"Oh, woe is me," he moaned, leaning upon one wing, while the other was placed on his forehead. Sniffling, Calhoun rubbed his beak, his poor nose sore from sneezing. This was worse than his pop's farm! He had the odd allergy or two when working, nothing he couldn't handle, but this? Oh, this dust was eternal! It was everywhere! What's that? Dust. What about over there, beyond those trees? Dust. On his feet? Dust.

Dust, dust, dust.

He sneezed again.

"Woe is me," he repeated, wiping his beak with his feather. Blinking, Calhoun had felt another sneeze coming, and just as he opened his beak to let an atrocious one out, Wyan spoke. Clamping his mouth shut, he turned to his friend, "I don't know if the wagon is tearing apart. It surely sounds like it, but do not fret, Wyan! If it falls apart, you may land on me!" See? Calhoun had a solution for everything. But oh, his words fell short when Wyan claimed he was parched. "Somebody, anybody, he needs water!" Turning to Wyan, Calhoun had begun to fan him with his wings. "It's alright, Wyan. Just a little longer," he sobbed, stressing for his dear friend. Honestly, these were awful traveling conditions. Positively unheard of!

Fanning him, Calhoun suddenly paused, hopping up onto his little legs when he was requested to fetch Wyan's paper and drawing utensils. He had take two steps before falling, deciding to crawl the rest of he way to the other end of the wagon. Feathers grasping the thick paper and supplies, he began to his journey back, teetering around as he made his way back to Wyan. "There you go." He had placed it alongside of his good mate neatly, adjusting it so that everything was just perfect.

Slumping back onto his rump, Calhoun released another sneeze, his eyes tearing up. He cursed everyone! Why was this happening to him? Nothing short of a gasp had escaped his beak when he espied Colette grab hold of a kerchief. "By all means, ignore the ones that truly need it," he had hollered, releasing a dry hack. Shaking his head, he glanced to Wyan. "We sure know their priorities, don't we." Sniffling as he was patted on the back, he resembled that of a blubbering child. He truly needed that break right about now.

He had not caught onto the water idea until Wyan hissed in his ear, to which he jumped. "What did we say about personal space," he mumbled, swatting away his friend before turning to him once more. Couldn't he see that he was suffering? "What?!" He suddenly replied upon the second calling of his name, this time, the urgency causing him to turn. Leaning towards Wyan, he turned his ear towards him, only to put a wing up to his beak. "Get rid of you?" Gasping, he listened closely. It all made sense! "I believe you're right!" Oh the horror! "Maybe.. maybe they're going to drown you instead of use it to wash the blood off! Worse, they'll make me watch! Why else would a chicken go near water? I mean, we're not designed for it!" A pause. "They certainly won't make us stop to drink it, will they?" He gasped. "What if they're going to torture us first for their own amusement?"

His wing had smacked onto his dagger, clutching it to his chest with a trembling grip. Eyeing the group with a wary eye, he shifted away from them, body quivering. No! He didn't need to show them his fear, so, Calhoun forced himself still, his dagger being held onto for dear life. "We need a plan, and a quick one. Shall we run?" They were larger than them, surely they'd catch up almost immediately. No, they needed something else.. another form of plan..

"Perfect!" He whispered to Wyan, nodding in agreement to his idea. "The geese can outrun them. As for driving, sure! I've seen my pop drive some when plowing the field. It's a cinch. Why, it's in my blood!" Truly, how hard could it be? "We need to take someone to interrogate, but also to blackmail the others into not following us." He paused again. "You take someone hostage, I'll focus on the geese." Already, Calhoun prepared himself, rising onto his legs slightly. He eyed Bantam, narrowing his beady eyes at him. He had spoken to him before. He was a nice fellow, but anyone can be nice. So, with suspicion, Calhoun continued staring, waiting for him to slow the wagon.

Glancing to Wyan, he nodded. "Ready whenever you are," he whispered back, ready to pounce.

