Birds of a Feather:

I am no longer surprised by the behaviors of avian kind, chicken especially. I had kept them for many years, in a pen, gathering their eggs and using their poop as a blanket for raspberry beds or other gardens. My chickens had names, and personalities and I treated them kindly, and fed them treats. However, as I got older I sought to join a commune, a place where others like myself could gather our resources and live away from the rush and exhausting absurdity of civilized life.

The truck I borrowed was barely big enough to transport my chicken house, but it was enough. I strapped it down, secured the latches, and reassured my chickens there would be a wider field of fertile soil to graze in. They answered with clucks and bocks. The rest of my possessions were easily transported in boxes and crates, and when I arrive at my new home I was greeted with a vista of a foggy valley. The compound nestled in the crease of a high valley and overlooked a sliver of water. The road was graveled and noisy, and each large bump was answered with a squawk.

The afternoon was fatiguing, and the chicken house took most of the early evening to put into place. The other members of the compound helped, and after I finished, I helped 2 others with their belongings; a few chairs and bed frames, carried up 3 flights of stairs to the highest living quarters. Then I crashed hard, sleeping deeply and visited by an unusual dream. The dream was of a wizard, or rather a robed figure with a green face, and antenna like eyes which poked out like a snail. I remembered nothing else of the dream, other than a heavy urgency to find the figure.

I was pleasantly surprised the next day to meet and help the new arrivals of the commune. They were artists and engineers, survivalists, gardeners or great variety, musicians, cooks, and a few children. I wondered if my dream was a portent of someone joining the commune, since I could not shake the urgency to find them. I sought the familiar googly-eyed face of the newcomers. By the evening I met everyone and found no one who matched the dream-face.

The next night, I dreamt of robed green-faced wizard again, and this time they spoke its name as Korin, yet the urgency to find them remained unexplained, or if I dreamt why, they were scrubbed from me by arrival of morning.

My chickens seemed to enjoy the new landscape, and they began laying again on the second day. I added their eggs to the communal whole and started conversations to determine who would best use their chicken poop. We all worked hard to coordinate, and everyone seemed to be pleasantly inspired to be together. I was still haunted by the green wizard Korin and wondered what the next evening would bring. The urgency to find them was like the ambient mist and fog which never seemed to lift.

Sleeping in the large house was a very different experience than my suburban makeshift garden. There is no airplane noise, no cars or early morning dump trucks, no sirens, nothing. The mist and fog of this place also muffles sound with its thick curtain. Even creaks in the house seem dampened by the night.

I was deep in the black of some unnamed dream when I heard something disturb the peace the evening.

I awoke to the sound of frogs; ribbits and croaks in the darkness. I hurried outside and saw a plague of jewels green and yellow frogs rolling down the trees and falling from the night sky. They awkwardly contorted themselves to flee back into the darkness with panicked eyes. Once they touched the soil, they began sprouting brilliant green leaves, perhaps to camouflage themselves. I heard and then saw my flock of chickens rush to the frogs, each trying to eat as much of the fresh sprouts from the frog’s backs and faces. I too felt the urge and reached down to grab a handful of leaves to eat. However, within mere seconds the frogs buried themselves and the chickens fled into the night. My mouth full of confusion and fresh sprouts. Why were my chickens out of their house? I was certain it was them; their distinct features were unquestionable; Fern with her black and white lace, Ziggy with their black eyeliner, there was no mistake.

I rushed to the chicken house, in great concern for how my chickens escaped their chicken house. The latched gate was wide open and instead of feathers and clucks I saw the slithering of 3 snakes. They had hunted the rats which moved in under the chicken house recently and lined up their kills after skinning them into little rolled matts of fur. Then with a hiss they opened their mouths and consumed the rolls like cinnamon bread buns. I watched for half hour as the snakes ate their meals and marveled at how many rats from the forest had moved in so quickly. I counted 23 rat pelts, and how they skinned them with no arms or fingers I can only guess.

Then, as if the dinner bell had summoned late guests, a flock of large black birds landed near the chicken house and confidently walked into the chicken pen and without hesitation began devouring one of the snakes. I thought they might be vultures at first, with their hunched shoulders and skulking gait, but they were fully feathered and black. Their beaks were stained with blood, and eager to feed on the rest of the panicked serpents.

