Those summer nights, when the sun hangs low in the sky and the first whisps of evening fog start rolling over the hills, it’s those times I’m apt to be pleased with myself for never having gone adventuring.

It’s a grand enough life, when you’re a mite youngin’, but I’ve seen them come limping home again, hearts still chasing a dream that’s got away. What do you say to a man whose eyes still shine with the magic of something that was almost his?

Got no need for elves nor princesses fair here, justa good solid mule an’ a taste for work. It burns to watch them suffer, thrown back to the dirt they came from. But it’s a good dirt, and in time they’ll see what I’ve learned from never leaving. Some lives are meant to be lived low, down here in the green and the brown.

The sky’s not meant for men, just birds.