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

Bantam was very grateful to have a fellow chicken to be humiliated by the awkward silence following his joke. At least if this group wasn’t cultured enough to understand a fantastic joke like that, Bantam and Calhoun could stand together knowing one other person got the joke. Those were the truly lasting connections in life. Bantam’s second and simpler joke, unfortunately, flew right over everyone’s heads like a chicken running from the sun. It did, however, prompt further American Buff Goose fandom from Calhoun, which caused Bantam’s feathers to puff out in excitement. He stroked his goose feather, and had he had eyelashes, he most definitely would have fluttered them. Calhoun requested to touch the feather, and Bantam leaned back graciously. “Certainly,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “If you think this is something, you should try feeling down.” But before Calhoun had even started stroking the feather, there was an explosive sneeze which shot Calhoun in the opposite direction like a speeding projectile. With the quickness of an even faster speeding projectile, Bantam whipped his hat off of his head, trying to save it from the snot-filled air. He brushed it off and went back to Colette, assuming that the sneeze meant the conversation was over.

Bantam’s focus slid back and forth between Colette’s cheerful cluck and the mosquito-like gripe of young Wyandotte. It was fortunate for him that, with twenty-four younger siblings, he had learned the elegant art of ignoring annoying background complaints. With his full attention on Colette (and a little tiny tiny bit on the fact that he was driving), he nodded fervently in agreement. Nodding fervently about goose-related things was his second-favorite type of interaction besides flirting, and he had already racked up in his brain a million excellent answers to all comments and questions. Unfortunately, Colette punctuated the end of her last sentence with a large sneeze, which was grammatically incorrect enough to derail the conversation. “Good health!” said Bantam cheerfully in reply to her sneeze. Seeing her in the desperate position of being kerchief-less, Bantam started fishing around for his own handkerchief, but he was saved the trouble.

“Alaric, ho there!” said Bantam, turning to the side to give him a greeting wink. He took his eyes off the road for just a moment, but certainly long enough to risk making some of the more, uhm, Wyandotte chickens holler at the top of their lungs. He gestured to Colette, sitting beside him. With his impeccable self-taught manners, he cut right in and introduced Colette for her. That way he was saving her the trouble of talking. So gentlemanly. “This is Colette O’Flintshell, our chef for this journey - probably the best one there is, mind you. A goose connoisseur and lady of style. Gingerbread,” he said, addressing Colette. He paused with wide eyes, like a dramatic storyteller, and then caught a sneeze in his wing, muffling it so that all that came out was a quiet snrk. “Excuse me. And this is my friend William Alaric Brewer the Second.” He seemed to have forgotten that Alaric had already introduced himself. “The devilishly good-looking. He’s a guard. Not quite as glamorous as an anatinae, I know.” He laughed. “Now you’re acquainted, I’m sure you’ll be the best of friends. We were just discussing sweese, Alaric.”

Unfortunately, just then Wyandotte exploded in some sort of mess of unhappiness that went right past Bantam’s ear holes without leaving a single mark. The conversation he had been looking forward to - most certainly full of adventure, mayhem, and varieties of swoose breeds - was killed off as Colette turned to comfort Wyandotte. Bantam, who was fond of Colette but not enough to endure royalty for her, immediately snapped his attention off of her and addressed Alaric. “So, plenty of lovely hens here, aren’t there? A couple of nice guards around your age.” Satisfied with his masterful subtlety, he was going to ask Alaric a bit more about what he’d been doing lately, but in the lull in conversation Clawdia mentioned that they might stop by a creek soon. “Ask and you shall receive,” Bantam replied to her, giving Alaric a nudge and nodding towards Clawdia. As they moved on, he made some small talk with Alaric, throwing a few more compliments back at the ladies.

Finally they reached the next stream, and Bantam brought the geese to a halt. “All off for Nameless Creek!” he said, looking back at the group. He hopped off, twirling his parasol slightly, and made a snap decision to sweep over to Jackie and offer her his wing to help her down from the wagon. And then, feeling that the other ladies might feel neglected by his blatant favoritism, he said to Clawdia, “I hope you had a comfortable journey? You certainly don’t look any worse for wear.” He lagged behind to tend to his geese for a moment, making sure they were settled. Then he strode over to Patch and tilted his parasol so that it shaded her slightly. He gave her a sideways smile, twirling the parasol slightly again. She was the one who had confused him most during this trip. He was almost certain she didn’t like him, but she had neither told him this nor dramatically slapped him in a bar because, as it turned out, that rooster was not her father but her husband - just as an example. Bantam was determined not to miss a single thing so that he could piece together the mysterious puzzle of Clawdia. He paid no attention to the water, having mostly forgotten why they had stopped, and he unaware of the ominous plotting going on behind him.

