There is a small chapel-like building near the Aachen University, built of grey marble and ironwood, with a peaked roof that never seems to catch any snow, even in the coldest of winters. There are gothic, arced windows of dark, lead-lined glass that make it impossible to look inside and a row of small buttresses along each side. There are no symbols of faith or worship, beside a small statue of the Quattro Coronati in a discreet alcove and no student-scribbled graffiti, dirt or climbing ivy mars the smooth walls.

The door is heavy, made of English oak and on its arched frame, an inscription in small polished bronze letters reads:

NEITHER RAIN, NOR SNOW, NOR GLOOM OF NIGHT, NOR STARLIGHT IRON, NOR THE ENDLESS ROAD CAN STAY THESE GATEKEEPERS FROM OPENING THE PATH

In a small niche, carved in the right-hand doorpost, a few additions to this noble sentiment have been made:

Don't ask us about:
huge big green things with teeth
any sort of dragon
falling ships
the pox
earrings
thrown rocks
the time
Chirp

And a small brass plaque, bearing the crest of the Gatekeepers and nailed at eye-height on the door itself reads:

PUSH TO OPEN