PMD: Bad Duck [Interactive]

[kyeugh]

In which a scallioned rapscallion gets a bad rap.
Content warnings: strong language, drug use, violence
- - -​

this is an interactive webcomic i've been working on for a little while over at Thousand Roads. i figured i might as well post it here, too, and i can accept requests from both sites. you can check out the thread at TR for an example of how this kind of thing works, but in short, you can give suggestions for where the narrative should go next, and i will pick the ones i like and draw them!

to start, i'll post the story so far.

 

[kyeugh]

Prologue

Your name is Eschalotte Kurrat the farfetch'd, but your friends call you Esher. No one will be calling you that here, though, because you are in the town jail for the twenty-sixth time, and everyone is starting to get pretty sick of your shit. You don't mean to end up in here so much, really, but there's just fuck all to do in this backwater of a village, and most of your hobbies—pantsing the village elder, say, or lighting the fields on fire for a laugh—wind you up with some kind of jail sentence. Some people pay money for their entertainment; you, you pay with time.

Things being as they are, most people would say you have grown up to be a very bad duck indeed.

It's not so bad in here, really, except for that your mom is going to be pissed. Twenty-six is not a small number of times to have been imprisoned, you admit, especially not for someone who's only seen fourteen winters. Yes, you can handle jail well enough, but you're not looking forward to the Mother Goose's wrath.

You're stuck here for now, though, so you might as well make some fun. The warden yoinked all your shit, so that's gonna be a little tough. Maybe you could pester your long-suffering cellmate, or maybe you could try and make a break for it. Or—maybe—you could try to do something else. It never killed anyone to get a little creative. Or at least it hasn't killed that many people, you don't think.

What will you do?

- - -​

Use your Hidden Boo-Boo Bump Technique: Bar Prier on the window

Boo-boo bump!? That's your hair! It's not very utilitarian to have it hanging down all the time, so you keep it up with a pair of chopsticks. Fortunately, warden never thinks to take them from you. Not that they're much use. You've tried picking the lock with them before, but it's not really ideal.

Now now... Creativity is the spice of life... But to make this work were going to need an audience, leverage, and schenanigans (and possibly our leek back to use as a lever to make the break out when the choas peaks). So to get the ball rolling and summon the guards to get that audience i vote filthy bar songs with the intent to Work Up. Followed by a dose of Baton Passing the guard into the cell in our place when they cone to investigate...

Excellent idea. You approach the cell bars and begin making an enormous ruckus—some raunchy songs, certainly, though you don't know many, so you rapidly fall into a chorus of "WARDENWARDENWARDENWARDEN HEY WARDEN HEY WARDEN WARDENWARDENWARDENWARDEN." Your cell mate, Peccary Pete, exhales slowly through his nose as he watches.

Eventually, the warden gets tired of your shouting and pads over to your cell. How did he hear you anyway? You're not totally sure he has ears, but psychics have their ways...

"What the fuck is it this time," he seethes, glaring at you from between the prison bars. Drat. You were really hoping he'd come in. You guess he's not that stupid.

- - -​

Make fun of his hairdo. That thing has to be a wig--no way he grew a lawn up there. That's probably where he hides the key, now that you think of it.

"Oh, nothing much," you reply to the warden. "I just had a question about your hair."

"Oh," the warden says, and his stern expression softens just a smidge. "Go on then. I have important matters to attend to."

You kind of doubt that, but you hold your tongue for now. "I was just wondering, where do you get it cut?" A devilish smile creeps across your face as you add, "The fucking hedge store?"

This enrages the warden so much that he starts shaking and sweating and grinding his teeth and curling up his fingers like he's barely restraining himself from lunging through the bars and wringing your neck. What a weird fucking guy.

You only get in a chuckle or two before the jail door slams open with a deafening WHAM!

Your heart falls into your stomach and roils there and makes a nice heart stew. The warden doesn't seem terribly pleased either, somehow—the color drains from his beet-red face so fast you fear he might pass out.

Mama's home. And hell hath no fury like a mother whose kid just got arrested on charges of chicanery for the twenty-sixth time.

You'd better consider your next move wisely. It might be your last.

- - -​

Attempt to form alliance with Peccary Pete without drawing attention.

You hate to admit it, but Peccary Pete is the only person in this building that doesn’t want you dead right now.

“Look, Peccary Pete, I know we don’t have the best relationship,” you begin, trying not to let his impassive facade dissuade you, “but, look, I’m in big trouble here. Like, big big trouble. The kind of trouble where I’d frankly rather stay in jail because at least it’s better in here than what awaits me out there. I think I may seriously be in danger. Physically. I know that at the end of the day, you’re a good guy. You wouldn’t just let someone die. You would step in and use those big tusks of yours if you saw someone whose life was on the line. Right? Wait, you are a guy, right?”

Peccary Pete does not appear moved by your plea. You’re not even totally sure he’s awake.

Well, that was your last option. Only one thing to do now.

Get away from the cell bars, back away slowly so she cant see you from the entrance

Accept your fate :sadbees: The best you can do now is pick a god and pray for mercy

Hopes dashed, you retreat to the cell corner and pray for dear life.

