Someday.

The sun hung high in the cool autumn air; a light breeze blew across the rolling hills, and Anthanasios wandered the forgotten paths of days long gone with no purpose but to reach his destination and no destination but the one that burned in his memory. Somewhere, he knew, a tall, white tower awaited him on a hill-top. Once the home, it was said, of a powerful giant, master of now-forgotten and arcane arts, the tower had vanished one day along with its owner with nary a trace--or so it has been told. Anthanasios knew the truth. It had never vanished. One simply had to know where to find it.

He had seen the white tower once, far off in the distance. It had called to him with promises of knowledge unimagined; the lost arts of wizards and magi catalogued in its vast library. Anthanasios was brave, he was strong, but he came from lesser stock, and had no real standing in the world. Rather than remain at home a peasant, he left one day with a pack on his back and a staff in his hand to seek out the tower that he saw in his dreams.

He had not found the tower yet, but he knew that he was headed in the right direction. He had walked the inner halls of the tower in his mind, and someday, he would return to those halls.