I was motley. Two years ago before I died I worried not about the glides or the mouks that roamed the mountains. In stories around fires I had heard their names. As a child I had created the very glide who followed me now relentlessley. Never did I believe that Krammer, the old fool had ben telling me the truth.
Fables have a strange way of harnessing the truth.
A story, I have thought must be based on a truth. Otherwise how do they appear in the form of stories that pass from one dispicable generation to another. No thought is new, only recycled. It is now that I have learnt how cheated we all are. The stories you were told as a child are real in this place.