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

The minute Bantam announced they had arrived, Patch folded up the map and dropped it back on her seat as she vaulted out of the wagon and onto the ground, grateful for the stop. A small but mighty cloud of ochre dust flew up around her as she shook herself violently, so violently in fact that she lost her balance and stumbled. A shadow passed over Patch, and she glanced up to see Bantam angling his parasol over her with a charming glimmer in his eye.

Patch lowered her beak and flared her ruff feathers, batting her eyelashes at him.

“Such a gentleman,” she cooed, playing coy. Scanning the area, her gaze fell upon the price and his friend, the latter of which was still sneezing furiously. Hopefully now the main source of the dust had disappeared, the poor kid’s allergies would give him a break. The rest of their party were looking various shades of weary and brown as they departed the wagon. It was as if they had all fought an incredibly dirty monster of some sort. Patch had heard of some chickens who took baths from the dust, supposedly it was good to keep off things like mites and ticks, but she just couldn’t imagine the layers of grime accumulating in her feathers, much less putting them there on purpose.

The water of the creek flickered like liquid sunlight as it ran down its path, winking enticingly to Patch like a mischievous nymph. It was crystal clear, and most likely cool and crisp as well; the lukewarm water of Patch’s waterskin had sufficed to quench her thirst, but nothing beat a drink straight from the source. The fresh sounding trickling of the creek was tempting her to take a quick dip as well and wash off the dirt from the trip, although it could work to her disadvantage if they continued down the same road and turn her into a muddy mess instead of just a dusty one. Maybe she would just wade in to the beginning of her drumstick fluff.

Patch turned to Bantam, beaming. “Now, I don’t know how short we are for time, but it is a beautiful day, our party is looking black, blue, and brown, and it would be a sore shame if we had the time to spare yet passed on this opportunity to have a brief respite in spite of the raptors at our heels.”

Realizing she could probably see for herself, and she had a lot of these “oh, duh” moments, Patch pranced back to the wagon and picked up the map. She spread it open in the grass, pinning one end of the parchment down with her hat, and moved to the side so that Bantam could see over her shoulder. Low clucks emitted from her throat as she began to assess their options.

“If we continue along this road at our current speed, we will be able to make it to a place of boarding or at least an area of relative coverage by nightfall with enough time to spare for a break. However, we can possibly afford to take a short cut through these woods, here,” Patch announced to the group, brushing a forefeather over a rough path through a collection of trees, “and save ourselves the dust. It may also help conceal the wagon from any surveling skybirds, and make it harder for the enemy to track us.

“It will delay our arrival by about an hour though,” Patch paused for a moment to make sure she was right, and then nodded to herself. Those hours bickering with her professors at the academy were finally coming to use. She looked to the rest of the group for their opinions, but mainly the more experienced members.

Wyandotte Faverolles | 15 | Male | Prince | Mentions: Calhoun

Wyan was too tired of being inconvenienced to worry too much about the wagon splitting apart. His eyes widened in shock at his best friend's noble offer. Landing on his friend would probably be more comfortable than landing on the dirty dusty road. How kind! How noble! He'd have to see Calhoun knighted! If only the rest of these chickens were so willing to serve the greater goo..ahem Wyan. He nodded pitifully accepting the assistance that Calhoun offered appreciating the sentiment behind the fanning wing and his prompt willingness to grab his drawing supplies. Calhoun even arranged it so Wyan didn't have to make any unnecessary movements without being asked. Calhoun was quite irreplaceable. That was the thing about this journey. He kept telling himself a little bit longer, and they kept going. He did not know their destination.