Some nearby humans gathered, and seeing the snakes getting attacked tried to scare off the birds, unwilling to tolerate the violence. Then as if the large birds expected such a response, a single smaller bird landed, its eyes were steel gray, and in its talons, held a long chain with a rusted metal hook made of bent barbed wire. The bird lashed out near the humans with expert skill and accuracy, the chain lashed and slithered like the snakes, and threatened those nearby to keep their distance. We kept our distance and watched the large birds chase down and play with the snakes, as they pulled their bodies apart. They then ate the rat rolls afterwards for dessert, before squawking loudly and flying off into the forest. The scene was empty now, and the chickens were still missing. How did they escape? Where were they now?

I returned to the big house and made coffee and a little breakfast. I gathered myself, trying to make sense of the past couple of hours, and wondered why I ate the leaves from the backs of the frogs. After coming to no conclusions, I decided to search the surrounding forest for my chickens, a few others joined me.

We spent the whole day looking for signs of them, but not a single feather was found. We saw no signs of the large black birds or any frogs, which apparently, I was the only one to have witnessed. Some said they heard some frogs in the night but no visual confirmation of the abundance I saw. We returned in the evening and join the others for dinner and listened to someone play a delicate flute while we watched the misty evening turn dark.

I missed my chickens already and had a difficult tie sleeping, but eventually I found a dreamless sleep and felt ready to resume my search in the morning.

The next 2 days were fruitless, and despair led me to accept that my chickens were nowhere to be found, probably consumed by some predator or killed and eaten by the gang of chain wielding birds. On the 3^rd day, there was a new bustle forming in the big house, a party was being planned. A masked gathering of sorts, with art and music and a great sharing of wine and food. The haunting dream of Korin the green robed wizard sill hung on me, but only slightly, as the missing chickens occupied my immediate concerns. I was grateful for the distraction and added a couple of kegs of beer and 3 bottles of wine. The beer was something I could make yearly, as was the wine, and in my search for chickens I fund a nice spot on the crest of the valley with adequate sunlight for the hops to grow and the vines of new grapes to flourish.

I wore a plain costume, a blue coordinating outfit and a jeweled mask with imitation sapphires. A few others wore similar outfits but with long glossy noses, and feathered capes. Music was played, wine was shared, and the evening was alive with common vision and warmth. Our hearts beat together, and our voices flowed out like the hours of the evening.

It was late in the night when the doorbell rang, which surprised to us all. I answered the door and stood for a moment in shock. Before me was Korin from my dreams, a heavily robed person with a mask of green and 2 googly eyes protruding from the top like antenna. They asked if they could join the party, but their voice sounded like it came from within the robe, rather than behind the mask, I said of course, and let them in. Others greeted the newcomer without any concern, but I was transfixed, this person, whoever they are had announced themselves days ago in my dreams, and they seemed undoubtable familiar.

I kept my distance and watched them from across the room intently. The pain of the dream becoming real was sobering. I watched for 20 minutes as they awkwardly and unsuccessfully tried to pour wine. They seemed drunk already. I rushed to assist and eagerly suggested they check out the nearby balcony on the second floor for a full view of the party. Again, Korin answered with a voice from the robe, rather than behind the mask.

I guided them upstairs and inquired how they knew about the party. Korin said nothing at first, then as the silence turned heavy, they said “the owl over there told me.” I looked to see a customed party goer with a wonderfully built owl costume lifting up their mask to drink a cold draft of homemade beer. I recognized the person as one of the house cooks, who helped me move the chicken house into place.

It seemed plausible, and we continued to the second floor overlooking the party. Once we were away from others, I drew close to Korin, and told them I had dreamt of them before and wished to see their face. Korin shook their head.

Then something happened, I saw a feather on the ground behind us, near the stairs. It was the black and white lace of Fern, one of my dear chickens. I suspected Korin knew or had seen my chickens, and the sense of curiosity overwhelmed my polite manners. I reached out and pulled the mask from Korin face. There was a loud squawk and the robes fell to the floor, my chickens were flapping underneath the clothes!

