Note: These short stories are set in The Magical World of Zealandia, offering glimpses into its adventures and mysteries. While they can be enjoyed on their own, reading Zealandia: The Dreadstones Grasp will provide deeper context and enrich your experience!
Once upon a time, two enchanted toys were thrown from a hot air balloon.
Technically, they were ballast. Glorified sandbags with button eyes and stitched seams, brought to life by Professor Frizzlewhirl’s magic in a moment of crisis.
Their sudden sacrifice steadied the balloon as it crossed New Zealand’s Southern Alps.
The balloon soared to safety.
The giraffe and the koala did not.
They plunged into unforgiving snow, landing in a tangle of limbs, stitches, and one very knotted scarf.
And so began their long, miserable hike back to Midtown.
Day One: The Mountains
The blizzard howled.
Snow lashed their cloth faces as the giraffe staggered down the frozen slope, hooves slipping on ice-slick rocks. A seam at its knee split wider, stuffing trailing behind them like breadcrumbs.
Perched between the giraffe’s shoulders, the koala hunched deep in its oversized scarf, ears flattened. With a sharp squeak and a swat to the giraffe’s neck, it jabbed ahead. Move.
The giraffe groaned but trudged on.
Shapes loomed through the white.
Down the ridge, enchanted snowmen pelted snowballs at a towering yeti hunched over a block of blue ice.
The yeti grunted and hacked at the slab with a chisel, stacking shards into crates marked Zealandia Coldstores, while dodging snowballs with barely contained fury.
A stray snowball veered toward the giraffe.
It ducked, hooves slipping on loose stone as another zipped past the koala’s scarf.
Neither toy lingered. Without hesitation, they veered off-course and slipped into the trees, eager to avoid becoming part of the mayhem.
By the time they reached the edge of the forest, both were soaked, dusted in ice, and thoroughly fed up.
Day Two: The Forest
The snow thinned into heavy slush as they descended into sodden woods. The air grew warmer, thicker. Trees gave way to dripping bush, heavy with moss and ferns.
Mud sucked at the giraffe’s hooves with every step, slowing its heavy gait.
The koala, perched like a battle-weary captain, yanked off its scarf and fashioned it into a sagging headwrap to block the dripping rain. With a stern squeak, it waved a stick like a commander spurring on a reluctant soldier.
The giraffe sighed, head drooping lower as they pressed on beneath the canopy.
Further along, enchanted wheelbarrows rattled past, hauling bundles of timber, ignoring them completely.
The koala rubbed its temples and squeaked in sheer frustration. The giraffe didn’t even look up.
Day Three: The Meadows
By now, the giraffe’s fur was stained and matted. The threads in its legs stretched with every step across the rolling, muddy meadows. The golden grasses swayed gently, brushing against its sides.
Midtown glimmered in the distance—just beyond the far fields and crooked farms.
The giraffe grunted softly. Finally.
The koala flopped forward, draped over its friend’s neck like a sack of potatoes. It lifted a single paw and flapped it limply toward Midtown. Move. Now.
As they staggered through the final stretch, a pair of enchanted scarecrows waved cheerfully from the edge of a nearby paddock. One scarecrow tipped its floppy hat.
The giraffe managed a weak snort in reply before collapsing into a sit, legs giving out beneath it.
The koala slid from its back and rolled onto the ground with a soft thud, limbs splayed.
For a moment, they lay there—two worn-out, threadbare toys sprawled in the mud, staring at the clouds floating peacefully above them on the outskirts of town.
Arrival
Eventually, with a great deal of grumbling and squeaking, the giraffe rose. The koala scrambled up beside it, fur ragged and scarf tied like a pirate’s bandana.
Together, they stumbled into Midtown’s plaza, drawing curious glances from passers-by.
Ahead, Professor Frizzlewhirl’s bright orange curls bobbed in the breeze as she approached.
“Oh, there you are!” she called, waving cheerily. “Took you long enough!”
The giraffe flared its nostrils, jaw slack.
The koala clenched its tiny paws and squeaked furiously, stamping one muddy foot.
Frizzlewhirl tapped her watch. “Three days? Honestly, you’re slower than a frost slug.”
She spun on her heel and headed through the town. “Come on! Back over the mountains we go. Chop chop!”
The giraffe groaned so deeply it rattled its own stuffing. The koala, paws on hips, glared daggers at her disappearing frizzy hair.
They exchanged one last look—utterly defeated, entirely unimpressed—and began to slowly follow Frizzlewhirl’s maddening humming.