Small crinkles of hot steam dance wavily, like the burning flames of war torn battlefields. Yet on a small patch of land, the spoils of the fight, something ancient remains, protected. Inside it's transparent but solid enclosure, a pure substance able to flow like the magic of water, glows hot alive, as if age mattered not. A wanderer walks over, notices the green growth surrounding the capsule in the middle of the scorched horror, untouched. A rope of beads hangs tightly attached on the ancient relic, meant to be carried. The wanderer equips himself, carries on, strangely lighter, and smiles.
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