The Promethean Crown
There are corners in the mind, familiar and yet unknown by conscious thought. They are the home of dreams, of nightmares. These corners are the proving grounds of human emotion and drive. The darkest fantasy battles the most righteous morality, and the victor emerges from this foreign land to bend the will of consciousness to its own. The battles are without end, and the depth of their intensity is as an ocean without land.
There is a place, a reflection of these corners but with form and substance, where the wind in the mountains is the moaning of a mother over a lost child. A place where the first spring rains are sweet with life and love; a place where lies and deceit grow like weeds and the sharp sword of justice is wielded by the farmer and the king.
These lands lie nearby, hidden in folds of History and lost on the paths of Renown. They are rich in mystery, wealthy beyond all reason in adventure. Follow the trail marked by an Oak split twice by lightening; through a cave where those hung unjustly have been flung, and find yourself in