| |
Lightbringer
|
Links Thread: No Cluck(y), Yer Here Rules -WP rules apply -Sir Froggington is a co-leader, respect them -Respect our choices whether to decline or accept your characters -48 hour limit for reservations -Two character limit since we don’t have many roles -Keep it PG-13, this includes fowl language -Be active, don’t join just to quit and at least post twice a week. I understand that life gets busy, especially with finals. -This is literate. I expect 300+ words in appearance, 350+ words in personality. I want 400+ words per post. In cases of writer’s block, try for at least the 350 mark. -No OP characters and be somewhat realistic. I don’t want to see pink hens and bright blue eyes and/or chickens that can kill a boar with a single peck without getting their delicate feathers messed up. You get the picture. -All characters are chickens and all other animals are wild, dumb creatures. No humans. -Given that chickens aren’t really like this, wearing clothes and ruling kingdoms sort of thing or even getting along great with each other, I don’t expect too much research. We’ve got some wiggle room here because they’ll be using their wings as hands and stuff. It is medieval themed, so I’d like to keep items, clothing, professions etc in the time. -Try not to spam this thread. If you have any questions, ask either Sir Froggington or myself. If we have a discussion, post it there and deal with conversations there. If not, use PMs. -Hate the character, not player -Ask permission before killing a character. I really doubt that will happen, but who knows? Chickens are ruthless. -Romance is allowed, but don’t make it the main focus -If you use photos, credit them to their proper owners and use WP approved sites. I suggest Deviant Art (DA). Don’t forget to use an image-hosting site. 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 --- 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. --- We start off a little after they leave the castle. |
|
|
| |
Neutral
|
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." |
|
|
| |
Darkseeker
|
Calhoun O'Malley The Best Friend || 15 || Male || Mentions: All
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. |
|
|
| |
Neutral
|
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.” |
|
|
| |
Lightbringer
|
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. |
|
|
| |
Lightbringer
|
Colette “Letty” O’Flintshell | 40 | Cook | Hen | M: Bantam Orpington, Calhoun O’Malley (ind), Wyandotte Faverolles, Colette was still a bit flustered from being told to go on an unexpected trip. She kept on rerunning thoughts in her head. Were there leftovers for Boyne? Could Boyne even cook? Of course he could cook, she had made sure of that after their marriage. Did she tell Aggie what to fix for the royal’s supper? She couldn’t remember, but Aggie was a smart pullet and would figure something out. She took a deep breath and the young rooster beside her had asked her a question. Bantam was quite the character and a lively soul. She enjoyed his company as he was a likable chicken. Plus their conversations kept her mind from wandering into a panic, even if she didn’t know much about geese. The wagon’s wood wheels already stirred up some of the dust around and sitting behind the two white geese added to the foggy air. The swoosh of air that lifted Bantam from his seat blew a well-aimed puff in Colette’s face. She rubbed her eyes and tried to blink the dirt out of them. She was a bit busy with trying to see and breathe to react to Bantam’s rather poor joke. She heard laughter from the bed of the wagon but didn’t turn around to see. It was probably one of the young boys, as she figured that only they would giggle at such a terrible pun. “Slaughterhouse, that was a big ‘un.” She implied the dust poof with a smile while still blinking rapidly. “Whooper Bean Swoose…mmm, I don’t think I’ve ‘eard about ‘em. I have heard of swoose before, though.” She rubbed her waddles thoughtfully, “I think I recall Boyne complain’n about the big swoose rave and how it was hurt’n the duck business, particularly. He wasn’t too interested in swans, they were too big for him. He did think that it could be a future investment if their popularity kep' on rise’n. Thank the farmer that they didn’t, I’m rather nervous of the big things. Too big o’ a beak, and a-aACHHOO!” An unexpected sneeze exploded out of her. It was surprisingly loud for such a little hen. “‘Cuse me.” She spoke in a small voice as rubbed her nose. She searched in a small bag beside her for a tissue. “Well, boil me! I thought