524 days after a wizard cursed the REALM…
Current Version:
The Pooka shuffles in his sleep. Since arriving in the Cursed REALM, he’s suffered through a string of night terrors, waking with screams and trembling on nights he’s dared to sleep at all. But tonight, his dreams are pleasant.
In one dream, the Pooka romps in a field with long-departed family members. In the next, he scales the pinnacle of Crystalline Mountain. In a third dream, the Pooka flies over the Elven homeland and drops a load of Pooka dung onto the head of the Elven King. The Pooka then flies away, laughing as the King shakes an ineffectual fist.
The Pooka’s only worry, within each of these dreams, is an itchy tingle in his shoulders. But even that brings him joy. The Pooka longs for a waking world in which an itchy tingle could be his biggest problem.
Having grown aware that he’s having a dream, the Pooka must force himself to remain within its gauzy haze. In his next dream the Pooka finds himself back at the previous afternoon’s Feast. He sits on the table, glaring daggers at Gloriander.
It’s a semi-lucid dream, so the Pooka can materialize the daggers, make them dance, turn them red and drippy. But no matter how he concentrates, he can’t force the blades to hack the Elf into pieces.
“Hey, horsey. I think we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot.” Glory’s words are slurred with drink, although the Crowhead Witch is only just now serving the salad course.
“You’ve gotten off on four wrong feet,” Pooka tells her. “My four wrong feet, in fact, while you’ve ridden on my back across a dozen worlds.”
“We all have our roles to play,” says Glory. “I’m the rider and you’re my trusty steed.”
“Trusty? If you trust me so much, why the restraints? Why the bit and bridle? Why lock me in a stable at night? Why tie me to a post while you’re in the saloon—and when are you not at the saloon?”
“Whoo, it’s getting stress-tingly in here,” says Formerly Melvin. During the waking-world Feast, the ghost had only been able to hover over his chair and stare forlornly at the food. The Pooka’s dream has granted him enough substance to shovel appetizers into his face, and he appears determined to take full advantage. Shrimp mini-tacos slide down his translucent throat into the churning stew within his quite-visible stomach.
“With your indulgence, I shall randomly select a proper dinnertime conversation topic,” says Val the Simian. He’d been eyeing the Crowhead’s collection of books that rest on shelves that line the library walls all around the dinner table, many within reach of his long furry arms.
“Let’s finish this conversation first,” says the Pooka.
“Or we could stop talking about the thing that makes me uncomfortable and pretend it isn’t actually a problem,” says the Elf.
Although it’s the Pooka’s dream, the others take the Elf’s side and steer the conversation elsewhere. The Pooka crosses his forelegs and huffs in indignation as the Simian reads aloud from a history book about a game that was once popular within the REALM.
“The game of hand-egg is played by two teams on a rectangular field. Teams alternate possession of an egg-shaped leather or pigskin bladder that’s definitely not round enough to be referred to as a ball. The players on the offensive team use their hands, and never their feet, to pass or carry the egg past the defensive team toward a score-zone at the end of the field.”
“My ancestors sure had some silly pastimes,” says Formerly Melvin.
“Sounds dreadful,” says the Pooka, but the others insist on giving the game a try. The Crowhead uses her magic, and the dinner table transforms into a field of play.
The Pooka, the Elf, the ghost, and the Simian are now all roughly the same size. Their teams are rounded out by men made from cranberry sauce, yams, stuffing, and green bean casserole. A green olive, tastefully stuffed with a chunk of red pimento, serves as the egg.
The Crowhead Witch strides between the teams and scoops up the olive. Her black and white striped robe swirls around her with every step. “Welcome to the Library Field, a hand-egg stadium with a gametime temperature of ‘Nice.’ We’re here for the First Annual Feast Day Wordler Bowl contest between Team Blue and Team Red. Team Blue shall consist of Pooka, Melvin, the Stuffins, and the Yam Monsters.”
“High five, teammate!” Formerly Melvin holds up a ghostly hand. The Pooka’s hoof passes right through it. “Oh, right, oops.”
“Team Red shall consist of Gloriander, Val, the Cran-Golems, and the Beanmen.”
“Let’s kick some Team Blue butts!” shouts Glory. She stumbles toward the Simian but falls on her face before reaching him. “Aw nuts, I felt that. The wine must be wearing off.”
“Heads or tails?” the Crowhead referee asks the Pooka.
“I’m holding out for a contract renegotiation,” the Pooka tells her. “I can’t play hand-egg. I don’t have hands.”
It’s a logical complaint, which the others completely ignore. The itch returns to the Pooka’s shoulders, more unbearably than ever.
The Crowhead flips a small bee onto the tablecloth. It lands face-down with its stinger sticking upward. “Tails,” the Crowhead announces.
Everyone looks at the Pooka, who is the only player with a tail.
“Does that mean I won?” he asks.
“You can choose to receive the egg or kick it away,” the Simian advises.
The Pooka glares a few more daggers at Gloriander. “I’d like to kick her away.”
“Blue team elects to kick,” the Crowhead referee announces.
The players take their positions, with the Pooka’s Blue Team at one end and the Elf’s Red Team at the other. The Crowhead blows her whistle. The Stuffins and Yam Monsters lumber forward in a line. The Pooka approaches the olive backward and boots it with his two rear hooves.
The olive lands at Glory’s feet. “Can I get a martini to go with this?”
“Pick it up and run,” Val urges her.
The Cran-Golems and Beanmen collide with the Stuffins and Yam Monsters at midfield, all merging together into a pool of leftovers.
Formerly Melvin floats downfield through a tray of puffs. The Pooka gallops behind him. They pass between a pair of candlesticks and jump over a serving spoon.
“Pick up the olive,” the Simian urges his teammate again. He plants himself next to the gravy boat, hands out, ready to block. The ghost passes through him. While the Simian stumbles, disoriented by the experience, the Pooka dodges around him and bears down on the Elf.
The olive still rests at Glory’s feet. But in the moment before impact, she finally bends down to pick it up. The Pooka sails over her bent back and lands in a gelatin mold. Unable to move, he can only watch helplessly as Glory carries the olive downfield into the score-zone.
The Pooka wakes with a scream.
“Another nightmare?” Val asks.
The Pooka shudders. “The worst one yet.”
Web3 Draft:
- Listed on OpenSea
- Listed on Rarible
Revision Notes:
To be added.
