The man, not even a petty king or duke but a farmer, approached the altar and asked for one thing: a point from which to begin, to strike out from strength, as he tried to protect his home and his family from the depredations of the world.

In response, a single mote of dust degan to fall in front of his home, only to stop an inch or so off the ground. No force could move it, even the swing of a pickaxe.

The farmer was not a smart man, but he was a shrewd man. He began, mote by mote, to build upon the foundation that had been franted him. In time, he was able to construct a cone welling up from the immovable point, and upon that build a small home. Over time, as more material was added, the plot grew. The land beneath was carved away, and by the latter days what had once been a mote of dust now supported a vast fortress, impregnible, ruling over the land.

Impenetrable, that is, until the youngster arrived one day whose special gift it was to move the immovable.

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