520 days after a wizard cursed the REALM…
Current Version:
Dejected and depressed, Gloriander crawls into a bottle. Literally. She flails and splashes, treading wine until she’s drunk enough to touch her toes against the bottom.
Formerly Melvin, unrestricted by constraints of size and shape, floats cross-legged above the surface of the wine. “The plate is still linked to the camera,” he tells the Elf. “That’s a good thing, right? It means the camera is still intact, which means your Faery friend is also still intact.”
“That’s not nesh— That’s not nechessar— That’s not, hic, nessesserrily true,” Glory burbles. “I’ve done the math. The soffishti—hic—kation of the trap, the provision of Shutter’s favorite pie, the power required to create such a large and elabor— such an elababorate— such an intricate illusion… It doesn’t add up to anything but trouble.”
“Maybe there’s another portal we could use?”
“No,” Glory states. “After Samhain ends, the Enduring Portal is the only one we can use to stumble back home. That’s why it’s called the Enduring Portal. But this Beast! This Beast! An Apocalypse Beast is as big as a Samhain Elf is small. And since I’m a fairly small Elf, that makes her a particularly large Beast. It’s an inverse proportionality.”
“See?” asks Formerly Melvin. “You may be small, but you have the math smarts to figure things out. And you have the services of a genuine ghost. There must be something I could do to help.”
Glory considers the floating spirit through her drunken eyes. “Nah. S’no use. May as well give up.”
“Hey,” says Formerly Melvin. “Hey, don’t fall asleep. You’ll drown in this bottle and trust me, death is enough of a downer without also reeking of cheap wine for all eternity. Hey, Glory! Wake up!”
The Elf sinks to the bottom of the wine bottle. Formerly Melvin continues to shout. He pushes against the glass sides of the bottle, but his ghostly hands have no effect on physical matter. Or so he’s always thought. But this time, as he pushes, the bottle jostles and tips.
The wine spills out. The Elf, after getting caught in the neck of the bottle, also spills out. She lands with a wet splat in the palm of a gorilla.
“Wha kind of dream is this?” Glory mumbles.
“Hey, Elf!” shouts a mouse-sized horse perched on the gorilla’s shoulder. “Remember me? The Pooka you rode in on? Yeah. You and I need to talk.”
Web3 Draft:
- Listed on OpenSea
- Listed on Rarible
Revision Notes:
To be added.
