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List of Characters

The Driver

Bantam Orpington | 27 | Male | The Driver | Freedom | Page 1

The Leader

Jackie Coniferous Velta | 32 | Female | Leader |Valinyx| Page 4

The Soldiers

William Alaric Brewer II| 26 | Male | Soldier (Gaurd) | Ellyllon| Page 3

Patch Capon | 21 | Female | Soldier (Knight) | Enigma| Page 5

Clawdia Spurrington | 29 | Female | Soldier (Weaponry) | Sir Froggington | Page 5

The Cook

Colette Eglantine Hennings O’Flintshell | 40 | Female | Cook |Argos| Page 2

The Best Friend

Calhoun O'Malley | 15 | Male | Best Friend/Whipping boy | Tenebris Umbra | Page 2

The Prince

Wyandotte Faverolles | 15 | Male | Prince | Sir Froggington | Page 2

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Prompt

It is the last day of March and the youngest son, Prince Wyandotte Faverolles, recently left with a small escort of seven members. Five of them are trained soldiers. One is his favorite cook. He demanded that she'd go with him. The last one is his best friend and whipping boy.

They were forced to pack lightly and dress shabbily like they aren’t associates of royalty. They each are allowed to have one other change of clothes and two (fairly small) personal items. They were loaded into an old, but sturdy, wagon pulled by two geese. Bantam Orpington is in the front, steering the two geese. The cook, Colette O'Flintshire, sits beside him with a map. The two soldiers, William Alaric Brewer II and Patch Capon, sit in the back of the wagon. Another soldier, Clawdia Spurrington, sits on the right side of the wagon. The lead soldier, Jackie Coniferous Velta, sits on the left side of the wagon. The prince and his best friend, Calhoun O'Malley, sit in the middle of the wagon.

The wagon has a false bottom and is only roomy enough to fit two chickens inside. This is where the prince and his best friend are to sleep at night while the others are outside on the ground or under the wagon.

While they are traveling, the eldest brother is assassinated on the road. They do not know this.

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We start off a little after they leave the castle.

Bantam Orpington // 27 // Rooster // Driver // Mentions: All

It was a dusty day. Really, one could say it was a very dusty day. Some chickens even did say this, walking along the dirt path with feathers shielding their faces: “My dear, what a very dusty day it is!” Nobles flapped madly as their servants ran about shutting the windows so that the noble would be untouched by dirt while he was taking his fortnightly dust bath. Mother hens who stood up to stretch found that their pristine white eggs had turned inexplicably pale brown! Here next to the cornfields, the loose-soil path was throwing dust up into the air like celebratory confetti. Along the path now came a wagonfull of peasant chickens - or so they seemed. The oddball collection of small and large, sleek and puffy, fierce and soft, vertical and horizontal (could be, who’s to say?) made it clear they were no family or, if they were, that one of their parents probably needed to get their priorities straight. Perhaps they were taking a pleasant peasant stroll? Were they heading off to market? Maybe they were secretly transferring a prince to safety? Why are you asking me all of these questions? You know what’s happening, and you’re disrupting the flow of the writing. Quit it.

Ahem. But back to our heroes. Standing on the side of the road amongst the cornstalks, the first thing a chicken would notice about the wagon might be the two large white geese pulling it, their feathers ruffled and looking very irritable about the dust blowing into their eyes. Or perhaps the large bright teal blob which, upon closer inspection, would prove to be a surprisingly durable parasol held in the wing of a tall, dark-feathered rooster. His clothing was a bit finer than that of other chickens sitting in the wagon. One might assume that he was a bit wealthier, but more likely he was just bad at appearing peasant-like. In his other wing were the reins of the geese. This rooster was Bantam Orpington, goose-breeder and wagon-driver, who just that morning had set out on what would undoubtedly prove to be an adventure full of danger, insanity, and a dash of life-threatening situations. It was enough to make anyone chicken out.

All the same, that morning as he set out Bantam had had hugs for all the ladies, just delighted to see old friends, and with many tips of the hat for the great Prince Wyan. He had been reunited with his old fledgling peer, William Alaric Brewer (“Alaric, you old so-and-so!”). He had been delighted to find that his fellow goose-breeder’s wife, Colette, would be there as well. He had been quick to inform Jackie and Patch that he was, in fact, single, if they were at all interested. He'd been too nervous to do more than sneak a glance at Wyandotte, but he did manage to talk to Calhoun and so he figured he could chalk that up as a win. He started out the trip by humming the old folk song “Spotted Egg” three times in a row, but eventually fell into conversation with Colette. He had already made friendly chatter with nearly all of the flock and skirted awkwardly around Wyan while mumbling something that sounded like words, so he figured there was a good chance of making new friends on this trip. Well, close acquaintances and short-term girlfriends. Things were looking up! After all, what could go wrong with trying to sneak a teenage prince across barren lands full of angry cannibal chickens?

