Arthur Pennyroyal
Chapter Three. The Battle of Chicken Flicken.
The Dickendoofian calendar (Old Style) records that in the year 1333 a thunderous battle took place between the blue goblins, led by their chief Snoddle, and the knights of the card table, led by Sir Earwig. Hundreds of goblins and hundreds of knights gathered in the valley of Chicken Flicken to fight it out. Once again we turn to Underlip the Scribe for a description of the action:
The first beams of dawn spilled over the hill, an ironic harbinger of the unfolding chaos. Chief Snoddle, leading the fearsome Blue Goblins, stood at the head of his formidable force, sneering at the shimmering line of knights across the battlefield. Opposite him, beneath the fluttering banner of the Card Table, was Sir Earwig, leader of the Knights, with an expression as steadfast as the armor encasing him. The field in between lay barren, trembling in anticipation.
"Dawn be the hour," intoned Sir Earwig, raising his sword high to catch the morning sun. "The time when Goodness shall defy the specters of the Night! For this battle, my Knights, is not just for us, but for those who sleep peacefully in their beds, trusting our strength to keep the Night at bay."
A defiant cry rose from the armored ranks, their swords and shields glinting with reflected courage. It was a sight that could kindle hope in the hearts of the most pessimistic.
Across the field, the goblin chief Snoddle, bared his sharp teeth in a snarling grin, "Yer shiny armor don't scare us, Earwig! Let's see if yer soft insides match yer hard outsides!"
Goblin laughter filled the air, an abrasive sound that was discordant to the harmonious melody of the morning. Yet, this exchange of words only seemed to tighten the strings of tension pulling at the battlefield.
Then, without warning, it snapped. The Blue Goblins hurtled forward, a torrent of fury. The Knights of the Card Table met them halfway, their swords slicing through the air with deadly precision.
"Stand strong, Knights!" Sir Earwig's voice rang above the turmoil. "Remember our vow! Let our hearts beat for the defenseless, our swords clash for the helpless!"
Chief Snoddle, wielding a wickedly curved sword, sneered in response. "Pretty words, Earwig. Our hearts beat for power, our swords clash for victory! Today, we end yer pointless chirping!"
A raging maelstrom of blue goblins and silver knights enveloped the field. Swords met with furious crashes, the impact reverberating down the arms of the combatants. The Knights fought with an iron discipline, their movements precise, while the goblins attacked with a wild and ruthless energy, a contrast as stark as the differing sun and moon.
Yet, despite the fierceness of the clash, it was clear that both leaders held the same unwavering conviction - this battle was a crucible, one that would define the fate of their worlds. For Sir Earwig and his Knights, it was a fight for justice and protection of the weak. For Snoddle and his Blue Goblins, it was a bold push for power, an attempt to destabilize the status quo. No matter the motive, this day marked a pivotal moment in their history, one that would reverberate through the ages.
As the first day of battle raged on, these opposing forces and their steadfast leaders remained locked in a violent dance, their conflicting ideals forming the core of this unforgettable tableau. It was a vibrant testament to the complexities of warfare and leadership, a spectacle as striking as it was terrifying.
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Underlip continues his narrative for the second day of battle:
Sunlight, piercing the veiled dawn, disclosed the battered battle-field. Torn earth bore testament to the bloody conflict between the blue goblins and the valiant knights of the card table. Fires still smoldered on the charred edges of the plains, silent witnesses to yesterday's carnage.
Pandemonium erupted as the horn of combat sounded. Blue goblins, like raging waves, surged forth. Armored in wickedness, their lust for destruction glinted in their beady eyes. At their head, the monstrous figure of Snoddle, their chief, towered over his comrades, his brutish form instilling dread in the hearts of his foes.
From the opposite flank, the knights of the card table, arrayed in gleaming armor, charged in unison. The ground thundered beneath their warhorses' hooves, and their banners, emblazoned with the image of their sacred table, fluttered courageously against the crimson sky.
Amidst the roar of the battle, Snoddle met his match. Sir Galahard, a knight-captain, lunged at him with a sharpened lance. With an earth-shattering thud, the lance found its mark, tearing through the goblin chief’s thick hide. Snoddle roared, not in defeat, but a defiant bellow that echoed across the battlefield, chilling the blood of the bravest knights.
