wrote for my fiction writing course and had a lot of fun.
The Berserker’s anger was palpable, the air around him thick with static, rage barely contained as he spat out expletive after expletive.
“We’ve been hiking this @#$%&! trail for at least ten #!@% dawns, and now we’re LOST because someone,” he jabbed a finger at The Cleric, “followed a @#$%! squirrel.”
Normally, the Cleric would interject with a soothing phrase: “Peace, friend. The path is long, yet that which awaits at journey’s end shall eclipse even this pain.”
But being that he was the cause of the rage, he wisely stayed silent.
The truth was, we had been sidetracked yet again due to another of The Cleric’s misguided shortcuts. I was beginning to believe these happenings were not mere accidents.
Such a coincidence that we go off track only to stumble upon a vast field of wildflowers, The Cleric’s favorite. Or a sacred spring. Or a grove of ancient trees blessed by the old gods. Every detour seemed carefully orchestrated to satisfy his wandering curiosities rather than our divine mission.
The Ranger dropped from the trees above, landing lithely in front of us without a sound. She had been scouting ahead for hours.
“A village lies ahead,” she announced, her elven ears twitching slightly. “Another quarter of a day’s travel. We can reach it ere nightfall.”
The Berserker’s demeanor shifted instantly. “A village? Mead? Do they have mead?”
“I do not know.”
“What, ye couldn’t check?”
The Ranger’s expression stayed neutral. “I was scouting the path, not conducting a tavern survey.”
The Berserker deflated, mollified by the prospect of civilization. “Fine. Let’s go.”
We arrived at the village as dusk settled. Instead of peace, we found chaos. Broken pottery everywhere. Random holes dug in pathways. Grass cut to nothing. A crowd of angry villagers listening to a wizened old man. He spotted us at once.
“Warriors,” he bellowed. “Ye must help us.”
Before I could respond, he was hobbling toward us, waving his cane furiously. Foam clung to the corners of his mouth.
“Twenty,” he raged. “Twenty chickens. Gone. Not tooketh from that raving lunatic in a green tunic.”
The Berserker leaned toward me. “Tooth? What kin of idiot is he?”
“Not tooth. Took,” I whispered.
The farmer continued: “Green hat, green tunic, pointy ears. Came through smashin pots, diggin holes, stealin chickens.”
“An elf,” The Ranger said sharply.
The crowd’s eyes snapped to her, suspicious. The farmer stared gimlet eyed at her and she gazed back without blinking.
“Aye,” he said slowly. “Just like you. Just like thou.”
I stepped forward before the situation could escalate. “We are on pilgrimage, but we can assist. What exactly do you need?”
The farmer’s face shifted from suspicion to desperate hope. “Find me chickens. All twenty of em scattered to the winds. And clean up this mess. Pots, holes, everything.”
The Berserker’s eye twitched. “We’re the greatest warriors in the realm and yer askin us to chase @#$% chickens.”
“We need supplies,” I said quietly. “And rest. We help them, they help us. It is duty. We are on a divine quest.”
The Berserker looked ready to argue, but his stomach growled loudly. He deflated. “Fine. But I ain’t promisin nothin.”
The Cleric stepped forward, serene. “We shall aid thee in this time of”
“Great, great,” the farmer interrupted, already turning away. “Chickens first. They’re everywhere. White ones, brown ones, that mean rooster. Just get em back in the pen.”
We spread out into the village.
It took approximately three minutes for things to go wrong.
I spotted a brown hen near a cottage and approached carefully. It clucked, eyed me warily, but let me scoop it up. One down.
I looked around for help. The Berserker was still chasing chickens with no success, growing redder by the second. But where were the others?
“Where in the divines is The Ranger,” I muttered.
“Up here,” a voice called from above.
The Ranger sat perched high in an oak tree, nearly camouflaged against the bark, calmly filing her nails.
“And The Cleric?”
She gestured toward the forest. “He wandered off some time ago.”
I sighed. Of course.
Then I heard The Berserker scream: “C’mere, ye stupid bird.”
I turned just in time to see him lunge at a white chicken. The chicken shrieked, a sound I did not know chickens could make, and bolted.
“What the, I ain’t even touched it yet,” The Berserker growled.