Bantam had been talking at Colette ever since they had left. They were just out of the town, and Bantam had run out of hens to wink at as he passed by. He had ended it with the hen he was courting just that morning, so there was no reason not to meet some other girls, he told himself. And just in a paragon of good timing, he now had two new hens who might be interested in him. Bantam was definitely not unaware of the difficulties involved in flirting with hens sitting directly behind you without turning your head, but he was giving it a valiant effort. The occasional “Shame you can’t sit up here with us, Jackie”, “How’s the view, Patch? Can’t be as pretty as you”, and "Clawdia, did I ever tell you how lucky I am to have a hen like you sitting right next to me?" were the best he could pull off under the circumstances, so it was really fortunate that he had ol’ Gingerbread sitting right next to him so he had something to do. “Well, most chickens attribute the Whooper Bean Swoose to Shelldon Barbu d’Uccle,” Bantam was saying to her now, half watching her and half watching the road. “I’m sure you know about him: Big V? Died trying to chart the Canadian Goose Migrations by riding on the back of his goose, fell right into the sea. Anyway, after the Cygnus Rift a lot of chickens stopped breeding sweese of any kind. My father was a strictly anti-swoose rooster himself, and as for me, I’m really undecided on swans as a whole. I do find their necks rather vexing. I think I heard your husband talking about sweese, but I’m not sure where he stands on the whole issue. You don’t do any swoose breeding, do you?”

As Bantam was talking, the wind made a sudden and violent attempt to wrench his parasol from his grip, but Bantam held on with a strength that he possessed in no situations except parasol-related ones, his bum levitating off the seat for a moment before the wind rage-quit and went to bother someone else. The geese, Lagle and Bezai, let out angry honks and Bantam pulled back on the reins to keep them under control. They settled, feathers ruffled and coated in a thin layer of brown dust. Bantam gave a light chuckle. “Looks like I have two Tufted American Buff Geese now,” he said out loud to anyone who was listening, and then waited for everyone to laugh at his incredibly funny joke. Sadly, he didn't get quite as enthusiastic a response as he was hoping, and he butted in quickly before anyone could make a comment. "You know, I actually got this feather from an American Buff Goose," he said, gesturing to the feather adorning his hat. "It was no easy feat, but it was certainly worth it. When I finally got it, well, I'll tell you, that really put a feather in my cap."

Oh, what a dusty day! What a dusty, dusty day indeed! He had never seen such dry scenery. Why, inhaling alone made his nostrils itchy, his throat dry, and his eyes water. It was like being back on his father's farm, being forced to work in any condition. He was parched, so much so, that the poor fool could hardly croak out a word without hacking away, his feathers ruffling in the process.

"Oh, this isn't good. This isn't good for my allergies at all," he rasped, pink tongue hanging out from the side of his black beak. Moments later, the pitiful sight known as Calhoun began to sneeze. It wasn't a singular sneeze, not even a double! Rather, it was a series, each one coming after the last. It was ongoing for a few, long treacherous seconds, his wings covering his beak in an attempt to muffle his sneezes. He wasn't even able to catch a breath between them, until at last, his sneezes concluded, leaving him in a pile of sniffles.

In the middle of the wagon was where Calhoun lay sprawled along the floor, his feet sticking out as he caught his breath. It was where he was to remain for the rest of this journey, or so he had been told. In truth, he had his doubts. So much so, that he began to question everything.

"Are you sure that this thing is safe?" He clucked, his faded feathers running along the sides of the wagon where he and seven others sat perched upon. "It doesn't stop creaking," he continued, curling his left wing up into a fist and tapping it against the wagon. "You all hear it too, don't you? I mean- Shh, see?" The fowl paused, cocking his head to the side. "See? See? Hear how it creaks?" He had turned to Wyandotte, his best friend and, indeed, his Prince to ensure that he was listening before continuing to coo and voice his concerns. "What if we lose a wheel? Worse, what if the wagon falls apart! Have any of you guys thought of this stuff?"

It was clear the poor rooster was agitated beyond belief, and what a reason he had! His very own friend, his companion was in danger! His life was on the line! It was his right to be concerned, what type of friend would he be if he wasn't? "We should have a backup plan. Er, do we? No matter, if anything happens, I can grip a dagger quite well. I suppose I can be rather wobbly with my form, but.." Nodding his head, Calhoun's comb bobbed along with it as he trailed off of his ramble before clucking and jabbering on. The chicken continued voicing backup plans, after all, one could never be too sure.

