For assorted reasons, some of them exciting in their own right, a traveler wandered untracked lands, lonely and anxious about his prospects. When he came across a stone building that resembled him in its solitude, a suspicious sight, he reckoned the risk of disaster better than the certainty. There he found succor.
"Welcome, traveler, to Yulril Abbey. You may stay here one day and night and then go away provisioned."
"Thank you. To what god is this abbey dedicated, that I might thank him?"
"We're waiting to find that out ourselves. Perhaps we erred in our order, but we trust one will come to us. Hm. You are the first layman to visit; are you perhaps the very god?"
"How could I be confused for a god?"
"No, of course that's impossible. Please come this way."
At the time the traveler thought nothing of having someone agree with him, but after he recovered his place in society, the abbot's tone became in his memory somewhat excessively firm. Nettled, he embarked on a course of greatness in both the political realm and in feats of personal courage, succeeding so well that the great admiration he earned during his life tranformed into a hero-cult after his death which justified itself to the priestly community through numerous confirmed miracles and prophecies. Yulril Abbey's cenobites never heard of it so far as anyone knew.
Finis
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