Robert Ryan...

I'm a man born in the wrong era. My heart yearns for faraway places and even further afield times. Sometimes I imagine myself in a Viking mead-hall. The long winter night presses in, but the shimmering embers of a log in the hearth hold back the cold. The chieftain calls for a story, and I take a sip from my drinking horn and stand up...

Or maybe the desert stars shine bright and clear, obscured occasionally by wisps of smoke from burning camel dung. A dry gust of wind lifts sand grains into the air and blows them through our lonely campsite, and the wayfarers about me stir restlessly. I sip cool water and begin to speak.