O Celebi, Onion Mother, Great Allia, Lady of the Chive Blossom—are you listening? If you’re out there, I could really use some of your grace right about now. I know I’ve been a bad duck, but a bad duck can change. I’ll do anything you ask if you get me out of this one. I’ll plant all the spring onions. I’ll even dust off the old shrine, heaven knows it’s been in a state ever since Dad died. I’ll do right by you, I promise. Please, just save me from this situation so that I don’t have to pay my debt to society.

Be Peccary Pete

You are now Peccary Pete. Oh fiddlesticks.

- - -​

Peccary Pete: Evaluate whether you wanna be witness to child abuse

Against this incorrigible miscreant? Oh goodness yes.

Peccary Pete: Check Moves

Once upon a time, you had quite the physical set, but these days you’ve specced mostly into trying your best to forget why you’re here. Except for your backup move. Fortunately, you’ve done a good job making sure you’ve forgotten what your backup is too… until the time comes, that is.

Peccary Pete: reflect upon your crimes

You consider the prospect of considering your crimes for about two seconds before the weight of your conscience becomes unbearable. You really don’t want to be Peccary Pete anymore.

…

You are no longer Peccary Pete.

The good-for-nothing onion fairy didn’t do jack fucking shit for you. Mom’s stomping down the hallway, and she’s coming fast. The warden salutes stiffly as she approaches, sweat beading on his petal-pink forehead.

”Good day, ma’am,” he chokes out. “We’ve got your daughter under watch here. She was found—”

”Don’t,” Mom snaps, “say another word. I don’t want to hear it from you. I want to hear it right from the beak of my chick.”

Your stomach burns with shame. How are you going to explain this? Is there any way you could phrase it that might make your mother’s fury a little less… incandescent? It doesn’t seem likely. You open your beak, unsure what you’re about to say, but before you can get a word out she shoots you a truly chilling glare and you fall silent. “We will discuss this at home.”

“Er, I don’t wish to contradict you, ma’am, but your daughter’s sentence was two weeks and she’s only been here—”

”Did you know,” Mom muses, “that on the Mist Continent they serve Mr. Mime as a delicacy? I trained under Chef Hugo there for several months as a girl. It’s true what they say. He really knows his way around a knife.”

The warden swallowed and wordlessly opens your cell. You see Peccary Pete’s ear twitch out of the corner of your eye; that might be the most you’ve ever seen him move.

”Come now, Eschalotte.”

”What about my stuff?” you protest.

”We can get your stuff later. You won’t be needing it for now.”

”But—”

Without warning, your mother seizes you by the feathers and drags you down the hallway and out of the jail.

”Have a good day,” the warden calls after you weakly.

 

[kyeugh]

After what feels like a thousand years and most of your hair, you arrive home. Mom releases your feathers at last, and you stumble weakly into the kitchen. You bless your feathers you’re not a mammal—getting your feathers pulled doesn’t hurt too bad, but it’s gonna take weeks of styling to get your cowlick as tame as it was. And it was not especially tame before.

Mom plops herself down on a stool, chest-feathers fluffed, and crosses her wings. Always with that killing glare.

”Now,” she says, “I would like to hear what exactly it is that landed you in jail again when I made it quite clear on your silver jubilee that there would not be another incident like this.”

You gulp, bile burning in your throat. What was it you did?

- - -​

You sold counterfeit vegetables to the young children of the village, you monster

well the field on fire was kinda drab so you set tinfoil wrapped popcorn bombs with the second one to liven it up...

Wasnt your fault society didnt appreciate your mass holiday outdoor cooking event.

Impersonating an officer of the law to get a better deal on counterfeit vegetables (toy vegetables). It was a sting operation.

The funds were gonna buy enough corn for a third mass holiday outdoor cooking event.

You also needed some tinder to get the fire for the tinfoil wrapped popcorn bombs going (all that corn don't burn itself...), so in perfect prankster style, you decided to do this generation a favour and spare them the horrors of all your school's advanced linear prealgebra textbooks! Way to kill two b... err.... nevermind.

Also you wrote mean poems and stuck them in random mailboxes. For fun. As a treat.

Yeah, this is gonna be a fucking toughie. You take a deep breath, muster every molecule of willpower you have, and release. Alright.

"So."

It takes the better part of a quarter hour to recount your antics. In the moment, it hadn't seemed like all that much—one thing had left to another, and suddenly you were impersonating a guard to sell children contraband more efficiently so that you could make bigger popcorn explosions and... Yeah, alright, you kind of get why they put you in jail now. You should really think these things through more.

All the while you're flinching after each confession, waiting for your mother to finally react, to pull out her soup spoon and wallop you or something—but she doesn't. She just watches you silently and with wide eyes, and the tension is almost worse than any actual reaction she could dole out. You're almost desperate for her to do something, anything.

When your tale finally comes to a close, she stirs at last. You recoil instinctively, but it's not a drastic motion she makes. She just leans back a little on her stool, pinches the bridge of her beak, and lets out an almighty sigh.

"Eschalotte," she says. "My sweet chick. My precious child."

It's the most devastating thing she could have said to you, really.

"You are a blasted fucking idiot."

... Yeah, you had that coming.

"Do you understand how hard you've made things, not just for yourself but for me? I'm not sure you do. Because if you did, it would mean you're doing these things in spite of the way it hurts me—hurts us. And I like to think you love me too much to do something like that."

