There are whispers. The children huddle to hear from old men the stories that were thought forgotten. Here in this spot, they say, once were the footprints of heroes.
Never again!, is the cry. We shall not see their like in our day! Too far gone are our ways and those times. And they sigh, and mourn.
Then, on the horizon, a light. Distant, but pure. Steady. The whispers turn to murmurs. The young doubt, the old fear to believe. But the light grows.
There! The glint of metal, the smell of sorcery! One of the old men rise, his frail hand over his heart, a tear in his eye. The rest soon do the same, waiting, waiting for the light.
They inhale, and gasp, and their breath bated. Can it be? Is it true?
Were the adventurers to return again?