A whispering wind carries through the weeping willows word of defeat. Legends too have a beginning and an end. Dew drops form on an unusually dry day-dripping from the leaves as the branches tremble. A friend has fallen. Only history now remained. Only a history can now be shared.
It began on the third full moon of the eighth year after the cycle of the great chinchilla. A man to bring about the future had been born. Hatched from an unknown source into an world less than ready to receive. Rumors had most people convinced that he had just appeared one day upon the horizon moments before sunrise. A dramatic entrance. Not quite a dramatic individual. Yet he was as he needed to be.
Sir Clucks o’Lot walked the land with as much presence as a moth set on fire. Horses were for the mere mortal, not to mention expensive. Clucks o’Lot was from the line of Fowl-a prosperous line. At least until late. Of all that had come before him, he was the only one that remained. No one was there to guide him, teach him, slap him around when he poked at bears with little sticks.
For an aimless individual however, Sir Clucks o’Lot had a heading. Purpose. Needs. Odd sense of importance. That warm fuzzy feeling that makes you want to hug something which will likely decapitate you. And with all of those things he advanced across the terrain towards a collection of trees that would collect the first known event of Sir Clucks o‘Lot‘s life.
In the forest of Lost Guidance Figures he knew purpose waited for him. Not literally of course. Amongst the trees he would find more than just record keepers, he would find the first person to whom a record was worth making.
Sir Clucks o’Lot stepped beyond the threshold of trees without a pause or hesitation. Occasionally he found himself caught amongst the underbrush, twigs, half dead branches and other assorted natural substances that were best not to explain. Not even an untied shoelace dangling in the air could disrupt his torpedo like momentum. Sap filled the air with an aroma as soothing as a perfectly prepared family bonding breakfast. The sweetness formed tears that crystallized before fully falling from his eyes.
“Clucks o’Lot.” There was a low, ground penetrating, voice. Unwelcoming to say the least.
“I see a knight before me, calling me onto the floor.”
“Fight time.” the Knight of Rudimentary weighed more in armor than in body mass, but none other than he would know that for sure.
There were two swords in the air before any sane person could interject. Glints of brilliant light carved abstract lines into the trees around. A little cling and a big sequence of clangs sent squirrels and bunnies into hiding. Acorns and species perpetuation abandoned without a second thought. Clucks o’Lot and the Knight of Rudimentary were well into an early performance of the Ballet of Clingy Clanging Swords. It was a moving production. There would have been a lot less fury animals running amok had there not been such movement.
“Why must you,” Sir Clucks o’Lot ducked diligently out of the way of his opponent’s unpleasantly sharp looking blade, “fight me?”
“Simply must.”
“Must we?” A cheerful tap dance. “Tell me what I need to know and I’ll be on my way. Simple really.”
“Fight, die, secret stays.”
A reflection leapt from Sir Clucks o’Lot’s blade. An agonizing face, eyes wider than the socket designed to hold them, mouth parted in more than one place. That’s how it seemed in the brief reflection that followed a finely landed blow upon the side of the Knight of Rudimentary.
“He collapses. Defeat?”
“I am your victor. Out of honor and respect and all that which is duty bound and factiously robust I demand you tell me where the key of Lashier is.”
“Never.” The forest echoed with a series of dull clunky clangs.
Sir Clucks o’Lot knelt by the side of his collapsed victim. “Never, ever?”
“Death.” Only a lengthy exhale followed. Someone it seemed really enjoyed onions and hot peppers.
Sir Clucks o’Lot covered his mouth and nose, something caught his attention in the action. A medallion had been attached to the underside of the Knight of Rudimentary’s shoulder plate. Rather shiny considering it’s been kept in an armpit for as long as Clucks o’Lot could surmise.
The medallion was only about the size of a quarter and after careful extraction appeared to be as close to a perfect square as could be determined without measuring tools. With a weight of maybe only an ounce the object meant mystery. Luckily that wasn’t all Sir Clucks o’Lot had to go on. A small inscription, “In Puttinous, el Carumbatanous,” acted like a giant arrow. And a giant warning sign of doom size dismemberment.