505 days after a wizard cursed the REALM…
Current Version:
A mouse-sized horse meets a toad in the underbrush outside Wordler Village. “Good day, Sir-or-Madam Toad,” says the tiny horse. “Might I trouble you for the location of the nearest water puddle so that I might refresh myself?”
The toad says nothing.
“I sense you’re not in a talkative mood. Fortunately for you, we Pookas are adept at holding both sides of a conversation. It’s one of our less-appreciated talents, though I can assure you that all our talents are underappreciated these days. Why, was a time when Samhain was our holiday alone. Pooka Day, we called it, back in the Ancient Times before the Elves and Fae appropriated our sacred day for themselves.”
The toad says nothing.
“Worse than the theft of our culture, we’ve been yoked into Elven service, bound by magic into a servile shape and reduced to this miniscule size to better serve our pointy-eared overlords.”
The toad says nothing.
“Now don’t get me wrong,” says the Pooka. “They’re not cruel, these Elven masters, but neglectful, vain, boastful, unappreciative, and hedonistic to a fault. The loss of our freedom is not by their design, but a mere byproduct of their self-absorption, which is somehow worse than deliberate cruelty would be, at least in my own estimation.”
A dragonfly lands on the Pooka’s head. The toad licks its lips but otherwise says nothing.
“What is that expression I see in your eyes?” the Pooka asks. “A hunger to assist a pitiful fellow in his hour of need? That would be most kind, although I’d take umbrage at any implication that I require any being’s pity.”
The dragonfly buzzes away. The toad’s eyes follow its flight.
“But still,” the Pooka concedes, “I’ll admit to presenting a pitiful facade. We Pooka have had a particularly difficult Samhain this year. We elected to rebel as a herd, to elude our captors long enough to seek our asylum in the human world.” He shakes his head and snorts. “Unfortunately, our seeds of rebellion have so far reaped only the most disastrous crop. Moonshanks got snatched up by an owl. Goldenhoof got swallowed by a snake. Eight O’s got eviscerated by a feral cat. The others of us have been so scattered across this human REALM that I fear I may possibly be the herd’s sole survivor.”
The toad says nothing.
“It’s been a pleasure speaking with you, Mister or Miss Toad,” says the Pooka, with a flare of his nostrils. “You are a good listener for a creature lacking in external ears, but now I must continue my search for water, sustenance, security, and freedom, preferably in that order.”
“I fear that the puddle of stale water you seek won’t serve any of your stated needs, Dearest Pooka,” says the toad. “However, a magical spring lies a day’s journey to the east that may provide all of your desires and more—but beware the Apocalypse Beast that guards the Enduring Portal.”
The Pooka dips his head in appreciation before setting off at a gallop in the indicated direction.
“Good luck!” the toad calls after him.
Web3 Draft:
- Listed on OpenSea
- Listed on Rarible
Revision Notes:
To be added.
