And the player said, "Speak to us of Chess."

How do you seek perfection, unless grandmaster games guide you?

How shall you see the victory except the winning moves themselves lift the veil from your eyes?

The pawns say, "Chess is formations.
Like a hidden shield and sword, the strength of the many walks among us."

And the bishops say, "Nay, chess is time and tempo.
Like lightning, speed and flexibility shake the board beneath us and bring the sky down upon the opponent."

The solemn rooks say, "chess is the open space, the clear lines and rows. Opposition like twigs and pebbles break or quiver in fear of the Rook. Kings seek safety by our side. Is this not Chess?"

But the restless knights say, "We have heard Chess shouting in narrow quarters. Caissa's cries came with the sound of hoofs and the roaring might of forks."

At night the fair queen whispers to her King, "Chess shall rise when the scene is set by lessers. My touch prevails over the weak and the slow. And in the evening of snowbound winter, you see me reborn, dancing across a scarlet board of graves, with a drift of snow in My hair."

All these things the pieces say of Chess. Yet in truth they spoke not of chess, but of movement of pieces, of ends and means.

And chess is not a toil but an art.

It is not of gloating rights or shining trophies, but rather of a mind polished and a soul enchanted.

It is not the board you would see nor the pieces you would touch, but rather the dance you see with closed eyes and music you hear though you shut your ears.

It is not the click of piece on captured piece, nor a king fallen in surrender, but rather a marble battlefield, forever in conflict, yet graceful as an angel in flight.

Followers of Caissa, Chess is plans when plans come to fruition.

But you are the plans and you are the flaws in its execution.

Chess is perfection in an imperfect world.

But you are perfection. And you are the world.