"Pointing at the ground I told the filthy goblin, 'Not another step! Or I will be forced to use my magic on you. I will defend myself to the death.' But it was stupid and must have thought I was lying."

Chicken had arrived home, to the village in which he had been hatched and raised. It was the village they called Very Small Numbers. The name was largely due to a cross-lingual misunderstanding, the founders borrowing words from invaders. The invaders had expressed difficulty in finding kobolds in “very small numbers”, and the kobolds delivering their words, and so too the recipients of the message, took the concept as one of a kobold paradise and promised land. Whether or not the name indeed acted as a lucky charm, these kobolds had for many generations enjoyed the peace resulting from being undisturbed by aggressors.

Wasting no time, he had secreted his scavenged treasures in his safe spot. Later he would deliver his gift of ant eggs to his Auntie.

As he had meandered home, he had stopped to exploit nature’s bounty. It was no hero’s feast, but the hodge-podge of little treats had sustained him. The goopy innards of a succulent plant here, a brown slime-mold there.

He had even had the good fortune to find some ants while he was collecting tinder.

Digging his hand into the humid dirt, he had turned it over, revealing a chaotic mess of tiny chitinous bodies. Their tiny ant minds had been seized by insectile panic. Among the shiny black roiling mass, Chicken had located the white ant eggs, the larvae of the ants, some of which already in the process of being carried back into the dark.

Warriors had bravely defended the nest. They sprayed the invader with formic acid. The infantry charged, taking their menacing mandibles to the enemy.

The defense was to no avail.

None of it could penetrate Chicken's scales.

While he had scavenged, he had thought about the encounter with the goblins, replaying how he had been captured, how he had escaped, and how he had narrowly avoided being pummeled and left for dead in the wastelands.

He had played with the memories like they were clay, reimagining the base experiences, adding embellishments, like more goblins and longer fangs. All that was left was to show it to someone, and he had found a sufficient audience to practice telling his most recent tale.

Before him sat a half dozen children, the oldest at least a generation younger than him. They listened with varying degrees of amusement. Most had the air of having nothing better to do.

"At my command, the ground began to tremble! I could tell it scared because its evil sneer was gone. When suddenly," and here Chicken jumped from his seat in a boisterous imitation, startling the younger kobolds.

With a shrug he said calmly, "It was gone."

One of the young kobolds, past the age of naiveté, scoffed. Chicken recalled his name was Brufon.

“You can’t face down goblins.” It was accusatory.

“I can too,” Chicken rebutted. “I can and did.”

“I don’t believe it. Not for one minute.”

Another one, Krepin, jumped in, saying “Yeah. You told Brother that you scared off a mutant coyote, but it was just a mangy runt.”

His pride bruised, he fabricated wildly, “It was a mutant, and it only looked like a mangy runt after I was done with it. Anyway, how can I be lying if I have this?”

He produced the brown mushroom from behind his seat. He held it up proudly.

“It’s just a mushroom, Chicken,” Brufon said, perplexed.

Blustered, he defended himself. “No! No, it’s the mushroom. The one from my story!”

One of the younger kobolds stood up to both of them. He remembered her from most of the other times he told his stories. She would always sit in front. She was named Pithy.

“Yeah! It is the mushroom! Chicken is brave!”

He nodded at this, thankful for her interceding on his behalf.

Before he could thank her, Brufon had snatched it away.

“Hey!” Chicken and Pithy shouted, but Brufon passed it to Krepin, holding the two kobolds back with an upraised finger.

“It’s not the mushroom. It’s just a mushroom,” he said snidely.

“Eugghh!” Krepin interjected, “and it tastes awful.” He had taken a surreptitious bite, and now was trying to get the taste off his tongue.

Brufon shrugged. “No use for it, then. Give it here.” He held it out to Chicken, who grabbed at it, but pulled it away at the last second. He hucked it towards the edge of the camp.

“That’s not nice, Brufon!” Pithy said tersely.

“Go get your garbage, Chicken!” he shouted. The two bullies laughed.

“Him? Taking on hundreds of goblins? I’ll believe it when I see it,” Krepin said as they walked away.

Pithy, his valiant defender, consoled him as the rest of the audience dispersed.

“I like your stories, Chicken.”

He smiled at this as he looked out to where the mushroom had flown.