Your heart sinks through the fucking floor.

"I am a chef. A damn good one, too. People from across the world flocked to this restaurant, once, just for a taste of my work. It's midday on a Saturday, Esher, and the only mon haunting this place now are myself and my ne'er-do-well daughter. Why do you think that is? I can't blame it squarely on you. The world is changing in many ways, and change has a way of making business rough. But things being difficult as they are, surely you understand that you—your actions, your disregard—have not helped matters one bit. The daughter of a once-great chef, arrested for selling plastic food to children. What kind of image do you think that presents? How do you think that reflects on me? Did you even think about it at all?"

The answer is no, of course you didn't. You were just getting your kicks in however you could. But seeing your mother like this, eyes ringed with red, once-bustling pride-and-joy restaurant ghost-dead, the guilt you've been pushing off for all these years hits you like a rhydon all at once. You feel like you might throw up.

"I'm sorry, Mom," you croak out. And she looks at you again with those eyes, that gaze so disappointed it might as well be flaying you, crucifying you.

"I love you, my chick," she coos softly. "I always will. But things have progressed to the point where my own feelings on the matter don't count for much anymore. I've protected you all this time with all I have. And now I have nothing left." There are tears welling in her eyes. "I warned you this day would come. Many times I warned you—so did the warden, so did the elder. But you didn't listen. And now it has arrived."

Your wings are shaking with dread. "What do you mean?"

"Did you wonder why I picked you up out of jail before your sentence? I've never done that before." You hadn't thought about that, actually—you'd assumed she was just that mad. But she raises a worthy point. "The elder has summoned you to tribunal. Your fate will be decided on the platform tomorrow. I'm sorry. There's nothing I can do."

And then, as if she can bear to behold you no longer, she rises from her seat and waddles to the kitchen, her back to you.

For all the irony in the world, she's chopping onions.

- - -
​

End of prologue​

 

[kyeugh]

Chapter 1

You awake on the day of your trial with a stone in your stomach. Both metaphorically, in the sense that you are freaked the fuck out, and literally, in the sense that your tummy was upset last night and, being a primitive fowl, you had to swallow a big rock to help grind up your food. And the mammals have the gall to complain about taking pills and gummis. What a bunch of fucking whiners.

You step outside into the warm spring air and breathe deeply of it—the scent of smoke from the village's bonfires and the aromas of honeysuckle and garden herbs comfort you. The city's center, a massive earthwork platform built thousands of years ago by the village's founders—and one of many such structures in this part of the world—looms over you menacingly, like a great judgmental mountain. Actually, you guess that's exactly what it is.

Blessedly, you have a couple hours to kill before the worst moment of your life, so you might as well do something to lift your spirits a little. You could go down into town and chat with the shopkeeps—maybe it's your last chance. Your teacher, Master Tibius, is probably down there somewhere hocking his wares if you wanted to say hi. You could even pick up a snack and shoot the shit with the other teenagers. Or you could take a hike to the waterfall to clear your mind. There's always something neat to see out there.

Or you could do something else. If there was ever a time to get creative, now would be it.

- - -​

> Esher: check what you've got on you
> Esher: consider if there's any coolkids you'd want to bring to the waterfall to possibly say your goodbyes to
> Esher: consider if there's an apology to give to Master Tibius when you pass him by

You consider how far you could make it out of town if you just high-tailed it and ran now. You've slipped past guards before... but they always get you eventually. But in this case, maybe they might let you leave, if they thought you'd never be coming back.

Much to consider. The thought of dashing town crosses your mind—why wait around for the inevitable when you could get a head start? But you don’t want to disgrace your mother’s name any further by failing to show for your trial. Besides, this could be the last time you have in this town, the only place you’ve ever known. You’d never forgive yourself if you squandered it. Plus, if they do exile you, they’ll probably give you some survival supplies—wouldn’t want to miss those. You’ve only got a leek to your name, for now.

There are people you’d like to talk to, at any rate. At the very least, you’d like to see Master Tibius one last time. Growing up without a dad, the old coot taught you most everything you know that isn’t related to cooking and avian hygiene. It’s going to be hard to meet his eyes, but it’s something you need to do for your own peace of mind.

It wouldn’t hurt to say bye to the lads either.

Oh, wait! Are the Celebi shrine and/or Dad's burial site somewhere in the town, or close enough to feasibly visit?
If so, it may be good to drop by. Y'know, while you still can.

Most importantly of all, though, you’d like to visit your dad. You don’t remember much about the old duck, but you’ve heard on no rare occasion that he was a devout worshipper of Celebi—he’d built the forest shrine in the town square, and he’d kept it spotless. It’s kind of like his ghost now—its disrepair hants you. It could do with one last tidying-up while you can. Something tells you no one will be doing it in your stead once you leave. And it’d be good to visit the old man’s grave, too. You might not have known him well, but his tombstone was the one friend you had that you could always depend on to listen. He’d want to hear about what’s going on now, too, and you owe him a goodbye.

Plan in mind, you head on down the path towards town, trusty leek in hand. You receive no shortage of nasty or pitiful looks—you try not to let them beat your spirit down. There will be plenty of time for moping and feeling self-sorry later. And oh, you will make good use of that time, make no mistake.