I put a handkerchief in ‘ere.” Given that after a second and third look she still couldn’t find one, she decided not to be nasty and just ride down the road with a stuffy bill. She knew that eventually, it would clear up, but until then she made a snoring noise whenever she breathed. She hoped that Bantam didn’t mind it. A terrible noise erupted from just behind them that could’ve only come out of one chicken’s pipes. Wyandotte. Though incredibly annoying, she felt sympathetic towards him. He was helpless and was probably scared of being away from home. From what limited knowledge that she knew, he had never been away from home without family or one of his brothers. “Oh darlin’ it i’ all alright,” she spoke to the silkie in a hushed tone, usually reserved for one of her pet ducks. Although it was rather clogged-sounding, she hoped that it would soothe him. “We’ll stop lat’r by a stream and we can then get all cleaned up. We’re go’n on a trip an’ then we can go home.” She wished that she was sitting in the back so that she could tend to him a bit better and maybe feed him a couple of crackers and cheese slices. That would calm him, a small sense of comfort for him. However, she didn’t have them with her at the moment. They were stored in the wagon bed with the rest of the baggage. Plus it was too early for a snack, as they had recently left the castle where she was sure that Wyan had eaten a plentiful breakfast. So she didn’t bring up food. |
|
|
| |
Neutral
|
Jackie Coniferous Velta Hen `~` 32 `~` Lead Soldier '~' Mentions; Everyone (Indirectly) Jackie felt her feathers bristle as she made a small huff of discontent at her situation, dust clinging to her feathers and making them feel even messier than they already were as small particles managed to cling to her, making her plumage already look considerably duller than they were supposed to look. The hen squinted her eyes a bit in hopes of protecting herself from the constant onslaught, however it seemed for naught as they watered slightly and she finally resigned herself to being uncomfortable for a few moments with an internal sigh as she kept her posture rigid, eyes darting around in search for any kind of danger. While she knew they were a distance from the castle already, her nerves still screamed at her that they were still too close in proximity and something could easily happen like an ambush. The lead guard shivered as she could practically still smell the smoke in her beak despite the blanket of dust seemingly desperate to clog her sense of smell too, screams she knew that couldn't possibly be here still fresh in her mind, both angry and desperate cries. Yes, they were too close. Much too close for her liking. The hen took a breath, feathers still ruffled and unkept as even before this, though with a newly added layer of fine light brown coating it and choked back her urge to make a small chuckle when the rooster up front managed to crack some kind of joke. Still too close. What was the rooster's name again? Jackie thought she recalled him calling himself Ban… something… Batham? Sure. Unfortunate name, but Good enough for now. She couldn't judge him of course, but set herself to resist calling out to him until she could get some confirmation from someone else to what he was actually called. Goodness, curse her terrible memory. Jackie could practically see her mother's worried frown in her head as one of her siblings shouted the thing she forgot from across the house and getting a loud 'thank you!' in reply as she would cough embarrassed. With no time to be hung up about that however, she set herself to focus once more. Batham and the hen upfront had started a chatter between them at some point, something about Sweese, of which Jackie had no clue what they were saying, and watched with her eyes as… Calhoun was it? reached out to try and touch the delicately placed feather atop the rooster's hat. It was quite striking, if she was honest, though she would admit she had never seen someone dress in such a fashion as he, considering she had grown up as a commoner and then whisked away to join the king's soldiers with her mother's reluctant blessing. Not as extravagant as the king's own, but very charming nonetheless. Calhoun and the prince were something to say the least, she had never had the pleasure to meet the prince until now having been busy, and Calhoun had been a farmer if she wasn't mistaken, so the chances of her seeing them were already slim to begin with. The lead soldier tilted her head ever so slightly as she hummed to herself in