This is a storehouse, its floors and and items covered with the
dust of ages. Lost to time, it is unfound and unfindable. Let us just say that it is
somewhen. Although it seems small, the
corridors go on further than they first suggest, and there is a very real possibility of becoming lost amongst it's shelves, for the items here do more than just change the mind, like books.
At first glance, one might say that it is nothing but a repository for junk, or possibly antiques of dubious value, until one looks more closely at any item, for each has a vitality that belies its normal appearance. There are swords here, and shields and sticks and pieces of paper and potions and globes and bones and many other things besides, and each is here because it has passed from the world of the living to the universe of the mind. The sword of Arthur Pendragon, Excalibur, is here. So is the cup of Jesus from the last supper, the Sangreal, as is the Lance of Longinus, not the laughable copy of it that exists in the real world. There are maps here to the fountains of youth and the Gates of Hell and Heaven and Yesterday. There are dragons teeth and dragons eggs and many other parts of dragons, as well as the eggs of basilisks and cockatrices and imps and giants. There are instruments here too, to make Furies cry and summon armies and make lovers swoon.
Each item has a glow to it that is not quite visible, a physical embodiment of destiny and history that acts as its own unspoken warning. "Pick me up", it says, "and you may not be able to put me down again." The shelves go on and on, and some say that the shelves do not end. People find this place occasionally, deep inside their heads, and run from shelf to shelf, seeing what they have found, but not understanding it. Sometimes, they try to bring things back to the real world, changing them on the way so that they can survive in the world. On their shelves, the items wait. Their time has been, and it may yet come again. Unleashed upon the world, who knows what stories might be told?