Snoddle fell, wounded gravely. As his horde rallied around him, his rumbling voice rose above the cacophony. He spoke, a lament of his bloody life, "Always, I've played the beast. I sowed seeds of hatred, wrought chaos and fed on destruction. It was a role thrust upon me, one I accepted for survival.”
He coughed, blood speckling his lips, his gaze faraway, “Yet, deep in the cavernous recesses of my soul, I harbored dreams. Dreams of peace, of gentleness, so at odds with my monstrous facade. I yearned for the simple joys, the art of plucking daisies in sun-kissed fields, the serenity it brought me.”
His eyes glazed, “And the nymphs, the ethereal nymphs of the woods. I longed to caress their glowing forms, to make love under the moonlight, amidst whispers of leaves and the soft lullaby of the nightingale. To be one with nature, to savor its beauty, its love. Yet, here I lay, a creature born of darkness, a being of destruction."
Tears, as soft as the morning dew, glistened in Snoddle's eyes. "Each day, a struggle, a battle not against knights but against my own nature. Yearning for peace, yet causing chaos. Dreaming of love, yet sowing hatred. In the grand orchestra of life, I played the villain's tune. But I ask, can a monster dream of love? Can he long for peace? Can he, too, find redemption?"
With a sigh, he finished, “Is it so wrong, then, to yearn for something more than what I am? To seek not just survival, but a life of peace and love? Yet here I am, a creature of war, longing for a world that can never be mine."
The battlefield fell silent, his words resonating in the hearts of both goblins and knights. And as Snoddle's life flickered out under the cold gaze of the indifferent dawn, a question hung heavily in the air - Can a monster dream?
The battle would resume, but with a seed of doubt sown, a questioning glance exchanged between foes. Snodd
Snoddle’s monologue, a reflection of his soul’s lament, served as a haunting reminder of the duality of beings, even those perceived as monstrous.
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There is some doubt that Underlip the Scribe ever actually witnessed this heroic three day battle. Most modern authorities (including myself, Arthur Pennyroyal) hold to the theory that Underlip simply interviewed survivors of the battle years later and then cobbled together his stirring narrative. On the other hand, there is some evidence that the scribe acted as a page to Sir Earwig during the fracas. The truth probably lies somewhere sleeping.
Underlip the Scribe finishes his war story thus:
The early morning fog hung heavily over the undulating fields of Chicken Flickin, a natural amphitheater that echoed with the grim symphony of war. It was there that Sir Earwig and his vaunted Knights of the Card Table clashed victorious swords with the ominous horde of Blue Goblins.
On the third day of battle, Sir Earwig, a stout figure with a chin hidden beneath a scruffy beard of iron gray, sat atop his noble steed and surveyed the field. His eyes, as keen as a falcon's, scanned the terrain, reading it like an open book, deciphering the hidden tales written by boot and hoof, by fallen soldiers and discarded weapons.
On the front lines, knights Grimsby and Butterworth, grizzled veterans both, leaned on their shields, their weary legs begging for respite. Grimsby, the taller of the two, grimaced as he bit into a hardtack biscuit, crumbs raining onto his already filth-stained tunic.
"Butterworth," he began, his words muffled by his poor excuse for a meal, "why is it that every time I bite into this blasted biscuit, I swear I'm chewing on gravel?"
"Mayhaps it's the cook's way of ensuring we're grinding our teeth as much as our swords," Butterworth retorted with a wry grin. "Or perhaps it's Sir Earwig's brilliant strategy to arm us with indigestible rations so we might use them as projectiles in desperate times."
Grimsby chuckled, a weary but genuine sound. "Perhaps," he agreed, sending another spray of crumbs flying. "And isn't it strange that the only orders we get from the top are to 'Hold the line'?"
"Just once," Butterworth sighed, casting his gaze skywards as if expecting to see divine intervention, "I'd like a bit more... I don’t know, originality?"
"Strategy would be a nice start," Grimsby added, his voice heavy with resigned humor.
