Lemurians live on, so the storytellers say. We’ve seen them, they say, tall, handsome, beautiful, gentle giants with blue eyes and flowing manes of blonde hair. Small people too, miniature, darting from here to there, so fast the eye can’t follow. Living in hollow earth, where light ends darkness, where walls are made of gold, the ceilings cast in jewel, the floors copper laid. Animals abound, the fish and the fowl too, living in harmony, nary a bone left to the rot. And here you will find the flower, foliage, and fruit, sweet nectar, all, next to none, snatched away only to reappear. And what shall we say of the mountain dwellers? Those who reap the life-force energy of the mountain, who practice the ancient art of vampirism, transferring and manipulating life-force energy, for neither is it created or lost, only transferred from crucible to crucible. Should we say they are good? Should we say they are evil? Surface dwellers bite their tongues, fearful their whispers of tittle-tattle will be heard, their destinies forever lay to waste by the masters of vampirism.
