Ever looked up into the night sky while camping an thought, "Where the hell's my tent gone?", well these are just some of the mishaps that have nothing to do with the story of Harold Tox, a collector of precious items like amethyst dust and the spit of a chicken.
A hard winters night, crisp air that made even the highets of creatures shudder with pleasure.
Amongst the groves, the lone hermit sat around a golden fire warming his hands as the blazing heat wamred his scrawny body. Behind him was the small hut in which he recided; covered in moss and complete with cockroaches.
In the sky, roaring thunder drived through the clouds and lightning filled the gaps on its way. FLASH! A lightning bolt struck the fire in front of the hermit, who seemed unshocked, as if it had become a routine thing for a lightning bolt to strike someones fire. A bird, probably hit by the cloud-shattering spears, plummeted into the hermit's cooking pot where it boiled away, it's pungent odour a mere nothing to the homeless cretin.
However, what interested the hermit the most was the second item (or rather, items) that fell into his cooking pot, that flashed a green flame as it hit the watery surface. Armed with a ladel, the hermit observed the cooking pot, and in the pot, slowly burning away were two brown, egg-shaped orbs that glowed delicately. He spooned them out of the cooking pot and held them in his hands, they were hot, but hot enough to touch without being burnt. Washing the burn marks off of it, he stared in wonder at the two magnificent orbs - clean and smooth, a strange aroma of almonds hit the hermits nostrils.
He raised the orbs into the air, and screamed: