Mistica Chronicles

Welcome to Issue 34

Wyrmses Winning Entry

People and pets alike skirted around a particular patch of sidewalk, avoiding it as though it was infected with the plague. Then again, plague-infested pets seemed to be avoiding it as well. The main reason for this peculiar behavior was easy to see.

There, on the ground, sat a top hat, worn, beaten, and somewhat filthy. It looked as though it had been kicked around, and if one approached it the wrong way, they might feel bad for it and want to pick it up. They would likely end up getting themselves bitten by a possessed item. The hat would snarl and snap, saliva dribbling from the fanged maw formed by the jagged tear in the deep orange silk.

He- The hat was a male, you see- had been knocked off of his owner’s horned head in the chaotic hustle and bustle of the city, and she had been none the wiser as he tumbled to the floor.

Only she could hear his voice, so he couldn’t call for help, and she could only hear him if he was atop her head, so he couldn’t have shouted after her. He was stuck, jerking, bouncing, and rolling along at a snazal’s pace, finding himself- more than once- under foot or hoof of a hapless pedestrian, scaring the snot out of them via the snap of teeth that shouldn’t have existed where they did.

In fact, now was one such moment, as he found his brim being stepped on by a rather careless Inferno Mandoran. When he snapped at him, he simply lowered his rocky bulk, smoke and embers billowing from his nostrils as he snorted, eyes of liquid heat glaring into the beady orange of the hat, expression holding the promise to reduce him to cinders.

“Hey, excuse me!” A voice rang out, and the physical-bound spirit quivered, maw twisting into a distorted grin. It was his owner. The Mandoran lifted his head, coming face to face with the round, smooth, bright orange surface of… A pumpkin.

Naturally, he recoiled, broad paw lifting from the hat as he retreated. After all, it wasn’t often one found somebody with a giant gourd for a head!

“Why are you stepping on my hat? Is he yours? No? No. Okay. So, why?”

“I w-“ He began, but she interrupted him.

“Exactly! He’s not yours. He’s mine. He belongs on my head, right, Kezzek?” The Mandoran looked on in bewildered silence as she donned the writhing and gleefully snapping hat.

“See? What? You stepped on him? That was rude! And he called out to you, too! Nobody ever listens to him. Ever. What? Okay.” And with that, the Mericai turned, cantering off, leaving a very befuddled individual behind.
Top hats make the best of pals.