As you walk along the dark corridors of the Grand Library, dancing fireflies lightly guiding your way, you turn left on a bend and come up to a clearing amongst the bookcases, a pedestal erected in the middle. Upon the pedestal lies an old oblong book which the fireflies, in their own sleepy, light ways, seem to take interest, gliding past you and dancing around it. Seeing as nothing other than the all too present bookcases, you approach the book. Nearing the book, you realize it is much larger than first thought. Three feet long and two feet wide, you feel strangely the book to be great as the oldest tree in the forest is largest, all bound in leather and iron. Forged or carved, you do not know, such is the intricacy of the ironwork. They converge on the front into a circle donned with a familiar symbol. The insignia of your homeland.

The book is locked and shut tight. Looking up, a worn key tinged bronze upon a thread hangs. You look tentatively at it for a moment then grab it. Turning the key in the lock, you hear an audible click and the book opens. Light flashes and blinds. All in an instant, a flood of stories, tales and lore rush through your mind. A story you recognize as one of your youth. An old tale, but told differently. More fully, more detailed, as if told by someone who first witness it. The story of a farmer who bears the same name as a town you never wonder much about. A detail account of the growth of a small village which you come to realize is the description of the old part of your home town. So many tales, so much lore, so much...

You open your eyes. The twilight of the Grand Library is just as it was mere moments ago, or what you believe was moments ago. The book under your eyes is empty. The damp and gentle fireflies' glow fills empty pages, bound to the book's spine. A tinged of disappointment creeps into your thoughts. Perhaps what happened moments ago had been nothing but an idle dream. You are about to turn when a feather drops gently into your sight. White with a long, soft tail. A metal point freshly ink. You peer at the book again, it glows in a soft moonlight glow. It waits.

What tales will you archive?