Stained a deep red, a wooden wardrobe gathered dust in a darkened attic.  Particles of dust floated upon the air, symbolic hordes of a time forgotten, ready to invade the lungs of any trespasser and discourage any thoughts of return.  The single source of light within the forgotten realm enters via a high window, sealed shut with age.  As sunlight fought it’s way through the window, to illumine the fine wood work and countless hours of craftsmanship evident in the detailed symbols, shapes, and runes laden upon the doors, the details began to glow a fiery jade.  First the shapes, then symbols, and runes.  As the glow intensifies, an ethereal voice – almost like music – is barely discernible as it whispers “someone may ask…the time has come again…”.  Suddenly, as if the emerald light might overtake the sun and exit out the portal the original source entered from, the doors swing open on internal hinges.  As the jade brilliance fades, the whisper continues in what seems a language long dismissed as time rolled forward.  Within the wardrobe lay what looks to be ancient artifacts:  a golden helmet worthy of the Amazons, a chest-place of shining silver which could double as a mirror, boots as white a new fallen snow, a blade which seemed to  generate it’s own shimmering light, a belt of amethyst so deep one could fall into it,  and a round shield emblem-ed with the profile of a fierce and roaring lion.  Each piece, glistening in the window’s light, upon closer inspection, revealed what can only be described as a script not of this earth, almost angelic in its form.  In the midst of gazing upon these contents, the unknown voice spoke, with a hint of sadness: “the time is past…they did not ask, but go into this waking day ill-fitted…”  As the voice trailed off, the sun’s light escaped back from whence it came and hid.  The doors of the wardrobe swung with an old creaking, closing as if they knew not when they might open again.  The meaning of the subsequent click, unmistakeable; the doors had locked.

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