thought. Jackie wouldn't go as far as to say the prince was necessarily annoying, and neither was Calhoun. She was used to it, having been raised and even forced to, at some point, care for her siblings and needing to train any newcomers seeking to join the king's ranks once she had become a mentor. She had seen annoying before, experienced it, had been it at one point she was sure, but no, annoying wasn't necessarily the way she would describe them. More so… a little needy to put it lightly and mayhaps a bit too sheltered in the prince's case. It was something Jackie assured herself she could deal with as the prince started whining on about dying and being thirsty or something of the sort. If she could help him, she would, but stayed out as it was out of her control to help find a solution to the whole dust problem, and it had been merely a few minutes since they left, so he would probably love without some water. Still too close. Instead, the hen listened, letting her eyes drift from the prince to Calhoun, over to Batham and the hen next to him, and finally towards her fellow soldiers William and Patch. The prince started fretting over the wagon like Calhoun had, she noted briefly, raising a brow in slight amusement. Nay had she ever met any of them. In fact, the group was rather colorful in terms of… well, everything. From Patches' strikingly unusual looking tail feathers that had indeed been confirmed to be fake at some point, the prince's rather beautiful plumage and Batham's dress style, to the personalities and occupations and class scattered throughout. It was an odd kind of companionship she found herself in, but it was duty that she was bound to them. Bound to protect them, to guard them, on order of the king no less. So she sat quietly, huffing a small bit in recollection of Batham's somewhat flirty remarks, and resorted to just gazing past whoever was across from her, right past their neck towards the distance as her posture remained somewhat stiff. Jackie's eyes went towards the prince briefly again, tempted to say something to him at his rather loud declaration of being homesick as something she identified as pity formed in her chest. Too close. The hen kept silent, urging herself to listen for something other than the chatter of the companionship around her as the wheels of the wagon clicked below over stones and imperfections in the road they traveled upon, perhaps for any ambush or approaching threat, but there was nothing. Relax. Jackie forced herself to take a breath in, despite how it seemed to slightly irritate her lungs before exhaling and fixing her posture once more. We'll be fine. |
|
|
| |
Neutral
|
-William Alaric Brewer II-
26 | Soldier (Guard) | Rooster (Male) | M: Bantam Orpington (ind), Patch Capon, Calhoun O’Malley (ind), Wyandotte Faverolles (ind), Colette O’Flintshell
Alaric’s eye twitched slightly as the wagon creaked loudly beneath him. Dust and rocks clung tight to wooden wheels, making the already rickety cart sway from side to side. Another bump of the road and another shriek of the wood had the rooster closing his eyes completely, feathers fluffed and ruffled in apprehension. A weary sigh escaped him, strengthening into a yelp as the wagon lurched, nearly toppling him forward and out the back of their ride. A wing shot out to grasp tightly at the side of the cart, taloned feet digging into the wooden floor as he stared anxiously down at the dirt path below.
He was nervous. The rooster had never ridden on a cart before, let alone one heading so far out of town. He had always preferred to walk wherever he was going, and it's not like he did much traveling as a castle guard. The most he had ever had to trek was from his front porch to the castle gates, and even that little expedition didn't take more than a day to finish. The wagon gave another lurch and Alaric gulped, feathers rustling around him. It was safe to say the ride so far hadn't been pleasant.
He wished he could pace. That he could simply hop down from the wagon and waddle along beside it instead of continuing to suffer through its wretched swaying. Sure, he'd end up with sore feet rather quickly, but as the tingling feeling of nausea began to build in his stomach, the rooster started to believe the pain would be worth it. He hated sitting still, and he despised it even more when the solid object below him wasn’t stationary. What he wants, however, is irrelevant. He had a job to do, and for now, whether he liked it or not, he could do nothing more than sit, and wait, and pray he didn’t lose his breakfast.
