Far away from the hurly-burly that is Usenet — through the
tides of history and the mists of reality — there lies a valley that is
forever Academia. Dreaming spires soar through the mists that rise from
the meadows, and secure in their fastnesses scholars contemplate the
Abstract, philosophise over footnotes, dedicate soul and heart to the
elucidation of eternal truths... and, being only human, then proceed to
stab each other in the back in the pages of obscure and learned
journals. From Church and Hall the clocks tick on calmly into eternal
golden afternoon; two o'clock, three o'clock, four... but there is always honey still for tea.
We swoop in closer through the veiling mist, coming down to earth, approaching one particular building where we have business - the Ivory Tower that is home to a certain Igenlode Wordsmith.
In a quiet valley, where the streets run down to the water-meadows and the hills rise gently all around, among spires, courtyards and halls — reflected in a far corner of the Web — stands the Ivory Tower, a sturdy pinnacle of pale golden stone.
It is somewhat out of the way, perhaps; it does not stand on the broad streets that lead to the Market Square, nor even over on the banks of the river where laughter breaks the sounds of running water. Here on the shoulder of the hill, a short path leads to the foot of the tower, and wide gardens stretch down towards the pillars of academe beyond.
Strange and a little secluded, this is the home of Igenlode Wordsmith — and on most days, high up there in the topmost room, Igenlode is often to be found hard at work... or not!