Wyan lurched back his beady eye narrowing with indignation about being swatted. He was not a fly! He was a Prince! Wyan waited a moment to see if he had Calhoun's attention before he proceeded before leaning back in annoyance forgotten as Calhoun began to process and take him seriously. "I didn't think of that," he whispered. The water would make it easy to dispose of him without a mess. If they went to the trouble of burying him to hide the body, the dirt would even be soft and the water would wash away noticeable traces of his blood. "I'm sorry Calhoun that you had to get involved with me. You could've avoided this awful dusty trip, these chickens, and the awful show to come," he sniffed patting his friend's back. Wyan tried to shield his friend's body hoping they weren't being too obvious. Lucky for unknowing Wyan, their constant complaining made them objects to be ignored. "Steady Calhoun."

Wyan made a satisfied chicken sound glad that Calhoun sounded so confident. He was sure that they could escape if Calhoun could drive the geese. Wyan began to reach around for his Sai swords to prepare himself for their attack and launch of their plan. He liked the idea of taking Colette for insurance. If he could trust her to not poison them, then they would have food or at the very least she could teach them how to cook, right? She was the oldest chicken and didn't move as fast. Clawdia got off before Colette as Colette was still gathering herself and what she wanted before she hopped off. It had taken her a moment to fold and put away her map. The other had chickens had already hopped off glad to stretch their legs and put some distance between their ears and the two boys. Wyan launched himself beside Colette and grabbed her holding a Sai sword in one wing. "Now Calhoun! Now!" He watched as the other chickens turned to look at them and he prayed that he hadn't given away their hand too soon. Surely, Calhoun could get those geese to obey him.

Bantam Orpington // 27 // Rooster // Driver // Mentions: Wyan, Calhoun, NPCs

Bantam had been headed for the water, but turned right around as Patch brought out the map for them to look at. He swept over, giving her a wink as he moved in next to her. “An excellent question!” he declared, peering over the map himself. Their course had already been set, but who was to say a shortcut wasn’t in order? Shortcuts were always good ideas, and nothing bad had ever come of a shortcut. “And an excellent idea.” The others were too busy wetting their chicken feet to hear Patch. Bantam was about to make a comment that most certainly would have been clever and charming, when he heard a distinctly nasally little voice behind him shout, “Now, Calhoun, now!” Bantam turned in a perfect half-circle and was met with a ghastly sight. Wyandotte was atop the wagon, and Calhoun there egging him on! Ol’ Gingerbread was in the cart too, and for reasons beyond Bantam’s wildest imagination Wyan had a dagger to her! The horror! The suspense! Despite his confusion, Bantam knew only one thing: that tiny teenage royal had his geese!

Bantam sprung into action, sending the map flying as he sprinted towards the cart. Unfortunately, the great gusts of wind caught his parasol, nearly blowing Bantam backwards. He struggled forward on chickeny legs, with that mighty strength that he had only when it came to his parasol. As he scrabbled forward, leaving chicken scratches in the dirt, his parasol tried to flee in the other direction. Bantam realized he wasn’t going to get to his precious geese in time. This left him with a very important decision: geese or parasol? His two most precious belongings in the world, and he would have to sacrifice one for the other! Either leave the parasol rolling on the ground in the dusty wind, or leave his geese to the designs of a tiny whiny prince. The choice was unbearable. But - Bantam said a little “oho!” he himself - maybe he could have both! Still running forward, Bantam gave a mighty swing to get his parasol in front of him and wrestled it closed. Now he was running forward holding his parasol out like a javelin, his speed increased tenfold. He congratulated himself on his clever thinking, and was too busy crowing about his victory to even realize where he was running. His geese? Wyandotte? The back of the cart, where he could surprise attack them with a whack from his parasol?

Bantam veered to the side and chose arbitrarily the most dangerous route, in which he ran directly in front of Lagle and Bezai, holding out both wings to stop them. His geese were looking very ruffled and irritated. Bantam realized immediately that getting trampled by angry geese was perhaps not the best strategy. He ran right past them and over to the side of the cart. Ah, Calhoun! Bantam could just reason with Calhoun and get this all cleared up. Surely it was just a weirdly specific misunderstanding. Prince Wyan was trying to steal their cart and kidnap someone. That had “misunderstanding” written all over it. Bantam hopped up onto the step and waved his wings. And then, feeling that perhaps he ought to act more couth with royal around - even if he was a royal pain in the ass - Bantam coughed awkwardly and said to Calhoun, “Um, Calhoun.” He twirled his parasol nervously. “Would you kindly give me back my reins?” How very polite of him. They couldn’t say no now. Oh yes! He’d nearly forgotten. “And set Gingerbread free, if you will.” How odd that they were holding their own cook hostage. Did they not know she already worked for them? Did they not know everyone here worked for them? Royals certainly were mysterious conundrums.