Light chatter filled the air behind him, helping to divert his attention from the steadily moving rocks below, and allowing his shoulders to untense a bit as he was once again reminded of his company. Most of the party were strangers to him, or at best colleagues, whom he never had a chance to get to know very well. He did, however, have an old companion to make the journey with, the thought of which soothed the anxious energy ballooning in his chest. Bantam Orpington was one of his peers back when he was just a fledgling. The two had gone down very different career paths, with Alaric going joining the guards and the older male leaving to work with geese, but it seemed that fate had intended to keep the two young friends together after all.
'That man has always been quite the flirt,' he thought to himself, smiling in amusement as the driver tossed compliments over his shoulder to the two hens seated rearwards. 'Though it seems I had forgotten just how much of a womanizer the scoundrel actually is.'
Despite the harsh meaning behind the words, they were lighthearted, and Alaric felt nothing but fondness as the other rooster preened under the attention. Bantam later told a joke that completely flew over the younger male's head, though the prince's friend seemed to delight in it. He gave the rooster a polite chuckle despite his less than adequate knowledge when it came to animals. He knew how to hunt them, and he was even better at tracking them, but when it came down to knowing the specifics about a certain breed? Well, they may as well be speaking two different languages.
Alaric stiffened as the wagon hit another bump, sending one of the soldiers' swords sliding across the planks. He watched it spiral towards the edge, wing twitching forward as if to stop its descent, before its owner scooped it up with little flourish. His reddish eyes tracked the path of dusty brown feathers to one of the hens Bantam had been trying to woo. Patch, he thought her name was. A soldier, like himself. Crinkled eyes filled with mirth flickered towards him, and he bit down the urge to flinch away.
Golden, just like his father's.
He offered a subdued grin at the impish look on her face, internally praying it didn't look as forced as it felt. The playful lilt to her words thankfully put him at ease, and the borderline grimace smoothed out to a smaller, but genuine smile. He was entertained by the banter, but a bit lost. Bantam had always been the one to take charge around the hens, with Alaric content to stay on the sidelines. It would be a lie to say he didn't enjoy the attention now though. He just wasn’t sure how to return it.
A quiet chuckle rumbled from his chest and the words tumbled from his mouth before he could even think of what to make of them. "It'd have to be a rather grand home to host all this dirt. One that hasn’t had a good scrub in ages, I would think." He glanced down at the fine layer of silt settling on the wagon floor.
"Or perhaps some poor hen is finally getting a good scrub in after her chicks have flown the coop. Lord knows how much trouble my own mother had picking up after us. Ye couldn't tell the mud stains from the floorboards most days! Oh, the fuss our parents would make..." Those were some of the good times, he thinks. Though his mum would playfully disagree. Alaric's gaze drifted back to the town behind them, watching as the castle's outline slowly shrunk the farther they traveled away. Soon there would be nothing left but wide-open country land to pass through. It was surprising to think just how much he would miss this old place once they were well and truly gone.
A rather high-pitched screech was what eventually tore him from his thoughts, and the rooster jerked in surprise, nearly jumping a foot in the air at the sudden noise. His head whipped around to see what all of the fuss was about, and he almost instantly regretted it. The dust was certainly much worse when looking forward, and he had to squint so as not to get soil in his eyes. By the time he'd adjusted to the influx of wind, the prince was already being soothed by the cook they had brought along: an older hen with brown and gold coloring. She was among the few in the cart he hadn't met yet, much less had a conversation with, he noted.
Then again, he had yet to properly interact with the youngest of their party either. He had never formally met the two boys, though he had watched the youngsters scamper about the halls on multiple occasions. The pair seemed to be glued to the hip, from the glimpses he managed to catch of the two, though he highly doubted the children had ever noticed him. The result of being just another armored face out of hundreds.
What words were exchanged between the three, he couldn't hear from where he was sitting. What he could pick up on, however, was the nasally tone the hen's voice took on the longer she spoke. He watched for a moment as the cook rummaged about in her bag before he decided to try and help the lady out.