Sure ’nuff, the boys are waiting for you in town square, bumming around by the fountain as usual.

“HEY ESHER COME SMOKE WEED WITH US,” One-eye Perry shouts at you. He’s missing one eye and one eye only, but tends to shout like he’s hard of hearing. No one knows why. You love him for this. Pot Monkey is sitting on the edge of the fountain—he just lifts his chin at you in greeting, and you return the gesture. God Pot Monkey is cool as fuck. But do you really have time for this?

- - -​

The only way to impress Pot Monkey is to do a backflip. I am your intrusive thoughts and you will regret this moment forever if you don't do a backflip right now.

“Hey guys, check this out,” you say without answering One-eye Perry’s question. The dope can wait a second. It is strictly necessary for you to do a sick backflip right now. You leap into the air and your wings become a flurry as you do a cool swoop. You land back on your feet gingerly with a pant, chest puffed out proudly. “Pretty sick, right?”

Pot Monkey looks at you with an unreadable expression for a few seconds, then shrugs and hits his joint.

God he is so fucking cool.

”Anyway,” you add, “I might be getting exiled in a couple hours, so I guess I just wanted to say my goodbyes. You know, in case we don’t meet again.”

“OH DON’T WORRY!” One-eye Perry shouts. “WE WOULDN’T MISS YOUR TRIAL FOR THE WORLD! SO WE’LL SEE YOU THEN AT LEAST.”

”Oh,” you say. “Great!”

God damn it this is going to be embarrassing.

”YEAH,” One-eye Perry says, bobbing his giant head in a nod. “YOU’RE, LIKE, SOOO LUCKY! AT LEAST YOU GET TO SKIP THIS WASHED UP TOWN. YOU’LL GET TO SEE THE WORLD!”

”Yeah, I guess,” you say, trying to keep positive. “It’ll be pretty cool. I’ll miss you guys though, you know? It’ll be lonely out there. I hope you guys don’t have too much fun without me.”

”WE WILL PROBABLY BE HAVING THE SAME AMOUNT OF FUN WITHOUT YOU TO BE HONEST! SO ANY TIME YOU ARE FEELING LONELY JUST REMEMBER THE TIMES WE SPENT TOGETHER AND THAT WILL NOT REALLY BE DIFFERENT IN A MEANINGFUL WAY FROM IF YOU WERE ACTUALLY HERE WITH US.”

”That’s really good advice, One-eye Perry. I’m glad I talked to you guys.”

”YEAH,” One-eye Perry says apparently not picking up on the sarcasm at all, and Pot Monkey strokes his chin and nods in agreement apparently not listening to anything that’s going on at all.

”Now I’m all warm and fuzzy.”

- - -​

> Esher: Ask Perry if he could do you a favor and give the shrine a pressure-washing with a water gun to help jumpstart cleaning it up
> Esher: Offer to meet them at the waterfall in like an hour or so to smoke weed one last time together, surely being high will not impact your trial

"Anyway, Perry, would you mind helping me out with something?" you ask.

"THAT SOUNDS LIKE A LOT OF WORK!" he shouts back.

"I haven't even—okay. I'm just wondering if you could tag along with me to the Forest Shrine. I've been neglecting it for a while, and I might be leaving for good soon so it just feels right to—"

"NO THANKS!"

"Okay. What about you, Pot Monkey? Wanna come hang out? You don't have to clean or anything, you could just come vibe if you wanted."

Pot Monkey gives you a vacant crimson stare for about five seconds, then shakes his head.

"Alright. Thanks for all the support, guys."

You turn to leave, but Pot Monkey sits up and starts digging through his satchel. You stop to see what he's doing.

He offers you a fat joint. It's even twisted nicely on the end, in the way only pokémon with thumbs can do.

"Wow, thanks, Pot Monkey!" you exclaim. It's gonna be a little tricky to light this—you're no fire type—but you don't know when the next time you'll get access to something like this is. You take the joint and add it to your inventory.

• Trusty leek
• Fat joint

You continue on your way to the shrine, hoping one day you could be as cool as Pot Monkey.

With that, you tearfully exchange goodbyes with your "friends" and head on your way to the shrine.

It's not far—on the edge of town, just within limits. But it's not exactly prime real estate, and a lot of this part of town is undeveloped, so it still feels like a bit of a hike getting there.

Boy the shrine really is looking rough. When dad was around, this place looked like a zen garden, but these days it looks more like an abandoned woodland ruin. Cobwebs rim the eaves, weeds have desecrated the leek garden and your father's grave, and it looks like a wild pidgey has made its home in the crevice of the temple's arched roof. Yikes. No wonder the Goddess didn't come rushing to your aid yesterday.

Welp. Gotta start somewhere. You could get right into cleaning, or you could have a chat with your old man first—doesn't matter much.

- - -​

If we have inventory space, we could probably take an extra leek or two while cleaning up.

Great idea. How many leeks can you carry? You need as many as possible where you're going.

then checking out the (wild?) leeks

Why the hell would you take the leeks? You already have a perfectly good leek of your own. Fetch'd don't dual wield!

