These lands are strange to me. I've been traveling westward for numerous seasons now, far beyond the borders of even the most thorough maps. I intend to find the furthest shore, where this magnificent land finally bows before the sea. The last human settlement is now many months behind me, and while I have become well acquainted with my lonesome journey, the horizon is growing ever more foreign to me. Monolithic spires protrude from the otherwise gently rolling plains. Springing from the stones, winding streams emerge from and caress the sprawling landscape. While it all seems remarkably hospitable, I'm getting an odd feeling now as I wander deeper into this exotic paradise.
I've just crossed upon a trail that looks oddly deliberate, quite unlike the naturally eroded paths I've been clinging to. Could these loosely scattered stones have been laid by ancient hands, or is my isolated soul just starving for any semblance of human company?
For now, though my legs ache from the steep climb, I dare not pause for rest or study. It seems the trail has become just as curious of me.