Clawdia Spurrington | 29 years and 11 months | Hen | Soldier (Weaponry) | Mentions: Wyan, Bantam

Clawdia was one of the last ones to hop down out of the wagon. She was heavy and did not want to slow the line or be the first one to go with everyone watching. When she jumped out, she flapped her wings to soften the landing on her legs. The water from the creek sparkled in the distance as the light reflected back from the surface. Clawdia was glad to be taking a break and the water looked clean enough for drinking. She followed the rest of the guards wondering what was taking the boys so long to follow. She would have thought they would have been eager for a break after complaining about the dustiness and dryness of their throats.

She was relieved that there was not dust here although there was mud. Since she did not have feathered feat, navigating the soft ground did not cause much of an issue. She gratefully left her tracks in the mud and waded in the shallows. She bent down and took a drink before the other guards could muddy up the water. There was a disturbance back where the cart was. Regretfully, she turned away from the water to see what was the source. She turned and stared her beak dropping open as Wyan tried to comandeer the cart and take off without them. What had gotten into that featherbrained boy? Even more importantly, they had the cook! Why would they be threatening her out of all of them. Surely, she meant the least harm. She knew that some of the guards were already fantasizing giving Wyan what he deserved, but Colette had been rather patient with him.

Clawdia was no runner and in such a important moment she froze unsure if there was a proper protocol. She was quite heavy set which was fine for stamina in a fight or lifting heavy weapons but not good for sprints to save a cook from a young boy's knife. From a little in front of her she heard the flop of claws hitting the ground as Bantam took off at a run. She forgot that beside the indignation of the boys trying to abandon them he did have a special interest in the geese. She admired Bantam as he left dust in his speedy wake. He was some rooster being able to run like that until his parasol began to slow him down. She wanted to shout encouragement and tell him to flap his wings as that would lend extra speed to his claws, but she did not want to drag unnecessary attention to him when he would probably try to sneak into the cart.

She heard the air move as the paper map began to flutter toward the ground. With a quick hop and continually looking slightly up, she managed to seize the map out of the air where Bantam had left it fluttering and falling to the ground. She rolled it up and tucked it under her wing. She started following Bantam at a slower pace wondering how she could offer assistance. She noted that he stopped struggling against the air resistance once he managed to close his parasol. He ran even faster! She would have been delighted to help this situation in some way and make Bantam recognize her and be thankful for her assistance. She would have picked up his parasol before it became too dusty.

She squawked an unnecessary warning as the geese did not seem to be against running over their trainer. He clearly knew he was in danger because he moved out of the way. She began to get closer but was more afraid of getting run over and did not see how she could help. She did not have enough agility to jump up into the cart the way Bantam had and she was no flier even if she jumped and flapped her wings. The only way she would make it is if she climbed up from somewhere higher and flapped her wings to soften the landing, which was dangerous because she could land in front of the cart or miss it entirely. Well, hopefully, she was close enough if Bantam required assistance. She waited patiently for him to ask.

Calhoun raised a single wing, pressing it against his face as he leaned in closer to Wyan. "Shh, keep it down," he whispered, quickly glancing over his wing at Clawdia, Bantam, and the rest of the group. But before he could worry too much, Wyan started clucking about how sorry he was. "Nonsense!" Calhoun chirped back. "If I hadn't come along, who’d look out for you? Who’d bring you your drawing supplies? Oh, the horror! I simply couldn’t bear it. Now, enough of this blubbering. You are above this." Giving his dearest friend a stern nod, he glanced at the wagon.

Now, all he had to do was wait for Wyan's say and..

"Now Calhoun! Now!"