Suddenly Pithy remembered something.

“Oh! I almost forgot. Auntie wanted to see you when you got back. She told me specially to let you know. You need to bring stew.”

“Me? Why?”

The little girl shrugged, and Chicken deliberated. Would he go retrieve the mushroom, or would he go see Auntie right away? He weighed the encounter with untold angry goblins against confronting Auntie after a period of what she would call dilly-dallying.

Leaving his prize wherever it had landed for now, Chicken headed to the nearest bubbling pot.

****

Ducking to clear the low door of the bivouac, Chicken entered the dark and smoky tent where Auntie did her everyday magic.

By the low light of the smoldering oven, he could make out the shapes of her various stores of ingredients. Clusters of large clay pots and racks of stoppered bottles lined the walls, keeping the middle of the flat dirt floor mostly clear. Bundles of herbs hung from the ceiling by twine.

Chicken knew from memory not to fear anything Auntie left within reach. She usually kept the dangerous stuff hidden, or high off the ground, far from curious grabby claws that may wander into her tent.

Auntie was kneeling with her back to the door over something lumpy Chicken couldn't recognize in the dark.

He crept closer, wary of the situation. A little extra caution around Auntie was always warranted. She was mumbling to herself as she knelt in front of… A pile of blankets? A body?

He thought someone might have taken ill, but Pithy would have told him if it was sickness in the family.

He almost stumbled when Auntie abruptly called to him. She hadn't given any other sign she knew he was there.

"Give me the stew. I'll be busy with this one for a while."

An old scaled claw was extended from behind her cloak at him, not turning or looking up from what she was doing.

He placed the stone bowl in it and it was reeled back in.

"Fetch me the spoon from over there."

She indicated a small wooden spoon sitting on one of the jugs pulling overtime as a table across the room.

Chicken strafed over to it and picked it up, enraptured by the mysterious body over which Auntie had resumed mumbling.

As he came closer, spoon in hand, he saw the blanket was pulled up to the chin, but the head sticking out not that of a kobold.

No scales, just smooth skin. It had a pig like nose, and large tusks at the corners of the mouth forcing a scowl on the sleeping face.

It had black hair and, from where Chicken could see, it started into braids.

Auntie took the spoon, as Chicken was too distracted to hand it over.

"We found this orc dehydrated and unconscious less than a mile from here the other day. Judging from the wounds and age, I say we've recovered an exile."

She lifted its head and spooned some broth between the orc’s lips.

Chicken whispered, "Why are we helping him?"

Auntie looked at him for the first time, a sudden and hard look like flint on iron.

She said firmly, "We're helping her because we found her. She's our responsibility until she's better and can fend for herself."

Auntie's features softened when she realized she had startled him.

“I’m sorry Chicken. I see now it was an innocent question. Salander-“

She almost added something else, but instead turned back and dribbled another spoonful.

As Chicken watched, he could see the orc's consciousness move under the surface of her sleep. She stirred and spoke gruffly but quietly. Auntie relayed the translation.

"She has been saying she's not an orc. If I had to guess, she has lost who she is, and it disquiets her spirit. There are more wounds to tend once her body has healed."

Auntie started singing a song as she fed the sleeping orc.

It was one known well by Chicken and his cousins, since Auntie had sung it to them when they were hatchlings.

The tune was a soft lullaby and told a story about the fabled Desert Hare and how he tricked the evil queen of the desert, driving her away and bringing rain to his people.

It was Chicken’s favorite story, and it had become a kind of lens through which he viewed his own experiences.

Chicken identified with clever Desert Hare, who was always portrayed in his stories as brave, resourceful, and generally well-liked, but the song always sounded sad, despite the heroic victory over evil.

Auntie had told him of their tribe’s kinship with the queen, that every kobold she reared could trace their lineage back to her.

Being too young for independent thought, Chicken had grown around that grain of knowledge, taking it as indisputable fact.

Auntie finished the stew around the verse where Hare rallied Ant and his cousins to march on the queen. She put the bowl down and stopped singing.

The orc had not rejected the food, but was still submerged beneath the placid surface of unconsciousness.

Auntie gestured for Chicken to come around and help her to her feet. She picked up her cane and, with all three supports beneath her, the two of them left the tent.