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[crittersheep]

WHO: all
WHERE: all
WHEN: Day 9, evening into night

[the sun goes down; the two moons rise.

it all looks...quite different. the laundromat lengthens and transforms the silhouette of Woolietown in the distance. the lighthouse beacon comes to life for the first time, throwing strong, brilliant light and stark shadows across the meadow and into the barns. the lazy river encircles the pasture in a glittering band, the bobbing shapes of the pool toys a little bit eerie until they drift into full view.

perhaps some of you are winding down. perhaps some of you are just gearing up for a wild adventure in the shadows. perhaps some of you, regardless of if you sleep or stay up, find your dreams and nightmares crawling out beyond the bounds of your own head tonight, drawing others in...

the night is full of possibilities.]

Comments

[finalbows]

<sub>[ staring up at her.

...then...

]</sub>

[plied_magic]

[she doesn't want to kill the creature now that she has it]

I'm going to have to find a place for you where you can't do that.

[finalbows]

<sub>[ What am I DOING. This is ridiculous. I should just POP it, it's just some little nothing-construct that he can make more of.

Not-Woolietown looks like it's full of little hidey-holes, at least. While none of the buildings have doors-- does no one want privacy, living here???-- poking your head in to one, there's something very promising: a storage room brimming with jars and vases. ]</sub>

[plied_magic]

[Sorry, Angel Devil, Chord's teachers drummed into her that magical constructs are at least as real as animals.]

[time to stuff it in a jar and find some wax or something to keep it there, then hide the jar]

[finalbows]

<sub>[ good thing you convinced the lamb to go to bed early, or he'd probably be a real nuisance while you're trying to get away with this. he's just not ready for real schemes, yet.


maybe he never will be. you hope so. you're expressly invested in him never getting all that good at them, in fact, because that's one more thing standing between you and irrelevance.

...

there. It's sealed. Wax is a tall order, in this horrible place, but there's a vessel of Gunk you find while you're fruitlessly looking with properties the dream tells you to be like resin. You just needed to cure it.

You feel your hands warm up to a state of uncomfortably hot, wreathed in an orangey glow.

Curing it wasn't a problem. ]</sub>