Without wasting a second, he soared past Wyan and Clawdia, aiming for the reins. Scrambling, Calhoun had stumbled in the process, causing his wings to spread wide and flap them in order to regain stability. Practically fluttering to the geese, he hoisted himself onto the seat and grabbed the reins between his feathers. Puffing up his feathers as if that would help him wrangle the unruly birds, he flapped them with all the conviction of a chicken who'd seen a few too many barnyard dramas.

"Alright, you honking hooligans, forward march!" he clucked with as much authority as he could muster. The geese, however, just stared back at him with their beady eyes, unimpressed by the display. One of them let out a loud honk, which Calhoun took as either a challenge or an insult—or both.

Glancing to Wyan, he cleared his throat. "This happens sometimes," he reassured him, nodding his head. "Forward march!" He clucked once more. "Hyah! Giddy up! Go!" Calhoun took a deep breath and gave it one last try. "Listen up, you feathery fiends! This is a noble cause—uh, sort of—so either you get those webbed feet moving, or... or... well, I’ll think of something!" He flapped his wings again, but the geese just shuffled in place, clearly in no hurry to obey.

They were running out of time! He needed to do something, Wyan's life was on the line!

Grabbing the reins in his hands, he tightened his grip. After a tense moment of staring, one goose honked loudly, and then, for reasons only they knew, the entire gaggle of geese suddenly decided they were, in fact, ready to go. Unfortunately, they did not care to follow any sense of direction.

"Whoa, whoa!" Calhoun flapped wildly, trying to steer the geese, but they took off like feathery rockets, the wagon lurching forward with a jerk that nearly sent himself flying. "We're moving! We’re actually moving!" Calhoun crowed triumphantly, peering behind him to ensure that Wyan and Clawdia were still upon the wagon.

The geese, now in full chaotic motion, swerved wildly, zigzagging across the road like they were dodging invisible obstacles. The wagon bounced and jostled, his feathers flying everywhere due to the impact. The wagon careened around a bend, then weaved around a stump.

"Say, this is easy! I could have done this from the start. Look, I don't even have to tell 'em nothing!"

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

“Now, Calhoun, now!”

Immediately alert, Patch’s gyroscopic neck extended high into the air, golden eyes blinking and head swivelling in distress trying to see what the fuss was about. The princeling and his sidechicken had clambered atop the wagon, the former seeming to hold the poor cook hostage with one of his swords that Patch had overwritten as for show. Clearly not!

In a flourish of bottle-green and obsidian feathers, the geese-keeper Bantam exploded into action beside Patch. An errant gust of wind decided to make its way through the travelling flock as Patch instinctively dug her talons into the dirt from a lifetime of being airborne against her will, determined to not let her small form be swept away, however her surroundings had other plans— with a fluttering smack the map plastered itself across Patch’s face and beak causing her to let out a startled squawk. Stumbling, the byrd was knocked off balance, and she felt herself be swept like a ratty tumbleweed, rolling down, down, splash! Into the nearby creek. Gasping and flapping her soggy wings to regain her balance, Patch was thankful the body of water was only shank-deep, which she briefly, very, very briefly bemoaned as it would have been the perfect depth to wash up.

Resembling a disgruntled mophead, Patch scrambled up the bank with a jerk of her head to readjust her bycocket to its rightful position. As she began to draw Yolktale, there came an eruption of loud honking as the geese set off jack-knifing down the road, Calhoun at the helm crowing with glee.

There goes our ride! Patch emitted a series of irritated growls and clucks within her throat, making a note to give her employers hell after babysitting these spring chickens. She let Yolktale slide back into his sheath as she pattered after the wayward wagon, dust instantly turning to mud on her drenched feathers and cloak. Patch’s nictitating membranes tightened as she squinted through the mess, picking up speed. With the geese in full panic, and they were good geese, Patch remarked as she watched them drive themselves around a bend and stump, despite the fact that they were driverless they were moving quite fast, and Patch’s only hopes of catching them would be at the upcoming bridge crossing the creek. The passage was rather narrow, built on rural lands for market wagons, so for a travelling wagon and two large geese it would require a skilled driver with many years under their belt to keep them going straight across without a spectacular crash of sorts.

Patch reached over her shoulder and detached her waterlogged cloak with her beak as she ran, keeping a safe distance away from the swinging caboose of the wagon, and hoping for inertia to take hold of the vehicle.