Looking deep one may see into the looking glass.
In their rough, ragged cloth, the pale old Magi.
Appear high in the trees of the hills.
With hard faces like rain-beaten stone,
And all their helms of silver from the depths of the Dwarven mines,
And all their eyes focused on the valley ahead,
Thick pipe smoke spiraling into the sky
The unnameable mystery of a bestial score.