Esther: Chat up the pidgey(?) making their home at the top of the shrine, is it a decent place to live?

First thing's first: that pidgey has gotta go. The shrine of the Forest Goddess is no resting place for a bird. Well, except for that it's your father's final resting place, and he was himself a bird—whatever. You get it.

You try to shoo it at first, but it doesn't seem to care. That does make sense. Its nest is there. "Hey!" you shout out at it. "Look, I'm sorry, but you can't live here. This is a sacred place. Is there something you like about being up there? Maybe I could make you a similar shelter somewhere else to build your nest. How does that sound?"

"OOOOOOOOOOOGH," the bird scream-coos back at you, its eyes bulging.

"I'm sorry, I don't make the rules. Now get! Shoo!"

"OOOOOOOOOOOOGH!!!!!" the bird screams again.

This isn't going anywhere fast. Esher-pidgey relations are rapidly breaking down.

> Esther: Ask the (wild?) pidget(?) is they can give you some privacy when you talk to your Dad, that might be awkward otherwise.

"Alright, well... Can you at least go somewhere else for a little bit? I'm trying to pick the place up a little. I'd appreciate some privacy. Hey, you should be thanking me! I'm pretty much cleaning up your house for free!"

"OOOOOOOGH!" the pidgey hollers, staying soundly put.

It occurs to you that wild animals do not understand speech.

>Esther: Cobwebs first

Alright, let's move onto something you can do. A spider has made its home in the corner of the shrine, and it's not the best look. With a huff, you leap up and swing your leek wildly at the web. It sways around, but doesn't appear substantially disturbed. You try again, and again. Winded, you bend over to catch your breath and inspect your leek. There's for sure some silk on there, and you're pretty sure the cobweb is looking a little worse than it did before. Improvement!

I think we have a chat with our old man first while we catch our breath, before getting deep into the weeds.

You're gonna need a break after all that hopping around. Gait a little uneven, you waddle over to your dad's grave and plop down beneath it. As according to Fetch'd tradition, your father was buried with the leek he'd wielded in life. It was no small vegetable in its heyday, but it's become truly gigantic in the years since your father passed away. The old man's body must have been nutritious as fuck. That makes sense, you guess. It was being fed the finest by its loving wife, a world-class chef. Ok let's stop calling Dad "it" now.

"Hey, Dad," you say between pants. "Sorry it's been a while. Just been caught up in, uh..." You don't really want to say 'jail' even though it's true. Why are you afraid of your dead Dad's judgment? The Goddess only knows. "Stuff. Um, I might be going away for a while. Like, maybe forever? So this might be the last time I visit."

A breeze rustles the tremendous leaves of your father's grave, and it's hard not to feel like it was a sigh from the beyond.

"I know, I know. I got the whole nine yards from Mom. Believe me, there's nothing you can say that will make me feel worse than the look in her eyes did. But it's a little too late for lesson-learning now." You shrug. "Maybe it'll be good for me though, you know? I'm just so bored and unfulfilled here. So throwing me out might just be best for everyone, I guess. I'll miss you, though, and I'll miss Mom. And it makes me feel guilty that I left this place in such bad repair. Now I'm going to be gone, and no one will be here to pick it up anymore, and one day it's just gonna collapse in on itself and... and it'll be like it was never here at all."

Like it was never here at all, you say, but you mean something else. There are two things your father left behind in this world: you, and this place. Well, now you're on your way. And the shrine probably is too.

You notice you've pulled your knees close to your chest. It's not cold out, but you're trembling. It is just so fucking miserable to say it all out loud, isn't it? But you're glad there's someone here to listen, someone who loves you.

There's a rustle and snap in the brush. Too big, too loud to be a little critter. It's something sizable—a big wild pokémon, perhaps, or maybe another person. Your muscles tense up, and you feel a pulse of your heart strong enough that it makes your vision brighten.

Friend? Foe? Fight? Flight? Or freeze?

- - -​

>Hope you don't look delicious.

>Take up a defensive position.

You jut your leek out and raise a fist threateningly. As threatening as one little duck can be, anyway. You might not look like much, but your trusty leek can pack a wallop and has defended you against rogue wilds on more than one occasion. If your restaurateur mother taught you anything, it's that there's no such thing as free dinner.

After what feels like months, the grass finally parts to reveal a familiar figure, and your anxious scowl gives way to a broad-beaked smile.

"Good stance, my pupil. Plant your feet a little more."

"Master Tibius!" you exclaim. The grouchy old marowak doesn't return your smile, but his heavy tail lifts a little and slams heavily back to the ground, raising a plume of dust—a gesture you've come to recognize as expressing satisfaction or pleasure.

"I thought I might find you here, little chick," he says in that gravely old voice, like stone on stone. "You have left this place in a disgraceful state. I have slain many beasts and worthy foes in my day, and nearly met my end to the grass."

You bow your head in shame. "Yeah... Sorry, master. Guess the time got away from me."

"Yes. Very busy, you have been, with your popcorn. It darkens the old master's heart."

You let out a heavy sigh and slump back against your late dad's leek, crossing your arms. "Look. I've heard it enough today. If you've just come here to look down your snout at me, then... then... I'll see you at the trial, okay?" Master Tibius is an old goat now, but you still don't have the courage to tell him to leave you alone, even though it's what you'd really like.