Gosh, what an adventure they were on! It was horrifying, yes, but slightly exhilarating. Well, so long as everything went according to plan. Even as things were calm, Calhoun found himself gripping the dagger that rested beneath his left wing. How neatly it lay tucked away. It was the perfect spot to hold such a fine weapon. Nobody could even see it unless they looked thoroughly, for it was snug beneath his feathers. He had, indeed, also given his dagger a name when he first received it; Abraham. However, never before had he uttered it aloud in public.

"Do you think we were followed? I sure hope not. Do any of you see anything?" Peeking, Calhoun stretched his neck out, gazing around before shrinking back and fiddling with his feathers. "I should have brought another dagger. Maybe even a third." Nodding to himself, the young fowl folded his legs before tucking his wings against his sides once more. However, the pose didn't last long, and within moments, Calhoun was back to picking away at his feathers and fidgeting around. Could anybody truly blame him? He certainly didn't think so. He had ever right to be nervous, and while such a trait was rare for him, he believed it to be justified in this given moment. After all, the feeling would vanish soon, all that needed to be done was get Wyan to safety. After that, all would be well, including Calhoun's nerves.

He had no sooner found himself leaning back slightly, the ear hidden behind his feathers angled towards Bantam, the driver, and a rooster he found himself to be fond of. He had eavesdropped on his conversation with Colette for a brief moment before turning away, growing bored of it. That is, until Bantam had clucked out a joke, and what a good one it was! Feathers ruffling in amusement, Calhoun released a loud, squeaky laugh in response. "Oh, that's a good one! See? Because he said.. he said.." he had trailed off upon realizing he was perhaps the loudest and only one responding. Rather, he quieted, an awkward silence entering the vicinity. "I thought it was rather genius," he had muttered to himself in defense before shrinking away. He was only grateful for Bantam's next set of words that replaced the small silence.

"How'd you get such a feather?" He had asked quickly in response. "Wyan, isn't that a pretty feather? Say, Bantam, can I touch it?" Calhoun was more annoying than a mere chick, already reaching his feathers out in hopes of stroking the fine feather upon his hat. However, the motion didn't last long.

Within moments, he had begun to sneeze again.

How he wasn't thrown out of the wagon already, even Calhoun didn't know.

Patch Capon | Soldier (Knight) | 24 | Female | Mentions: Alaric, Bantam, Calhoun

As Patch Capon watched the last traces of civilization recede further and further in the distance as their wagon rattled down the packed dirt road, she felt a funny mixture of trepidation and misgiving pool together in her gizzard. Patch knew that logically, leaving the city was probably the best move for a soldier like her. Despite being chums with many of the chickens in her sector, as the rebellion grew there was no way to guarantee the citizhens would not eventually see Patch as another hand of the monarchy, rather than a friendly neighbourhood knight.

Either that, or Patch was beginning to feel the several hour long journey, and the effects of every bump, stone, and pothole in the road. She had braved much worse, spent weeks at sea crossing over from her homeland where the dark glassy waves swelled to the height of a hundred conifers and tossed the ship about like a leaf in the river rapids. So a simple wagon ride should be the least of her problems, right?

A sudden, particularly large jostling of the wagon caused Patch’s rapier, Yolktale, to roll away from her, and she caught the weapon with her foot. She tucked Yolktale securely under her chicken breast and yanked her bycocket down over her face with a sigh, but pushed it back up again slightly should she need to see. Needless to say, Patch signed up for this job with not much experience other than her career as a knight. When looking over the contract, Patch’s birdbrain had only seen the possibility of adventure, and a ticket out of disaster. Slaying raptors and thwarting criminal operations? All in a day's work. Guarding other chickens? Not so much. It was actually something Patch had actively tried to avoid in the past— she’d chosen the position of knight to escape standing around a musty old castle doing zip-all but keeping watch. How ironic that in the end, Patch found herself in the prince’s own personal guard.

To the best of her knowledge though, should someone, or something attempt to harm the prince and his friend, Patch and her comrades would have to leap to arms. And Patch was very good at beating things up.

For now they were stuck cooped up in this wagon like livestock, doing nothing, and gathering dust. Literally. The dry soil was beginning to form a fine silt upon all of them, and the previously snow-white geese pulling the wagon had turned a fine beige. With all the debris being kicked up by the wind and the wheels, Patch wondered if they would be completely obscured from hostile surveillance. She could feel it start to settle into the deeper layers of her feathers. Patch tugged her cloak over her multicoloured tail plumes to protect them from the grime and shuddered in distaste, sending up a mini dust cloud of her own.