He tried another. Same reaction. The chicken took one look at him and fled in terror.
“Why’re they all freakin out on me?”
A villager called: “They think yer him. The green devil.”
The Berserker’s face went crimson. “I AIN’T EVEN WEARIN GREEN. I’M ON @#$%! FIRE HALF THE TIME.”
For ten minutes, this continued. The Berserker chasing chickens. The chickens fleeing. His frustration mounting.
Finally, he snapped.
“GET BACK HERE YE !@#$% FEATHERED”
He kicked dirt toward a particularly defiant hen. It shrieked.
And then, from every corner of the village, came the thunder of wings.
They descended like a plague. Twenty, thirty, forty chickens.
“AIEEEEEE,” The Berserker screamed, trying to outrun the furious horde, but they converged on him. He disappeared beneath a mass of feathers and fury.
“@#$%&! GET EM OFF. !@#$% BIRDS. #$@%&!@# DEMONS.”
I rushed forward, sword drawn, swatting chickens away. The Ranger remained perched in her tree, one eyebrow raised.
“’Tis treacherous,” she called down.
“A little help,” I shouted, deflecting another chicken.
“They believe me an accomplice to the green devil,” she said calmly. “I’ve no desire to aid the ignorant.”
Fair enough.
It took several minutes to free him. When the chickens dispersed, The Berserker lay in the dirt, covered in scratches and feathers, breathing hard.
“I hate this village,” he wheezed.
The Ranger stayed in her tree. “Oh. He returns.” She pointed toward the forest’s edge.
“Who,” I asked.
“The Cleric. It appears he has brought something back.”
“We need to leash that one, we do,” The Berserker grumbled.
The Cleric emerged from the path, humming, cradling glowing jars against his chest.
“Ah, friends. Behold,” he said brightly. “I have gathered blessings for our journey. These sacred creatures shall light our path.”
“WE WERE GETTIN MAULED BY CHICKENS,” The Berserker roared, “AND YER OUT HERE PLAYIN WITH @#$% BUGS.”
The Cleric blinked. “Fairies are not bugs. They are spirits of the wild.”
“Bugs.”
“There were chickens,” The Cleric asked, genuinely confused.
I closed my eyes and counted to ten.
The next hours blurred together. We swept pottery shards. We filled in holes. We attempted to replant grass. After some cajoling and a somewhat forced apology from the farmer, The Ranger collected the remaining chickens with quiet efficiency while The Berserker was banned from going near any fowl.
The villagers gave us bread, dried meat, and ale in exchange. They offered free lodging at the inn and as much
“MEAD,” The Berserker thundered.
as we desired.
As evening fell, The Ranger approached me, expression thoughtful.
“There,” she said, pointing toward a cliff overlooking the village.
I followed her gaze. Something gleamed in the fading light. Metal catching the last rays of sun.
“A shield,” I said.
We climbed the path together, leaving The Berserker to his ale and The Cleric to his prayers. The shield lay at the cliff’s edge, ornate and well crafted.
And standing there, cloaked in green, pointed ears visible, a sword strapped to his back, was a figure staring out over the horizon.
I picked up the shield carefully. “I believe this is yours.”
For a moment, there was silence. Then he turned. His eyes were old. Too old for his young face.
He nodded, took the shield, and jumped from the cliff. A paraglider burst open beneath him as he glided over the ocean.
I watched him go, The Ranger beside me.
“That was,” I started.
“Say nothing,” she said. “We shall speak of this to no one.”
When we returned to the square, The Berserker looked up from his ale. “Where’d ye go?”
“Nowhere,” I said.
“Ye were gone a while for nowhere.”
“We saw nothing. We did nothing. We speak of nothing.”
The Berserker squinted at us, then shrugged. “Suits me fine. This whole @#$%! day never happened.”
The Cleric smiled serenely. “My master once told me a tale for times such as this”
“No,” all three of us said at once.
We left at dawn.
The villagers waved, grateful and relieved. The Cleric carried his jars of fairies, humming softly. The Ranger walked ahead, scouting the path.
“@$!%# chickens,” The Berserker muttered. He coughed once, and a lone white feather drifted out of his mouth.
“Ne’er again.”
submitted by /u/arulzokay
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