The marowak trudges onward as if he hadn't heard you, knocking pebbles out of the way with his heavy-bottom bone cane. With some effort, he falls to his haunches beside you, sitting crisscross with his bone straight across his knees. You notice you've rested your leek against your own legs in the same manner. Did you pick that up from him?

After a few meditative breaths, he turns to face you.

"I shall tell you a story from my youth."

You resist the urge to gasp. You don't know anything about the Master's past—he's tight lipped as, well... a dead man.

"Have you ever wondered to yourself how a mon like myself came to live in a land like this, far from the Bonelands? The truth is, when I was but a bone-swinging scamp, I developed affections for the woman of the clan leader's son. Brash and brazen in my youth, I challenged him to a duel. Many laughed at my foolhardiness, but this fight I won. The wise warrior would have accepted this victory with grace. But angered by the treatment and disregard I had received from the others, I gloated and beat my fallen foe until his skull-helm was splintered and cracked. For this I was exiled from the Bonelands."

This time, you can't hold your tongue: "What!?"

It was hard to even conceive. You've never even imagined the old master doing something that couldn't be described as "proper" in the strictest possible terms.

He doesn't wait for you to pick your beak up off the ground before he continues.

"Now a question for you, little chick: why do you think the gods gave to us youth?"

"Uh..." You scratch the back of your head. "This feels like a trick question."

"When you are young," Master Tibius continues, "you heal much faster and can take many hits, yet you strike weakly. When you are old, you strike with power, but you are feeble and slow to recover. It is known. The makers created us just so, with a purpose. As the elders teach, so the hatchlings learn. This is your time to learn, and learn you shall. There is no shame in it; every tree bends as it grows. I know you will grow toward the light, little chick."

You don't know what to say. Against your better judgment, you lean into your old teacher and bury your face in his shoulder, tears streaming. To your great surprise, he wraps you in his firm arms, leathery hands patting your shoulders, and you sit like that for a time until the temptest is gone from your heart and you feel tranquility in its place.

"Thank you, Master."

The old marowak withdraws and pulls himself to his feet with a wheeze.

"There is little time before your trial. If you have any last wishes in this town, you had best pursue them. Otherwise, it will not hurt for you to show up early. Good bye, little one."

 

[kyeugh]

I think they might exile me.. do you have any recommendations where I should go?

"Before you go, uh..." You tap your feathers together a little anxiously. "To be honest, I'm pretty sure they're gonna exile me. I have no clue where to go. If you were exiled too... do you have any advice?"

Master Tibius shifts his weight a little. "Hmph." Then he starts drawing something in the dirt with his bone. It takes him a minute or two to finish, and when he does, he puts his hands on his hips and gives it a long look, tail thumping.

"The village instructors don't see fit to teach their children geography anymore, eh? Very well. I have drawn for you a map of the surrounding area."

"Well, I know we're at Last Hill," you say.

"Your intellect slices."

You suppress a scowl. "What's all the swirly stuff?"

"That is the Mother Mountain Mystery Dungeon. Esinuculke. 'Beyond age.' It surrounds this village from all sides. To arrive here from within the mystery dungeon is quite easy. In fact, the challenge is ending up anywhere else." His face twitches from behind his skull-helm. "The dungeon twists and turns no matter which course you take within its bowels, and almost always its wayfarers are spit out here, at Last Hill."

"Did you really have to phrase it like that?"

"There is one way through," the marowak continues, ignoring your comment. "Zorua's Pass. Cúlamnenne. The Foxway. This follows the course of an ancient stream, now dry, which once emptied the weepings of the Mother Mountain into a great spring. Boiling Water. It is a far greater city than this. You will find people there who can guide you further." He bows his head.

"One more thing. If you become lost in the dungeon... Do not stop. Always be moving, or you will be left behind."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

The marowak doesn't answer you. He just peers up at the sun, shading his eyes with a hand.

"It is time for your trial. Go, little one."

"Goodbye, Master."

"Goodbye. Do not die."

- - -​

Your trip up the great mound at the center of the village is... great. Did they really need to build this thing so fucking tall? Just seems like a pain in the ass for everyone involved.

Your lungs are burning by the time you crest the top. Looks like you're not the first one there—the ceremonial fire is already billowing a great column of smoke and ember into the sky, not unlike like a black tower of judgment if you were being poetic and shit.

There's a smattering of people here already—you spot Pot Monkey and Perry, sure as shit, and your mom. Even Master Tibius is here. How the fuck did that guy beat you? The rest is random towngoers, most of them wearing nasty scowls and pointing them at you. Some of them you certainly remember wronging. Some you don't. Man. You've done so much mischief you lost track. This town really will be better off without you.

Notably, the village chief is missing. Looks like you're off the hook for at least another couple minutes until he shows up. You could go chat around for a little bit to kill time, or you could just wait it out—maybe socializing before your life-altering trial isn't the best look, after all, but how much do looks really matter at this point anyway.

- - -​

You must consult with Pot Monkey. Someone as cool as him surely has some great advice to give you. Maybe some pot to take the edge off, too.

You're not sure you really want more weed right now, since you still have the joint Pot Monkey gave you earlier. But a little advice wouldn't hurt.

