Pete's Expert Summary
So, my human has presented me with this box of... paper. It’s called "Call to Adventure," and it’s from the same people who made that other box they stare at, the one with the pixelated monster. From what I can gather, this is another one of their elaborate imagination games. They will lay out these illustrated cards all over the dining room table—my auxiliary napping platform—and pretend to be "heroes" on a "journey." The only journey I see is one that will inevitably lead to them forgetting my second dinner. The cards might be suitable for shredding, but the real prize appears to be the two dozen small, throwable objects they call "runes." While the humans are busy "crafting their destiny," I'll be busy crafting a plan to bat those runes under the heaviest piece of furniture in the house. A worthy challenge, I suppose.
Key Features
- Create your ultimate fantasy hero and tell their story by facing challenges and crafting your destiny
- Contains over fully illustrated 150 cards and 24 custom runes.
- From the makers of the hit game, boss Monster.
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The evening began, as many do, with a betrayal. The Human unsealed a new box, releasing a scent of fresh cardboard and ink that, while intriguing, heralded the arrival of a new obsession that was not me. They called it a "Call to Adventure." I call it an obstruction. Soon, the great polished plain of the dining table was littered with colorful rectangles depicting all manner of foolishness: wizards, warriors, and windswept landscapes. I watched from the arm of the sofa, a silent arbiter in my gray tuxedo, grooming a single white paw with deliberate slowness. Let them have their fantasy. My reality—of sunbeams, salmon pâté, and the absolute subjugation of all household staff—was far more compelling. They began by casting little plastic stones, the "runes," which clattered with a sound that sent a delightful shiver down my spine. The sound of potential chaos. One of the humans, the one who is less skilled with the scritches, declared his character was an "Orphaned Scion" seeking to "Master the Arcane." I yawned, displaying the full glory of my fangs. An orphan? Please. I once found the bottom of my food bowl. I stared into that ceramic abyss for what felt like an eternity before my distress cries were answered. That is true tragedy, the stuff of legend. Their arcane mastery was nothing compared to my proven ability to summon a human from two rooms away with a single, precisely pitched meow. As their "story" progressed, they encountered a "challenge"—a card showing a "Guardian of the Threshold." It was a magnificent beast: a great cat with eyes like emeralds and fur the color of storm clouds, lounging before a stone doorway. The humans spoke in hushed tones about how to "appease" it or "outsmart" it. Appease me? Outsmart me? The fools. They were describing a Tuesday afternoon. I saw myself in that illustration, the noble gatekeeper of the hallway that leads to the Forbidden Closet of Clean Towels. They debated offering it a "tribute." I stretched, hopped down from my perch, and sauntered over to the table. Leaping gracefully onto an empty chair, I stared directly at the male human and let out a soft, questioning "Mrrrow?" He blinked, breaking character. "Oh, is it time for your snack, Pete?" He got up and retrieved the bag of crunchy treats. As he shook a few into my bowl, I glanced back at the game. They had successfully passed the challenge. They believed their little plastic runes and imaginative words had won the day. They were mistaken. It was I, the true Guardian, who had assessed their worthiness and granted them passage by demanding my rightful tribute. The game, I decided, was a flawed but occasionally accurate simulation of my world. It could stay, so long as its players remembered who held the real power.