In front of her, Calhoun, the prince’s companion, laughed at Bantam’s joke about the tawny state of their geese. Bantam had levelled flirts at Patch, the other hens in the wagon, and all the other hens they had encountered so far on their travels. She always carried a certain affection towards fellow charmers, and liked his upbeat energy. It was not premature to guess that the journey would not be entirely dry in his company.

“Maybe somebody’s doing their spring cleaning up there,” Patch said, making a wisecrack of her own. She glanced at Alaric, one of the other soldiers and an actual, qualified guard, who sat beside Patch at the back of the wagon, and she clacked her beak playfully. “Otherwise, I haven’t the foggiest idea where all this dust is coming from.”

Wyandotte Faverolles | 15 | Male | Prince | Mentions: Colette, Calhoun, Bantam

Squeak.

He swayed slightly to the left.

Squeak.

He swayed slightly to the right.

Wyandotte Faverolles slumped against the backboard of the driver’s seat. He sat there, and he sat there. He sat some more, and he continued to sit. The countryside passed by in an unremarkable blur. He was so tired of being here. He didn’t want to be here. He wanted to be at home. He kicked his legs furiously, barely containing a frustrated shriek. He collapsed against the backboard again. His thick head fluff cushioning what would normally be a painful blow. “My claws are going to sleep,” he moaned. “The sun is in my eyes. I’m bored.” Surprisingly, he didn’t complain about his posterior being sore after sitting on the hard planks. His thick tail feathers prevented him from feeling the tough wood underneath him.

The countryside was dusty. Oh, so very dusty, and he was tired of blinking. His eyes were constantly watering. He covered his face with his wings. He was not able to see the movement of the wagon moving forward, which made him nauseated, so he uncovered his face and raised his red-rimmed eyes back up to the dusty air. His nose would clog and unclog depending on the direction the wind was blowing. From time to time, he would have to open his beak to breathe, which sent him into a hacking fit. His mouth was parched. “I can’t breathe. The dust is in my mouth. I’m parched, and maybe I’m dying.” He hacked for emphasis and hopefully sympathy. “I request a fresh beverage.” Such clueless chickens. He would have to be more specific, or they would never get what he wanted. “I don’t want any of that nasty clear stuff. I want a cool cup of the red stuff.” He closed his eyes imagining being at home taking a nice refreshing cleansing bath in his dust bowl.

He flopped onto the bottom of the wagon alongside Calhoun. He gazed up at the blue sky and clouds feeling slightly light-headed and very close. He began to ignore them, as he didn’t like that feeling. From time to time, he would cover his ears as his friend coughed and wheezed. He began to edge towards him, deciding that he would make an adequate headrest. He opened his beak to command Calhoun to cease and desist with the awful racket until Calhoun inquired about the integrity of the wagon.
Wyan bolted upright.

He hadn’t thought of that. “Th..the..the wagon is tearing asunder?” His voice quivered. It had been hard getting that question out. What if he fell onto this dirty road. What if he fell into a goose puddle. An even worse thought occurred to him. What if he had to walk?

How could this be? Only his best mate Calhoun cared what happened to him. Only Calhoun was trying to look out for his welfare. Only Calhoun was paying attention. The rest of them probably hated Wyan. He wanted to go home as well. He didn’t want to be here. Surely, they resented him for pulling them abruptly onto this journey, especially Colette. Wyan had felt miserable enough about this whole thing, but as long as he had Colette, he believed he would have edible food. She knew what he liked. Surely, if they didn’t want to be here, they were going to abandon him the first chance they got. However, it was too close to the castle for now.

His voice was becoming louder and rising in pitch. “I don’t want to fall into goose poop. I’m tired of sitting, and I most certainly don’t want to walk! I’m tired of the dust. I WANT TO GO HOME!” He quieted into sulky silence. He glared at the joke and shrugged when he was asked his opinion on the feather. After a moment, he turned to look at Bantam to ask a time-old question. “How much farther is it? When are we going to get there?” Although he had been informed that he was going on a long journey, no one had thought to tell him why or where. They assumed he was too blabby and dumb.

He finally concluded that he was going to have to entertain himself. “Calhoun. Fetch me my paper and drawing utensil.” If he was going to be bored out of his mind, he’d have his revenge with caricatures portraying them as inane little fowls. Sadly, while he had a drawing utensil, which he had accidentally forgotten in his pocket, there wasn’t enough room for paper.