"Hey, guys. Thanks for coming," you say as you approach your pals.

"OHMYGOSH IT'S THE LADY OF THE HOUR! HI AGAIN ESHER!" Perry screams apparently at the top of his lungs. His voice seems to echo across the valley below. Some onlookers shake their heads at you.

"Hey, Perry," you say. "So I guess this is it, huh? I'm curious, what would you guys do in my situation? What do you think the right move is?"

"WELL, I WOULD PROBABLY SAY EXACTLY WHAT THE MAYOR WANTS TO HEAR TO GET MY SENTENCE LIGHTENED A LITTLE, PERSONALLY," Perry replies. "MAYBE YOU COULD SAY IT WAS ALL AN ACCIDENT. AND COMPLIMENT HIS BEARD FOR SURE. HE LOVES THAT THING! ALSO, YOUR MOM IS PRETTY FAMOUS, SO MAYBE YOU COULD CALL ON HER TO VOUCH FOR YOU. YEAH, THAT'LL WORK!"

"Uh-huh. And what about you, Pot Monkey?"

The monferno strokes his chin in consideration of the question, his bloodshot eyes looking into the infinite expanse for an answer. After a while, he throws up a mighty shrug and makes an inarticulate sound that kind of seems like it might be to the cadence of "iunno." It might be the most you've ever heard him say.

His lackadaisical attitude is truly aspirational. Even when faced with exile, he would simply be a chilled out relaxed guy. God he is so fucking cool.

- - -​

> Anybody you feel like you ought to apologize to before you leave for presumably-ever? Maybe go do that.

>Maybe some apologies are in order. Think everyone will accept them?

You're not sure you have enough time to apologize to give an apology to everyone who deserves one—that would probably take more time than you have left. But you do spot Farmer Oliver in the crowd, looking quite unhappy. That's the guy whose corn you stole to... well, you know. You figure you can make your way over to him and make what amends you can.

"Hey, Farmer Oliver," you say, tapping your fingers. "I just wanted to say... I'm sorry about everything. I know it doesn't count for much at this point, but I legitimately feel bad for what I did. You're a hard worker and you provide a lot of value to the community. I understand that. You didn't deserve what I did to your crops."

"I'm actually really glad to hear you say that," Oliver says with a gentle smile. "I can't tell you how much it warms my heart to see you grovel in your lowest moment. Thanks but no thanks for the apology. I don't want to see you again. I hope the elder sentences you to fucking die!"

Well, okay. Can't win 'em all.

> Spend some time with Mom. Give her a hug.

> Tell Mom about trying to reach Boiling Water. Would she want you to write a letter when you make it there?

>Hey, you're the daughter of a famous chef, right? Maybe some cooking skills could be useful once you're on your way to Boiling Water. Asking Mom to teach you may be out of the question, but there has to be a way for you to learn.

You're sure you'll see her after your sentencing. For now, you can't bear to face her. Anxiety is written on her face like a long and flowery novel. Besides, you're not sure now is the right time for cooking advice.

Just as you're contemplating what to do next, a shadow passes over the clearing. You might mistake it for a passing cloud—but the sky is clear. Your heart becomes molten. You know what will come next.

The Elder descends from the sky, so huge and mighty that his landing sends a breeze rushing over you even from twenty yards away. Even the great bonfire on the platform flickers a little, then roars back bigger than ever, sending a curtain of blood-ruby embers into the sky.

"Here I am," the Elder rasps in his stony, rumbling way.

And there he is indeed. A mountain of fluff and scale and pretense, arrived to weigh your soul.

The Trial.​

"Eschalotte Kurrat, the guilty," he booms. "Ascend the platform. I would see you through the flames."

Heart in your throat, you do as the Elder commands. Your body seems to resist you—you feel every ounce of your weight, each step up the worn wooden stairs like lifting a huge sack of rice over your head. The fire is almost unbearably hot on your face when you reach the top. Almost as uncomfortable and nauseating as the feeling of every pair of eyes in the village on your back.

The Elder cranes his massive neck to see you better, twinkling little eyes straining. "Ah. I see you now. Eschalotte. How big you have grown. How... disobedient."

Your voice is molten in your throat, but somehow you manage to speak even over his thunderous breaths, over the harsh crackle of flame. "If it's alright with you, Elder, I would just like to hear my sentencing. I've been shamed enough."

The Elder makes a deep rumble. You're not sure if it's laughter or grumbling. "So you have, have you? Ah... I have known you since you were quickening yolk. I love you as I love all members of this village. Might I not mourn what I lose, too? Mmm. Very well. Long have I meditated on this matter. Your sentencing."

He pauses, and the heat and sound of flame torture you.

"I have considered your position in this village. It is one of discord. You sow chaos for your own amusement. I had hoped you would grow out of this, given time, but you have only become bolder. You have not acquired skills as I had hoped, or realized your role in this place. You have only grown more adept at your troublemaking."

Ouch. Didn't you just ask to stop with the shaming? You're surprised he didn't go for gold and take a shot at your virginity.

"It has brought me to wonder... perhaps you are bored. Unstimulated. Unchallenged. Perhaps this place, this village, is too small for you."

It's everything you have not to laugh out loud at the absurdity of that sentence coming from an actual talking fucking mountain.

