By Abigail Harvey

Eggs. So. Many. Eggs. Eggs to the left of me. Eggs to the right. Eggs under both wings. Eggs toppling away from me mid-incubation and magicking all over the place. But worst of all, dream-eggs getting scrambled like food-eggs and food-eggs becoming bedazzled by dreams! I am sick to the back proverbials of it. Who in the Composer’s name decided it was a good idea to have the same oval shape for two things?

Chef Kana, the main source of my mix-up melancholy, claims innocence. It’s not her fault, says she. If only she examined them more closely, says I. We are agreed on perhaps only one thing: Spells should not look like food. That’s right, I said it. Roostandor! does not cower in the light of the truth! I, in my profound wisdom, once suggested to Ovotron himself that we take a sharp turn away from eggs and grow spells in something far less likely to be consumed, like cabbage. I mean, there’s a reason it’s spelled almost exactly the same as garbage—it should be put in the mouths only of your enemies. But no, Ovotron ruled that eggs embody the one true magic of existence, that their shape strikes the perfect balance of rotundity and smoothitude. Strange chap, Ovotron.

You know what, chums? I could really use a day off. Let someone else deal with all the egg-swapping mayhem for a change!

Ah, but who? Hotpaws? No, no, as well-intentioned as our big man is, there’d be explosions every ten seconds. Snooker? He’d probably end up trickshotting them into an abyss. The woofer would think they were great new toys to play with and would only realize they weren’t when they didn’t squeak in his maw and his snout was dripping with lost dreams. Or yolk.

And who would keep a close enough watch on Kana? Without proper supervision, she would cook up every last egg and would be the sole perpetrator of the demise of Ovomancy throughout the known multiverse, unwittingly seasoning her destruction with Spark Spice and Worcestershire sauce.

Oh, alright then. I suppose once again the ever tolerant Roostandor! is the only one capable of rising to the challenge. I will dive beak-first into this nigh-impossible task with the ferocity of a burning star, the wisdom of gods, the resolve of a being who point-blank refuses to eat cabbage.

You know what they say: with great feathers comes great responsibility, and these feathers are the best in town.

Last updated