​Side Quest: The Chickening

sup, i wrote this for my short fiction course. this is the very beginning of the story, currently polishing the rest.

enjoy!

Side Quest: The Chickening (or Chicken Run. Not sure on the title yet.)

The Berserker’s anger was palpable. The air around him crackled with static, and the acrid smell of sulfur hung heavy in the forest. Small wisps of smoke curled from his clenched fists.

Please don’t set these woods ablaze, I thought, watching embers dance across his knuckles.

So far, we were safe. Instead of exploding and incinerating everything within the vicinity—likely many vicinities—The Berserker’s anger remained contained within speech. The majority of his words were expletives, of course, but words were far preferable to fireballs.

Thank the GODS, his therapy sessions seemed to be working. Well… in a way.

“&!$:)?!! @&$&&&!!!” The Berserker raged. “We’ve been hikin’ this @#$%&! trail fer at least ten #!@% dawns, an’ now we’re LOST because someone,” he jabbed a finger at The Cleric, “made us follow a @#$%! WISE ASS TALKIN’ 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. He had the decency to look ashamed, though it was overshadowed by the twinkling in his eyes. He was clearly thinking of the squirrel that had indeed possessed rather masterful speech.

(”$&!/?@! ‘E don’ speak that good,” the Berserker had scoffed, glaring down at the squirrel. “I could punt ye to the skies.”

“My dear sir,” the squirrel said evenly. “Do forgive me for the vulgarity of my words, but I do declare: bring it, bitch.”)

Once again, we had been sidetracked due to another of The Cleric’s wanderings. I was beginning to believe these happenings were not mere accidents. He alone could decipher the sacred map to THE GODDESS, given to us at the start of our pilgrimage. Yet somehow, we never seemed to make progress.

Such a coincidence to stumble upon a vast field of wildflowers. Or a sacred spring. Or a grove of ancient trees blessed by the old gods. Or, most recently, a cave absolutely teeming with bat droppings.

“Wonders, dear friends!” The Cleric had beamed, holding a pellet delicately between finger and thumb. “For we are blessed! This is a blessing from THE OLD GODS.”

The Ranger had looked at me. I had looked at The Berserker. The Berserker, looking distinctly green, had whimpered, “I’m goin’ tae be $&!@?! sick.”

And sick he was, all over The Cleric’s pristine white robes.

Each detour seemed carefully orchestrated to satisfy The Cleric’s wandering curiosities rather than our divine mission. One of us needed to learn to read that map, and fast.

The Ranger dropped from the trees, landing lithely in front of us without a sound. She had been scouting ahead for hours. I envied her so very much—the solitude, the silence, the distance from The Cleric’s “blessings” and The Berserker’s rage.

“A village lies ahead,” she announced, her pointed brown ears twitching slightly. “Another quarter of a day’s travel. We can reach it ere nightfall. There is an inn where we will enjoy the comforts of beds.”

The Berserker’s demeanor shifted instantly. “A village? An inn? Mead? Do they have mead?”

“I do not know.”

“What, ye couldnae check?”

The Ranger gazed at him placidly. “I was scouting the path, not conducting a tavern survey.”

The Berserker deflated slightly, but was mollified by the prospect of civilization, a warm bed, and most importantly, mead. “Fine. @#$% fine. Let’s go.” He glared at The Cleric, who averted his eyes and began humming.

“Keep an eye on this one, Knight,” he growled at me. “One more talkin’ $&&(:(! animal an’ I don’t think I can stop meself.”

The air crackled. His face reddened. Soot filled his eyes, darkening them like coal.

The Ranger deftly leapt onto a tree branch. “I shall scout ahead to ensure no obstacles.”

“Hold!” I called after her. “Thou canst not leave me alone with them. Ranger, I beseech thee!”

But she was already gone, nimbly jumping from branch to branch.

I sighed heavily. “May the GODS curse you,” I muttered. “You might have taken me with you.”

The smell of smoke hung thick in the air. The Berserker’s fists were clenched, flames licking at his knuckles.

“Breathe, I beg of thee!” I urged him. “Employ the method The Psychologist hath taught you. These woods shall burn, and we with them. There will be no mead if we are naught but ash.”

Slowly, painfully, The Berserker began to calm. His breathing evened out. The smoke lessened. The flames faded.

The Cleric looked up from the map, his eyes glittering with excitement.

“Ah! Friends! It says here there is a pond nearby. It is said to behold f—”

“NO!” The Berserker and I shouted in unison.

The Berserker stomped his feet like a rampaging toddler throwing a tantrum.

“NAE $&@?! NAE &$@!!?! NAE &$@!!?! NAE!” he roared.

Desperately, I looked to the trees. Return, Ranger, I thought wildly. May the GODS have mercy.