The Chicken Hero, as you may already know, keeps the chicken
harvest running smoothly by roasting hens by the thousands and cleaving
them apart with the biggest, sharpest knife in the land, all while
making the thickest gravies you've ever seen. I, Anastasia, normally
work as a relatively mad scientist in the basement of an old convent,
but to help supplement the diets of ourselves and our fat, docile
wolves, I also frequently attend the harvest as a serving wench. This is
where the Chicken Hero and I first met, and where I fell in love with
his wily charm, biting wit, and unparalleled bravery in the face of the
busiest of harvests.
While the Chicken Hero
and his motley crew of misfit comrades keep the slaughter in check, we
the serving wenches hold down the front of house by taming the appetites
of the various beasts that enter our establishment. Our clientele range
from the sweetest of elves and fairies to the most beastly of gargoyles
and banshees. While we prefer to feed the kinder, gentler folk, some of
the more aggressive troglodytes make their way to a seat and pound on
the table with their first and scream until they are attended to. These
types usually leave quite a mess and pay for their chicken in a fistful
of exact copper. They don't understand advanced concepts such as time,
in contexts like "food needs time to cook," and "if the harvest is full,
creatures will have to wait their turn." Serving wenches must keep a
smile on their faces at all times in the face of adversity, even when
being pelted by the spittle of a pack of screaming goblins who felt that
their chicken leg was not of satisfactory size or doneness, although we
know no poultry leg smaller than that of an ostrich would be sufficient
for some of these screaming beasts. Perhaps that could be our next
special?
I have been working at the harvest
for the past three years, and each day brings a new assortment of folk
from the surrounding villages. I always work early on the morning of
Jezus, which makes some of the folk gripe that I am not at their place
of worship instead, although they always sit down for a cup of tea and a
plate of fried potato sticks anyway. We have regular folk who frequent
the harvest weekly or more often, and many request the same serving
wench each time. We have a pair of pixies who show up twice a week and
always eat the same meal and always leave the same pleasant amount of
copper behind. Many of our regular folk are a pleasure to serve. The
merpeople just want beer and conversation, while the trolls prefer to
find flyers posted on signposts that entitle them to a few coppers off
their meals, eat and leave as fast as possible. Werewolves will tuck
into a full rack of swine ribs and continue to be ravenous, whereas the
unicorns tend to nibble on bowls of fresh grasses and vegetables. Each
creature is unique, and each have different interactions with the
serving wenches.
One evening several years
ago, an imp and a ghoul arrived together at the harvest during one of
the busiest seasons. This is the season when those mythical beings who
live in a faraway land called Ontarrioup deliver brightly coloured slips
of papyrus to the creatures in the villages, allowing them to eat twice
as much chicken for half the cost at the harvest. The imp and the ghoul
sat down and presented me with one of these pieces of papyrus, demanded
two dark bubbly sugar waters, and two of the more expensive cuts of
chicken meat. Now, with these more expensive cuts, the folk must pay
extra coppers to ensure we have enough revenue to continue the harvest
for another year, regardless of how many pieces of papyrus are thrown at
us. The ghoul and the imp devoured their meat and potatoes with gusto
and slurped their dark bubbly sugar waters back and demanded more. They
were unassuming, slightly rude, but nothing to write home about. When
the time came to settle up, the imp flew into a rage and smashed her
plate against the table, shattering it.
"YOU
ADDED THE COPPERS WRONG, YOU IMBOCILE!" she screamed at me, while the
ghoul huddled back into his chair in fear. I picked up the papyrus on
which the numbers were written and recounted. "No, that is correct," I
said, "including your hefty discount, you owe 17 coppers for your
dinners." I took a step back. Her eyes glowed red. "BUT THE PAPYRUS SAID
IT WAS A FULL 3 COPPERS LESS, YOU STUPID HUMAN WOMAN!" and shoved the
papyrus in my face. The other patrons of the harvest grew quiet and
watched the imp as she started to light the chair she was sitting in on
fire in her cheap rage over 2 coppers. "Yes," I said, "but you asked for
the most expensive cut of meat. It's written right on there, it's an
extra copper and a half per meal." "WHAT DO YOU MEAN, ONE AND A HALF
EXTRA COPPERS FOR WHITE MEAT!?!?!" she bellowed, swiping the broken
porcelain onto the floor with her forearm. "THIS IS OUTRAGEOUS!!!" She
picked up a sharp piece of glass and began to move toward me.
The
sounds of chopping and and clucking hens ceased. The rest of the
serving wenches pulled out their trusty pens and massive bags of low
denomination change, ready at a moment's notice to fight. I moved back
from the imp, not breaking eye contact, and slowly grabbed my own piece
of glass to fight back with. She was beginning to foam at the mouth. The
sounds of chopping and clucking hens ceased. Suddenly, there was a loud
grunt and a giant smash. I turned around and there was Brendanus, the
half-giant, one of the few males who work amongst the serving wenches,
exploding through the newly erected wall that once divided the cooking
area from the front area, confusing wenches and Heroes alike. Brendanus,
wielding his pen, rumbled forward.The wall was broken, and there in the
dust stood the Bogeyus and his new vapour stick, Joshius the Tall,
Bearded Mike, and finally the Chicken Hero, brandishing his trusted
blade. A single chicken bawked loudly, awkwardly flew out from behind
them, landed on its side and scurried out the open door into the
village. The Chicken Hero raised his knife and shouted "Onward!", and
the men moved forward to follow Brendanus.
The
ghoul, looking more aghast than ever, dropped 20 copper coins onto the
table and began to pull the imp toward the door, out of the way of the
oncoming Brendanus and the army of greasy men behind him. Bearded Mike
stuck out his foot and tripped the ghoul, who let go of the imp and fell
onto the floor. He jumped up and began to wrestle with Bearded Mike.
Bogeyus inhaled deeply from his magical vapour stick and blew it into
the ghoul's face, making the ghoul writhe. The imp had bolted back to
the table, picked up the extra 3 copper coins that the ghoul had
intended as a tip for dealing with his partner's lack of social skills
and inability to read simple sentences, shouted "I'll be taking THAT,"
and hopped out of the open window, leaving the ghoul to contend with
Brendanus, Bearded Mike, and Bogeyus. Joshius the Tall looked at me and
nodded, and hopped out the window after the imp. The Chicken Hero and I
stood surveying the damage left by the imp's rage.
"You
are okay?" the Hero asked me. "I am fine," I replied, "that's the third
one to have that reaction this week. Thanks for the backup, I could've
handled it myself though." I dropped the piece of porcelain from my hand
and it clattered onto the floor. "Your idea of handling it may have
ended up in bloodshed," the Hero replied, "you don't have much patience
or mercy for those who are rude to serving wenches." "You're right, but
only because everyone should be kinder to their serving wenches, because
we are people too, not machines, and treating us and talking to us like
old trash isn't very nice." I looked up, and there stood Joshius the
Tall, holding the imp by the scruff of the neck. The imp was silent
until Joshius the Tall shook it up and down, and then the imp looked a
little green and whispered "I'm sorry I spoke to you rudely, you do not
control the cost of the harvest, Joshius the Tall has explained it all
to me." Joshius the tall then tossed the imp to the door. The imp fell
onto the ghoul, and together they scrambled outside and vanished into
the village. I wish I could say they were never seen again, but they
still eat at the harvest frequently and, while they are slightly less
violent, they still whine about the cost.
"Excuse
me?" Said a voice. I looked to the left at a table of goblins. "Could
we get another pitcher of mead, please?" said one of them timidly. I put
on the fakest grin I could muster. "Of course, my ducky. I'll be right
back."
THE END.
