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Faereluth
There's something about approaching darkness that unsettles, shadows creep out from behind trees, under benches and drop from walls. I start to back away as the dark tide floods the grass turning it from lush green to inky dark. When as if by magic lights start to appear, the first at the far edge of the park and high up. Pools of fireflies appear, slowly these magical creatures light up around the park edge. I know fireflies but I have never seen such as these for they cluster together at the top of metal poles, its nigh impossible to see the individuals in the swarm, in truth I come to suspect that it is one large firefly atop each pole. As I ponder I notice that lower swarms are appearing and I wander over to look more closely, Imagine my surprise when I find the flies are contained in large glass jars, So bright they are, unlike those in the bogs, its as if they have been saving all their shine for the coming darkness. I would very much like a big jar of fireflies . . . dare I take one . . .
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Faereluth
It would be comforting to have my own jar of fireflies, with this in mind I try to take the jar on the plinth nearest me. At first I try to lift it, then to twist it, then using my spork I attempt to prise it off, each attempt becomes more and more determined. It seems that the jar is somehow stuck. Despite several attempts including some frantic whistling . . . I know . . . but I did try EVERYTHING I could, the jar remains stubbornly attached and in the end I am left exhausted and without my prize. Trying desperately to think of another way to remove it I stand eyeing my foe, perhaps if I hit it with something . . . I look around . . . Why is it whenever you need a rock, or a stick there's never one to hand, and yet if you dont then you find yourself tripping over them? Then I remember something from earlier . . .
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Faereluth
It would be comforting to have my own jar of fireflies, with this in mind I try to take the jar on the plinth nearest me. At first I try to lift it, then to twist it, then using my spork I attempt to prise it off, each attempt becomes more and more determined. It seems that the jar is somehow stuck. Despite several attempts including some frantic whistling . . . I know . . . but I did try EVERYTHING I could, the jar remains stubbornly attached and in the end I am left exhausted and without my prize. Trying desperately to think of another way to remove it I stand eyeing my foe, perhaps if I hit it with something . . . I look around . . . Why is it whenever you need a rock, or a stick there's never one to hand, and yet if you dont then you find yourself tripping over them? Then I remember something from earlier . . .
a long time ago
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Faereluth
I remember the strange handle in the shrine. "ah ha it would make an ideal tool" I could just borrow it maybe . . . Returning to the shrine I peer cautiously in . . . in the dark its hard to see the objects, but as I recall it was near the top so I start to probe the shrines contents hoping to locate the handle tool . . . Ewww eww eww I hadn't noticed how bad this shrine smelt before, its terrible like old jellisacs and batterfly poop and whats more worrying is that what I am feeling could almost be . . . I try not to think. I find paper and then a bottle, something squishy and then finally I find it the handle, I pull it, at first it wont budge, I wonder if the Giant is holding onto the other end, but having decided I need it I try again, this time the handle loosens . . . another tug and it is wrenched free with a loud gloop . . . I am sent sprawling onto my back followed by a shower of various objects that either splat or clatter and then silence . . .
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Faereluth
I lay there for a few moments winded, slowly getting up rubbing my bruises. I bet the Giant is laughing, but I have the handle tool. Triumphantly I head back to the firefly jar and am about to deal it a heafty whack when a voice stops me in my tracks. I turn to face a man. He's a big guy, much taller than me and a fair bit wider too, His clothes are dark but upon his chest are the words Park Warden. He's yelling at me, it seems a strange languare with a lot of uck words and some offs. I do not understand . . . He waves his arms and gestures wildly and I get the idea he's not very happy so I do the only thing I can think of, I hug him . . .
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