world to which one should be made aware, there are some, rare and half forgotten which should never fade from memory. They live and linger near and far from folk of every walk of life regardless of whose banner their land falls under. Only the Sages know for certain, but outside them it is almost lost to the noise of new importance. Until trials and tribulation come as can be seen in the land of Roves.

Sheltered.

Rain falls in the humid air outside this shelter of stone. The smell of rock both parched and hot now flooded fills the air, joined in chorus by trees below with leaves which shimmer as the rain drops hit.

The welcoming.

Against our better judgment we had let you in to stay.