The smoke of a pipe and candle blended as they rose and hugged the cottage's wooden beams. The wind sighed as it found its way through the small nooks and creaks. The foundations quivered under each onslaught. Every now and then, the wind brought a spray of rain down on the roof and window panes. The drizzling rain, the rustle of book pages, and the crackles of a fire smoldering lazily in an old stone chimney reverberated in the room. A home dweller's symphony. The pipe's smoker, an old man, sat in the library at a desk with an old parchment spread before him. Out of a worn-out traveler's leather backpack with numerous scars and hanging threads, he pulled a similarly worn-out leather journal. A multitude of fast-printed photographs fell out of it before him, of which two he picked up and stared at most strenuously. He unsheathed his aged fountain pen and dunked it into a vitreous bottle filled with black ink. The nib kissed the surface of the parchment, and the man wrote:

"At which hour the walls crumble to dusteth in the visage of the ages, and the power of the symbols fades.

At which hour divine chants loseth their divinity, and evil sharpens its canines to feast upon the flesh of the many.

Only he, who hearkens to the call of the vicious mother and dareth to seek it, shall findeth a gorge deep in the heart of her tangled garden.

Only he, who standeth in the future and in the past equally, who knoweth the depth of his sea, and the beings which inhabit it.

Only he, who was born of earth and loveth earth but stareth at the stars, to where his smoke riseth.

Only he, who carries fire but does not burneth, shalt not perish in the face of her.

Only him she loves, and only he shalt enter the cave and return to the earth, to her, from which he was born.

Only he shalt be reborn and bestoweth with her blessing.

Only he shalt rebuild the fallen walls and discern good from evil.

Only him shalt she not devour."