501 days after a wizard cursed the REALM…
Current Version:
A curtain of light shimmers, deep within the cave, denoting the membrane between World and Otherworld. Only on Samhain does this boundary thin enough for the Elves to pass through.
Gristfellow pauses before crossing back over. “Did anyone else find it strange that we saw no humans? That we received no offerings? That we weren’t greeted by Druid priests dressed in animal pelts? That our only treats came from other faery folk?”
“Humans. Bah! The Parade was better for their failure to show up,” says Long John. “Best Samhain ever, far as I’m concerned. Now quickly pass, before the boundary solidifies and traps us in this horrid place for the dark end of the year.”
One by one, they pass through, back into the Otherworld, each Elf thinking that something seems not entirely right. Something to do with numbers, which reminds them of math, which quickly puts the matter out of their heads.
Only one among their party is the designated mathematician, tasked with conducting the headcounts that ensure no one gets left behind.
For the rest of the Elves, Samhain is a night to party. Not to add, not to subtract, and certainly not to count.
The last Elf passes through the boundary. Except that he’s not really the last Elf.
Miles away, in the ruins of Wordler Village, a mathematician sleeps off her drunken stupor.
Web3 Draft:
- Listed on OpenSea
- Listed on Rarible
Revision Notes:
To be added.
