There is a land, Fionavar, a land whose location no one knows, a land of mountains and plains, of woods and oceans, but a land which can only be reached through magical assistance, be it from Dana, the Mother Goddess, or the Council of the Mages.  Only through these divinities will people be able to enter Fionavar and find the truth that it holds, only then will people be able to step into the epic battle between Rakoth Maugrim the Unraveller and Conary the High King, and find the full meaning of their days.

     But how do we know Fionavar is real?  How do we know that it contains the truth?

     We will only know if we decide that truth, that is, the definition of that which closely corresponds to and most accurately reflects the reality that we experience (a reality which necessarily includes visible as well as invisible phenomena—more on this in a later blog), is something that we ourselves to not create.  For if we define truth only by what we see, hear, touch, taste—or imagine—we make ourselves the creator of something which we, in our finitude, cannot really create.  How do we know truth if we ourselves do not know what is really true?

     (And it doesn’t do to insist that because this world is all there is, we therefore are free to decide whatever about it we choose, for we still do not absolutely know that we are indeed all that is.)

     When we make ourselves the definers of truth, we end up affirming and congratulating ourselves for conclusions and beliefs we have no way to prove.  We believe without knowing whether we can legitimately and honestly believe it.

     Truth must be grounded in and defined by something that can prove that it is the truth, the truth in which all other "truths" are rooted.  It must be able to verify that it is the sole arbiter of what is real.  But it can only do so if it is the genesis of all that is.
     How can it otherwise know the truth of all that is--and can possibly be?