I stood motionless as they pulled themselves out from under the robe and went running in different directions. Then I heard the owl hoot, the finch tweet and dozens of other bird noises erupt from the big house. The party goers all shed their robes, and feathers stormed the living area in a cyclone of birds. I was paralyzed, and the thunder of their wings surrounded me, until I heard the breaking of glass. Then the cool night air replaced the chaos of the moment and piles of robes and costumes replaced the human beings which one stood in their places.

Now I am the only human being on the commune, however there are still plenty of musicians, engineers, survivalists, artists, and beautiful faces around me. I have not seen Korin or my chickens since that night, but every year after the harvest of new beer and wine, I dress in my best bird outfit and set out glasses for unannounced guests and wait for the doorbell to ring.

Approach:

The face of the jagged hills offered no shelter. The ancient dwarven ruin of Khundrukar was overrun by orcs as far as anyone knew and approaching it would be dangerous. Orcs are lazy creatures who have 2 emotional states, anger and sadness. They did very little unless provoked, and they hated anyone and anything not from their tribe. Sadness meant they neglected themselves, their armor and precautions.

Khundrukar was known to Grax, a half-orc whose mother was a survivor of orc raids, who was hired by a caravan of adventures to find the entrance of the dwarven ruins. Khundrukar was old, and besides orcs there could be ancient traps or other creatures of darkness. Grax was a scout and mercenary by trade, but his true passion was punk music, and playing drums.

Behind Grax a line of adventures followed. First was Quinayl the Dirgeweaver, a bard of great skill who carried one of the 12 legendary swords from ancient times, known only as the dargonaslayer, having yet to be given a proper name. Khundrukar was rumored to contain another of the swords deep within its heart, and Quinayl felt unease as the sword shifted restlessly on his waist.

Next were 2 elves from different lands. Tristan the high elf wizard, whose divination burdened him with foresight he could only see in glimpses. His pristine clothes revealed his refined and civilized culture. Behind him rode Xeno, a wood elf warlock who followed the whispers of a fae creature called the Lady of Brambles, a creature who compelled him to seek the graves of wizards so their undecomposed spells could find a home within him.

Finally, Answald the ex-mercenary, whose company betrayed him for the sake of hiding the location of a great treasure. His rapier swift, his dagger well bloodied, and his shield freshly cleaned. After their recent respite in Daggertown, Answald was ready to leave his past behind, and perhaps find new purpose in something besides the glint of gold.

They hired Grax the last week after seeing his band play, Quinayl was impressed with his musical abilities. Grax charged 5 gold a day to escort them to the ruins of Khundrukar, and today was the 5^th day. The sharp crags and bare stone looked like the teeth of an old beggar. Perhaps the hills once housed many dwarves, but now it was gutted, and the peaks jutted into the sky like a forest of brittle snags.

The 6^th day was tense, neither Glax nor Quinayl played any music. The spires hid the entrance and Grax knew it. They crept up as quiet and unseen as they could, the elves hugging the stone cliffs and Answald moving in the shadows of the early morning. Grax scouted briefly, and after finding 2 lazy orcs, grunting their discontent, he returned and told the party. Orcs could see well in the darkness, but Xeno said he could summon a magical darkness to hide their assault. After a few moments of quick discussion, they agreed a quick and quiet attack would be best, and perhaps catch any runners from raising the alarm.

Tristan weaved a quick divination spell, muttering arcane words as he saw briefly into the future. There would be blood, and he saw Grax fall, but he had learned that glimpses don’t tell the whole story, they had brought healing potions and Quinayl knew limited healing magic. Tristan would watch his back.

Xeno whispered “Hist Hirawk” and a darkness crept over the lazy orcs. Confusion and cries erupted instantly but were muffled a series of quick strikes from Answald. The group rushed up to the tall doors leading into the mountain with the soft patter of eleven boots, sneaking inside under the cover of magical darkness.

The doors were of iron and unblemished brass, seemingly untouched by the presence of the orcs. The orcs must have hit a switch, because after a few seconds, a mechanism clicked, and the door slammed shut. Nearby grunts closed in around the party.6 orcs appeared from behind piles of trash and shot crude arrows at the invaders.

