As Abraham search the the junk piles, the mixed sound of metal and bottles clanging against each other rattled and rung through the junkyard. Around him, huge mountains of junk towered to the sky. As he dug deeper and deeper into the mountain, his hands began to tremble with anticipation and nervousness. According to his calculations, this would be the place. The junk was a nuisance, but there was a cruel irony to it, the sort of irony that tears apart airplanes and sends them plumbing to their deaths.
With a heave, he lifted a great piece of metal. The aluminium shrieked and moaned as he bent it out of shape. Beneath it, he saw a stone. It was moss-covered, but he could barely make out the runes beneath it. It was a leystone.
Trembling, Abraham sat down, and began to cry softly. Faeries were real. But Man had buried them beneath metal graves and killed them off with oil. We were alone. The world was ours.