Alaric stood up, wobbling a bit and flapping to keep his balance as the wheels rolled over a particularly bumpy patch on the road. He stumbled forward, ducking around the two teens, and braced against the front of the wagon with a huff. Slowly, he sunk down into a kneel, shakey from the walk and less than keen to attempt standing for a prolonged period. Grimacing, he pulled his cloak tighter around himself and started riffling through the cover-up's pockets.
It took a long moment to find what he was looking for, as he hadn't truly thought before stuffing the little cloth into a random pocket, but eventually, he managed to fish a delicately embroidered handkerchief from his breast pocket. Thankful that he hadn't made an absolute fool of himself in the process, he offered the cloth to the hen with an only somewhat sheepish grin. "'ello there miss. I don't think I introduced myself yet, but ye looked like ye could use a hand. My father named me William, but I prefer to go by Alaric. May I ask you yours?" |
|
|
| |
Lightbringer
|
Clawdia Spurrington | 29 years and 11 months | Hen | Soldier (Weaponry) | Mentions: Wyan, Bantam, Calhoun (probably mentions them all) Clawdia was humped in the back corner staring at everyone else in the wagon. She did not try to resist the natural sway of the wagon, and she was highly aware of the annoying squeaking. With her beak lowered and slightly tucked into her breast feathers, she hoped that it would make it less uncomfortable combatting the dusty day. Occasionally, she would lift her head to look around and observe other passerbyers. The sun was baking her black feathers, and her mouth was starting to open as she tried to cool herself off. Her wings were slightly spread to get some air to her underwings. She had her carefully sheathed double-headed battle-ax in one claw. She hoped that it was less obviously a soldier’s weapon compared to her mace or pike. After some assessment, she believed she was here so that someone would be able to fix any weapons that broke along the way. She occasionally laid her beady eye on Wyandotte, but he was too busy moaning about his situation to notice. Her head jerked towards him and she had to refrain from making her glare so blatant when Wyan pitched a hissy fit. Aren’t we all? She thought to herself. She nodded a bless you to Calhoun feeling pity upon the young rooster for his horrible allergies. Calhoun kept rambling about his different plans, so Clawdia began to tune out his voice. She began to wish that she could sprawl out like the two young boys. She wanted to cool down. She huffed and her feathers began to lift like a broody hen that was being disturbed. Did Calhoun have to get Wyan started again? Right now, he seemed to be acting as if he was too uncomfortable to speak. “I haven’t seen anyone following us…yet. I’m sure we’ll find out soon enough.” She smiled not so comfortingly at Calhoun. It was hard to make a pleasant face with an unexpressive beak. She worked to make her eye softer and less beady. While she wasn’t around the castle much, even she had heard of Wyan’s descriptive and alliterative nickname. She looked at someone else to deal with Wyan. Someone who was in charge of rations. Shouldn’t Jackie be dealing with him? Clawdia didn’t account for the fact that Wyan’s whining would be more persistent and enduring than anything they could do to appease him. Perhaps they should threaten Wyan with walking. Such skill! Bantam was able to drive two large fowl twice his size at least single wingedly. She noted the way he talked to all of the females and barely looked at Wyan. The way he didn’t look at Wyan made her wonder if he was uncomfortable, with good reason. She tried to let the flattery of flirting roll off of her like water off of a goose’s back, but she rarely had someone say something kind to her. She listened to the song he sang glad to hear an old folk tune. She was accustomed to the rougher ditties sang by soldiers, but she appreciated timeless tunes. She arose to her claws immediately when Bantam’s bum lifted off the seat. As the heaviest chicken present, she believed it was her duty to weigh him down so he didn’t float away. She stared at him admiringly some more. Like any hollow boned bird, he was relatively light, yet he had had the strength to maintain control over those “wild” geese, and hold onto his parasol. He had gotten control back before she could head his way, so