The book

The book seems to grow heavier in your hands as you settle on the floor to read it. The edges of the pages are chipped and torn in places, but the text, a perfect script that could not have possibly been inscribed by human hands, has been preserved uncannily well. You flip through the pages of the book and settle on a random passage.

 

You giggle with childish delight as images of winged serpents and shining knights flit through your mind. Velvet leopards prowl through lush poppy fields and a golden hawk alights from a spire of marble. You see a cowled man with a beautiful cape wandering a sublime wilderness dotted with stone relics, the fossils of forts gone by. Ravines dive down and down into caverns with tinkling silver pools. Tiny eyeless fish swim among diamond stalagmites and a hundred thousand geodes like eggs in a nest of water pepper the stoney ground.

 

This thriving landscape beckons. You sprout a pair of leather wings with which to explore this place. Climbing into the upper strata of the swirling firmament, you survey the prospect of boundless possibility.