This draft will likely be rewritten with rhyme or used for marketing.
From the veils gate emerges
a Pooka, a restless horse—
strange, gaudy, impossible to ignore.
Unnamed, yet it wears authority,
Might you climb upon its back,
half herald, half trickster,
Quicksilver in borrowed clothes.
More alluring than heinous,
yet no one doubts the gravity
of its role.
The hooves of the Pooka cut the sky wide open,
Its Neigh a thunder clap that splits the air.
Behind the Pooka, behind the veil,
through the passage you glimpse Phantasia.
The Fae move forward, drawn by wonder,
their chatter a tide that rises around.
All the while the Pooka waits, patient,
until the noise dwindles.
The Pooka carries you through the veil—
a signal that the ancient times are over,
that a new message must be heard.
WoPoLi 
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