"Eschallote Kurrat, I hearby exile you from the village of Last Hill. When the next sun rises, we will close our doors to you—your words will be as wind to our ears. Your life will wind on, but it will be away from us—away from this place. So it shall be."

It's funny: the words don't crush you. If anything, you feel... relief? It's over. And it went essentially as you expected. The best outcome you could have hoped for, really; you were prepared for this. You take a deep breath, and suddenly the fire in front of you doesn't feel quite so hot.

"There is another matter."

Holy fuck the fire feels so so hot

"Last Hill operates a small jail. You know this better than most. Ah. Since before you were born, this jail has only ever housed two individuals: yourself, and Peter the Piloswine. With your departure, it seems to me rather redundant to continue operating this facility solely for the sake of a single individual. What is to be done, then? Mm. The Foxway is perilous. I am not sure you are ready to brave it alone. Peter, however, is an experienced combatant..."

"You can't be serious," you plead.

"Mm. I am not like you, Eschalotte. I do not litter grave moments with humor." Despite that, his eyes twinkle a little. "You will be placed under the care of Peter the Piloswine immediately. I have seen to his unwavering loyalty. He will lay down his life for you if the need arises. You will embark before dawn. This is the justice I have determined. I adjourn this trial."

"Can't we talk about this?"

With a beat of his wings, the Elder is gone, leaving only the dancing grass and pirouetting flames.

What now?

- - -​

Anyway, there's gotta be some way to avoid that ol' carpet. Meet up with him for now, but the moment you leave the village try to get away from him as fast as possible.

Good plan. You have half a mind to see how far you can get if you split now, but unfortunately the thought barely enters your head before you spot a pair of familiar faces in the crowd—one featureless as ever, one fucked up and angry as ever.

"YOU," the Warden growls, extending a creepy mime finger your way. He marches towards you boots-a-stompin' with Peccary Pete sluggishly in tow. "Do you have any idea what you've done? Congratu-fucking-lations, soldier, you're the first one to ever fuck up being a criminal so bad that they shut the jail down. I've been working at that jail for a hundred years. A hundred fuckin' years. Since before your mama's was an egg in her mama's egg sack. And now I'm out of a job. I don't even know how I'm going to put dinner on the table now. Everything's in fucking pieces. Fucking pieces. I'm in awe that you managed to blow things up in such a big way on your way out. Gods, what I'd give to wrap my gloves around your little throat..."

"You really have no idea how the avian reproductive system works, do you?" you ask.

"Seriously? That's it? Do you have a single other fuckin' thing to say for yourself?" the Warden demands.

"Uhh..."

You consider the question carefully. You have put this guy through a lot. And now he's unemployed you guess? You certainly didn't mean for that to happen, although you feel he should be directing his rage at the Elder instead. On the other hand, this guy's been a big dick to you for a long time. Sure, you tormented him a bit, but you only torment people who deserve it. Okay, so you tormented Farmer Oliver too, but you apologized for that, so it doesn't really count.

Your response finally comes to you.

"Nope. Bye!"

You run and run and run like a little piloswine all the way home. Even your flight-adapted lungs are burning halfway down the great mound, and your legs are on fire, but still you charge onward. You can't afford for these guys to catch up with you—if you're really going to be stuck with Peccary Pete into perpetuity, you at least need a little bit of time in private to collect your things and say goodbye to your mom. So on you dash, despite your body's every protest, until your doorstep is in sight. You take a minute to catch your breath. At the speed you were going, and the speed Pete is capable of, you'd say you have a good half hour or more to yourself.

​

He's... right behind me, isn't he?

- - -​

> Esch: Greet Pete: "So, you wanna meet my mom?"

"Uh... Hey, Peccary Pete. Welcome to my house? I guess? God this is fucking weird."

Peccary Pete snorfs at you.

"Uh-huh. Well, feel free to hang out inside, I guess. No one else is here because I sprinted home about forty seconds after the trial ended and you... followed me here somehow... So if you want to meet my mom you'll have to wait. But she loves company. I'm sure she'll make you a nice supper—hey!"

Evidently bored of your yapping, Peccary Pete bowls past you into your doorway and makes himself at home.

"Chives and crackers, dude. You can't just barge into someone else's house like that. Get a grip. Hey, stay away from the houseplants! That's not food!"

You're beginning to doubt whether Peccary Pete has the capacity to understand speech. He seems about as receptive to your pleading as the pidgey on your dad's grave was. Eventually you decide to just leave him to his snorfing. It's not like you wanted him here in the first place, so you can't really be blamed for any property damage he causes. At least you're pretty sure that's how that works.

Instead of wasting your time with the rooting cretin, you turn to your bedroom. It probably wouldn't hurt to start packing what little you have. Your leek is a must, obviously. There's an apple in here that might not hurt to bring. And you've got an extra set of sticks for your hair. It all looks a bit meager when you lay it out like that.

Maybe it will be a good thing to have Peccary Pete around on the trail. That guy doesn't take no for an answer and knows exactly where to find food, as you've learned in the past two minutes. Fucking asshole.

Anything else you should look for to pack?

 

[mewtini]

god we are so fucking back

 

[Novae]

yoooo