Poultreist are the malevolent spirits of unhatched eggs. Although they always appear birdlike, they don’t spawn exclusively from avian ovum. There have been reports of poultreist emerging from granoot eggs, and I myself have seen the remains of a vislang nest after what appears to be a poultreist massacre. Despite there being no confirmed sightings, or evidence, I am inclined to believe it possible for this ghostly critter to hatch from insect and fish eggs too.

Though always vicious and aggressive, how dangerous a poultreist is depends upon its size, and this can vary wildly. This ghostly fowl’s spirit manifests from the deceased embryo that spawns it, meaning its size derives from whatever critter birthed it. A poultreist born from an aerikleptes egg for example would be much smaller than one from a gigemustich.

Their savagery, and enormous talons, make poultreist one of the most dangerous critters in Pandea. If it wasn’t for their miniscule lifespans, these ferocious fowl would likely have wiped every other species out of existence. Thankfully, however, this isn’t the case, and the oldest recorded polutreist to have ever lived spent a grand total of five days in a tortured, maddened frenzy before finally departing for the next world.

As an expert on all things critter related, I am often asked to consult on various different topics, from building projects to criminal investigations, anything where a critter is suspected to be involved or affected. One such request for assistance came from the sheriff’s office. There had been a series of attacks upon a local gobbowl farm, and investigators were drawing a blank.
Poultreist attacks on gobbowl farms are and have long been a regular occurrence. They are less common now with new critter protection laws in place, but still frequent enough that I would assume no farmer would call the sheriff, and especially not myself if confronted by one. I was confident when I arrived and stepped through the doors of the barn that poultreist would not be the answer. 

An unbearable stench greeted me inside. The air was thick with the smell of rotting flesh, and a mess of feathers and blood coated the straw carpet of the barn floor. It was empty except for the bloodied corpses confined to the far corner, yet somehow the entire room was filled with death. The farmer turned to me anxiously. 

“Do you have any Idea what it might be?” I looked him, my mouth agape in disbelief. 

“You mean to tell me you don’t?” I asked. He shook his head. “Not even the slightest inkling?” I pushed. He threw his hands in the air and exhaled. His face painted the picture of a man at the very edge of his tether. “This is quite obviously a poultreist attack.” I offered. “Move your flock to your spare barn for a couple of days and wait for the cursed thing to disappear.” His eyes creased, his nose wrinkled, and his mouth curled into an angry snarl, obviously something I’d said had touched a nerve. “Don’t worry.” I held up my hands in an attempt to calm him. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of, poultreist are just a part of the natural cycle, there’s not much you can do to stop them, no poor reflection on your farm.” His eyes rolled. He grabbed me by the shoulder and steered me out of the room, dragging me across the farmyard to his spare barn. 

“Think I’m stupid, do you?” he asked as he threw me through the doors. The smell hit me in a swift gut punch, stealing all the air from my lungs. It was even worse than the first building. Vomit forced itself into the back of my throat my senses were so overwhelmed. Its acidic bite only served to increase the foul experience. 

What must have been close to a hundred birds were piled up, plucked and shredded in the corner. 
“Of course I moved them.” the farmer spat. “Lot of good it did, whatever did it just moved with them.  Ain’t no poultreist I ever heard of can do that.” The unwelcome news caused me to pause. I too had never encountered a mobile poultreist. No recorded specimen had ever been known to travel more than a few feet in its lifetime. Yet this carnage could be the work of no other beast. 

“I see.” I sighed. Not really seeing yet but determined nevertheless. “I shall need to watch them overnight.” He raised his hand to protest, but I left no space as I continued. “If we are lucky then it is indeed a poultreist. It should have reached the end of its life by now and we will see nothing. Otherwise, I will need to see it before I can propose a course of action.” 

Night fell. The farmer and I crouched in the rafters of the old barn. I was unsure what to expect, so had prepared sedatives for any critter I could have imagined walking through the doors. (And a few I couldn’t just to be safe.) No amount of preparation could have prepared me for what I actually saw. 

As the moon shone through the high windows, lighting a square patch on the floor, a lone gobbowl wandered into its silver rays.**** Its movements were awkward, it wiggled around, waving its whole-body side to side. Its feet kept reaching up towards its back, almost as if it was trying to shake something loose. It danced into the moonlight, and the beam hit its back. 

The bird’s body was coated in blue flames, and from the base of its neck rose the flaming, feathered head of a poultreist. Nothing in any of my research, in any of my travels, or in any of the studies of those who had come before me, had ever recorded possession as a skill poultreist possessed. The bird continued to thrash as the ghosts menacing talons appeared. They slashed the air around them, desperately reaching out for blood and murder. The other critters kept their distance. I loaded my rifle with the tiny amount of tranquilizer needed to take down an adult gobbowl, and fired. It swayed and fell. 

Flames still coated its back. The ghostly apparition persisted, swinging its talons, looking for fresh meat with every swipe. The farmer watched, aghast as his flock inched forward in curiosity and was cut down further. I raised a comforting hand to rest upon his shoulder, but he was gone. He darted through the mass of squawking feathers, screaming as he went. Making a beeline for the flailing poultreist. 

I yelled. A swipe from one of those claws could slice through rock, human bone stood no chance. His screams rang through the air as the talons raked across his shin. Blood splattered the spirit as he jerked backwards, away from the attack. He was lucky to still have his leg. His attack had distracted the poultreist though. I moved in, taking full advantage of its lapse in concentration. I dove forwards, grabbing the gobbowl’s neck, and I saw it. A tiny piece of shell lodged beneath its feathers. That must have been what the ghost was attached to. 

I reached forwards and grabbed the shell. The poultreist, thrown by the sudden movement of its host, span around. It slashed. I squeezed. The shell crumbled. The ghost faded, but not before it hit me. Blood poured from my shoulder. I collapsed into a heap of hay, exhausted, and surrounded by gobbowl, but victory was ours. 

That incident left both me and the farmer in Dextrus general hospital. Our wounds were deep, but far from fatal, very good news following a puoltreist attack. Throwing myself at such a dangerous critter isn’t something I would usually do and were it not for such peculiar circumstances I wouldn’t have done so on this occasion either, but the thrill of new discovery clouded my senses. Even without the excitement of possession on the table, I was able to learn a lot from this event. Mainly, that poultreist’s short life span is due to its lack of mobility. If one is able to continue its killing spree, then it will continue to exist. For how long exactly a single one of these spirits could survive, or how many lives it has to take to do so, I do not know. I am currently, however, seeking a humane method of finding out.