Meanwhile, back at the command post, Sir Earwig was developing just that. The humble card table from which their knightly order took its name was strewn with a chaotic scattering of parchment, quills, and pewter goblets. Sir Earwig studied the scattered parchments, his eyes narrowing as a plan began to take shape.
The morning sun was reaching its zenith when Sir Earwig’s plan was unfurled. With a rallying cry, he charged into the fray, his knights following behind him, their swords gleaming in the sunlight. Sir Earwig himself swung his great sword, cleaving goblins left and right, his blows as unforgiving as his strategy.
The Blue Goblins, despite their savage ferocity, were no match for the cunning of Sir Earwig and his Knights. The battlefield gradually turned into a scene of chaos and defeat for the goblins. They had lost their chief, Snoddle, and were now uncertain of what to do. Their once-mighty force lay decimated, their banners fallen and trodden into the blood-soaked earth.
As night fell, the triumphant Knights of the Card Table stood victorious on the battlefield. Grimsby and Butterworth, tired but triumphant, leaned against a felled oak, watching as the remnants of the Blue Goblins retreated into the dusky horizon.
"Food's still bad, Grimsby," Butterworth remarked, a faint smile playing on his lips.
"But the strategy, Butterworth, the strategy was a feast," Grimsby replied, returning the smile as he took another bite of his unyielding biscuit.
The astute reader will wonder how so few dead dragons could have produced so many blue goblins to be overcome and slain. The answer is that one dragon carcass, according to the eminent reptile authority Reedrobber, was capable of producing an endless supply of blue goblins as it decayed. Unless the unsavory mess was doused with sack – and no one in their right mind in Dickendoof would waste good wine on a dead dragon. Even if it meant being plagued by blue goblins. After all, drinking enough sack often brought on a regiment of pink elephants – so what’s the difference?
As the old drinking song ‘Green Cheeks’ has it:
In a tavern, 'neath the eaves, where merry folk repine,
There's naught as sweet, on lips to greet, as blessed, bawdy wine.
With a lusty leer and a rousing cheer, we pass the jug divine,
For a Chasers tale is naught but frail, without a splash of vine.
Oh, in goblets deep, the secrets keep of life’s own honeyed line,
We drink our fill of life's sweet swill, in the bosom of the wine.
Through the stained glass light, in the heart of night, we raise our cups on high,
With a wink and grin, we invite sin, 'neath the star-lit sky.
Red or white, in day or night, each draught a lovers' tryst,
In the cups of vine, we intertwine, lost in the vintner's mist.
Oh, with goblets brimmed, and senses dimmed, we chase the divine,
We raise a toast to our gracious host, the generous, sacred wine.
Our tongues do tease with tales of these, of knights and maidens fair,
With each sip we sup, from the brimming cup, we cast away our care.
On velvet chairs, and down the stairs, the laughter sweetly rings,
With the clink of glass, we watch time pass, and the joy that drinking brings.
Oh, in the warmth of wine, the world is fine, its troubles out of line,
So here we'll stay, till break of day, in the arms of the divine wine.
The minstrel's song, it lures along, the damsel and the swain,
In the tavern's glow, the wine does flow, like sweet, ambrosial rain.
In ruby light of candles bright, a dance of shadows play,
While the stories spun 'neath the setting sun, are softened by the gray.
Oh, the tales unwind, as we're inclined, in the company of wine,
Let the world go by, under the sky, while we with the grapevine dine.
We feast and frolic, with jests symbolic, in the wine's intoxicating cheer,
The night, it wanes, but joy remains, as we hold each other near.
In the tavern's heart, we play our part, in life's sweet, spinning reel,
With the wine's embrace, we quicken pace, on the wheel's merry keel.
Oh, through the glass, let hours pass, for we've found our lifeline,
In this tipsy trance, we find romance, in the whispering sweet wine.
So let us raise, in hearty praise, a toast to the grape's delight,
To the joy and mirth, on this blessed earth, in the soft and silken night.
With every cheer, we hold dear, the pleasure that does shine,
In the tavern's light, with hearts alight, we sing the praise of wine.
Oh, till dawn's first light, in the tavern's night, we'll sing of the wine so fine,
In our rapture, we're captured, by the sweet enchantment of the wine.