she headed back to her spot. She lightly chuckled at his joke, but only those closest to her could hear her, and then her laughter changed into choked coughing. She cackled again, which sounded exactly like a hen laying an egg, amused at young Calhoun laughing at Bantam’s joke. Some might think she was laughing at the joke, but she was laughing at Calhoun cutting off because not many had laughed. She listened to the banter between Alaric and Patch. She knew that her own home was pretty dirty especially because of the forge. Perhaps that was the type of house that could house all this dirt. "We have been going for a while. Maybe at the next creek, we can all take a refreshing break. The chicks can cool off and wash some sand off, and we can take turns relieving ourselves. I'm sure there are many tails and claws that are sore by now." |
|
|
| |
Lightbringer
|
Wyandotte Faverolles | 15 | Male | Prince | Mentions: Colette, Calhoun, Alaric, Clawdia Wyan was sagging again. He tried not to be too obvious that he was relieved that someone besides Calhoun was being sympathetic to his plight. “But I desire to return to my castle now Colette,” he whined. He was whining in a normal tone instead of shouting as he had been a moment ago. “Adventures are for chickens who find their domicile averse. I like my home.”Wyan’s head jerked around as Alaric began to stumble towards Colette. “Cease jerky turkey! Stop causing this uncomfortable wagon to wobble. Such a frumpy monkey!” he huffed shaking his head. He looked at Calhoun piteously. “Why is he passing his clawkerchief to Colette. I’m the prince. I have a clogged nose as well, and you are sneezing all over the place. Obviously, you require its usage.” He patted his friend on the back. He squiggled and squirmed trying to become comfortable and found himself staring at Clawdia’s weapon. It would be rather sharp. Would he get impaled on it, if they went up an unexpected hill or a horrible bump? Wyan deigned to focus upon Clawdia when she tried to reassure them about their safety. He even found himself liking the idea of getting a break. He certainly didn't want to travel on claw, but he wouldn't mind getting out of the wagon for a while. Something began to gnaw at his little mind. Something was off. Water. He didn’t like water at all. Unless it was specially flavored, it never tasted good. He didn’t like it when his claws got wet and mucky. He knew that many non-feathered chickens were fine with that, but it was extremely uncomfortable for him as he lugged his waterlogged feathers around. Chickens couldn't swim. Why would they want to stop by water unless… unless? That was so awful. It couldn’t be true…could it? “Calhoun,” he hissed. “Calhoun!” his voice hissed louder. He furtively darted his gaze back and forth. Anyone watching him would be wondering what nonsense he was planning next. “Something occurred to me,” he murmured into his friend’s ear hole. “I think…I think they are trying to get rid of me. I’m not sure what they are going to do to you, but I’m sure they don’t want witnesses. That’s why they sent me out here. It’s not for my protection. It’s so they can off me quietly. What should we do? We can’t stay here. I’m sure that’s why they are stopping at the creek. They’ll need to rinse the blood off.” Wyan got to plotting. He wasn’t the most active chicken, so he wasn’t sure what they could do to fend off the large trained fowl. Although he was very demanding, he wasn’t used to thinking for himself. There was normally someone telling him what was going to happen next, but he knew he had to step up. He was certain that this group was sent to accomplish a nefarious deed. “We’ll have to wait for them to get off, and then take the wagon. There’s no other way we’ll be able to stay ahead of them. Do you think you can drive the geese?” Wyan stared at them wondering who would know the most about the plan. Probably the leader, but she would also be the most well trained. She wouldn’t break. “We need to take someone with us to interrogate. Someone who knows stuff, but also someone who will talk. Also someone who is small enough for us to control. Maybe Colette or the one who didn’t give you his clawkerchief. He seemed pretty useless. Bantam might regain control over the geese. That wouldn’t be good.” When they began to approach the next stream, Wyan made eye contact with Calhoun and mouthed, ‘ready?’ |
|
|
Summer 
Day Weather: 
