Stilte.

The world sleeps as night time comes, the unsavory and just alike watching over them.

The rings.

From deep in memory lost long before the dream of life had sprung, so those mists were skies of clear and ever present blue.

The sky’s lights [archive].

When the dark of night holds fast the world and the sun so long away, the sky bears still light from above as it has for all of time. More than a single brilliant source that scatters shadows to hide from its light, this light comes to reveal itself more than anything else.

Sleep.

So falls dusk upon the weary world, inevitable as death or the fall of empires too mighty to ever repeat the fate of that before, and that which comes after.

The road.

A fine road it was, one they believed would show their stature. In a house made fortified and rich upon the foundations of a humble clan house.