The Well of Mimir

In the ancient, forgotten days reduced and twisted over the aeons into fragments of myth and legend, there was once an empire that stretched along the base of the mountains of Sirral, whose tall, beautiful people built incredible temples to the stars.

These lost people were said to be giants, twice the height of men, with fair skin like unblemished marble, marked by strong and pleasing features, and deep eyes like the color of the blue night sky. But their children were nothing of the sort: tall, but stunted, strong, but twisted, with ugly features and evil black eyes, and flawed, jaundiced skin.

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Clouds of insects buzzed like thick clouds in the air as we rode up to the grassy, yellowed hill. The white sun burned down upon us from the cloudless blue sky above. The heat was oppressive and dry.

A rocky, winding path led between the craggy hills of dry grass and dusty stone. We followed it around the side of another of the nondescript hills, this one courted by a large pile of broken stones resting upon its side…except our passage by revealed this hill wasn’t so nondescript after all.

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He sat upon a shelf of rounded stone exposed among the verdant grasses of the hillside, staring up at the pulsing flickers of quiet lighting chasing one another through the clouds and painting the sky with an ever-shifting series of unfocused light and dark shapes.

The light show had been going on for hours without a single cry of thunder, just the light filling up the heavens in broad, bright sheets, nearly drowning the swaths of stars that shone through the tattered and oft-broken canopy.

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