Grax took 2 in his side, and Answald reflexively dropped to the ground. Tristan’s mage armor shimmered in the darkness and deflected an arrow easily. Xeno’s wards faltered and an arrow grazed his leg. A muttering of arcane speech echoed in the room and a hellish fire erupted from one of the orcs; “Bach Untool” as the pain of the arrow was rebuked. Grax seemed unphased by the arrows and approached the orcs with a flurry of sword swings.

The first orc fell to Grax’s wild swings, the black eyes contorted in surprise and pain. Anger mounted quickly in the other orcs and they dropped their bows for wicked axes and rusted machetes. Tristan traced the air in a familiar pattern of a 7-pointed star, and uttered “INFLAMICUS” as one of the orcs burst into flames. Answald rolled to the side and rose up behind another roc who was facing Grax. His rapier silently found the creature’s heart and his dagger slashed its arm, severing the tendons of the sword arm. The orc would take a couple seconds to fall, even with its heart punctured. It flailed its noodle sword arm helplessly as Grax parried the blow.

Quinayl saw the orc rushing to Grax and could not avoid the thought of dispatching them all quickly. He muttered a spell in whispered tongues, then threw a small glass cup at the upcoming orcs. The glass shattered in a concussive explosion, shredding parts of their poorly made armor, and sending glass shards into their faces.

Grax fell, just as Tristan foresaw, but Quinayl was prepared, and with a small touch of his hand, healed the wounds of the half orc., The cuts of glass reversing, and the arrow wounds mending.

Only 2 orcs were left standing. The one hurt by Xeno’s retaliation fled, seeing his comrades fall quickly. He fled across a bridge made of rotten ropes and cloth. Below stretched a chasm without a visible bottom. He scrambled, nearly tripping over himself.

The other remaining orc looked with wide eyes at Tristan who had just incinerated his friend, or rather his tribesmen. Orcish relationships are often formed from necessity and tribal identity, tenderness was limited to providing another with food during times of despair, and loyalty enforced by promise of punishment. He saw his other clansmen running, and knew  he could buy them time, and vengeance could be his. The great orc god Gruumsh would reward him in the afterlife. He screamed, a howl of fatal anger, and wielding 2 axes rushed the elven wizard. His rage propelled him forward, and thought the axe blow would be true, but before his last step, his leg gave out, Answald had cut his right leg to the bone, and he fell before he could swing.

The orc tried to strike out at anything nearby, but he only found the hot fire of the wizard’s words.

Xeno saw the running orc and knew they would be able to alert others deeper in the cave if they escaped. He took out a black scepter and with a small flick of the wrist activated its magical properties. Normally the scepter required a drop of blood, but the grazed arrowed provided enough to make the activation quick. The scepter contorted and 3 black lashes emerged, each an eldritch tentacle of blue and purple hue. The whip lash flayed out and all 3 of the tentacles wrapped around the legs of the orc, dragging him to the ground.

Without a second breath, Answald rushed up and cut the prone creature’s throat.

The entrance was silent, and no other grunts, howls or motion was detected. The invaders collected themselves and briefly investigated the area. Slits in the stone provided arrow sight, and the mechanism which closed the door was visible many feet above. Xeno looked down into the chasm, his sight nearly twice that of other elves, and he could not see the bottom.

Grax was revealed to be alive. He was being paid to be here, and the near death was too much for him. He offered to watch the cart and the horses while the others descended. He would wait until the supplies ran out and sell the horses as payment if they did not return, which he didn’t expect they would. Mercenaries are often aloof, and the group understood, they rested only for a few moments before crossing the fragile bridge.

Discarded:

Its ok to fall apart,

Its ok to let it go.

Its ok to cry your eyes out

You can burn it up,

You can let it out,

You can die inside,

You can find the darkness,

Let it wrap around you,

Let it consume you, who you were, you wanted to be.

Into a pile you go, like laundry and undone dishes,

Into the dark garage you go,

Its ok to fall apart, and crumple for a while.

No one can see your face,

No one can see your tears,

Like the metal things inside your box,

Like tiny souvenirs.

There is no judge above,

There is no fire below,

No one knows the score,

No one knows your soul.

We have no story to tell,

No words for this day and age,

Its ok to fall part,

And find a different way.