The Adventures of Heihei The Almighty Chicken God – Part 1 17/07/2026

Guards stand at the heavy wooden door, clad in ill-fitting chainmail, eyes locked onto you with dull menace. Their hands rest lazily on their pommels, watching for any sign of movement. One of them, a burly man with a scar crossing his cheek, clicks his tongue in irritation. ‘Stupid halfling.’ He mutters to the guard by the door. ‘It was raving about a chicken god!’ He scoffs.
‘I’m not an it!’ The halfling protested, ‘I’m a she! And i was doing important work!’ “Important work?” The scarred guard’s laugh echoes off the stone walls like a bitter wind through bare branches. “Listen to this one. Thinks stealing chickens is important work.” He leans forward, chains rattling as he grips the bars. “Tell me, little mouse, what makes one chicken god any different from the dozens of other stupid gods in this forsaken land?”

The second guard, a lean woman with intricate braids peeking from beneath her helm, shifts her weight and spits on the floor. “Captain’ll have your head if you keep this up, Rorik. You know what the magistrate said about prisoners who don’t shut their traps.” ‘Everybody matters!’ The halfling spoke up, ‘a god is only as strong as its most truest of believers.’ And suddenly, a chicken appeared through the door to the dungeon and pecked at the feet of the guards. The guards startle at the sudden appearance of the chicken, their hands flying to their weapons in instinctive response. The chicken clucks and pecks at their feet with surprising boldness, its feathers ruffling as it moves. Rorik, the scarred guard, stumbles backwards, his chainmail jingling as he trips over his own feet. “What in tarnation…?” he exclaims, trying to regain his balance.

The lean female guard, still scowling, kicks weakly at the chicken. “Get out of here, you feathered nuisance!” But the chicken remains undeterred, circling their legs with an almost purposeful stride. Before the guards have a moment to react, the chicken flappers and half flies, half stumbles through the bars of the dungeon, once inside, the chicken pulls back its neck, looks like its going to breath fire at the guards, but eggs appear from its mouth, hitting the guards like a gatteling gun. Your eyes dart wildly as the chicken hurls a stream of eggs through the bars, each one striking the guards with deadly precision. Rorik stumbles, trying to shield himself as shells shatter against his chest, coating him in viscous yolk. The female guard is knocked backward, her back hitting the door as she frantically fends off the assault.

“You—you’re not supposed to be here!” she shouts, quivering as she struggles to maintain her footing.

The chicken turns to you, its head bobbing slightly as it lets out a throaty cluck. It’s not a sound of alarm, nor a mere startled noise—it’s deliberate, almost triumphant. You pet the chicken on the head, ‘good heihei, let’s get out of here, help me pick the lock!’ Together, you make short work of the lock holding the dungeon door closed. While the guards are still reeling from heihei’s vicious egg attack, you manage to escape from the dungeon into the corridor with heihei close behind you. The dungeon corridor is dimly lit by flickering torchlight, the air thick with the musty odor of damp stone and rot. You keep low to the wall, your heart pounding as you glance behind you. The two guards stagger forward, their faces twisted in fury, their armor and clothes stained with egg yolk and shell fragments. The female guard reaches for her sword, but you notice she hesitates. She glances at Rorik, who still looks stunned by the unnatural events unfolding.

You move swiftly down the hall, footsteps silent on the aged floorboards. The chicken strides beside you with an eerie grace, head bobbing, its presence sending an unmistakable message: it is here to aid you. As you get to the end of the corridor, you quickly slip inside the room at the end. Looking up you are startled to find yourself face to face with The magistrate himself.

He stands behind a desk that looks as if it’s been carved from petrified oak, his back to you. A single candle gutters on the surface, casting a thin halo of light around him. You freeze, your heart hammering so hard you worry he can hear it.

The chicken—heihei—stops beside you, feathers ruffling. The magistrate doesns’t turn immediately. He finishes whatever he’s writing, the scratch of his quill steady, deliberate. Then, slowly, he sets the quill down and looks at you over his shoulder.

“Well,” he says, voice like dry parchment. “I suppose this means the hayhay has answered my summons.” You, try to keep the look of surprise off your face as the magistrate declares this. Quickly, you pick up the chicken and nod, ‘yes your maginess, the almighty god heihei has graced us with his presence.’ The chicken almost seems to puff up it’s chest and look proud and pompous before eyeing the the magistrate with one eye. The magistrate turns, his face hidden in shadow, but his eyes burn with cold certainty. The room is smaller than you expected—walls lined with shelves holding dusty tomes and curiosities, a bookshelf leaning precariously, as though the very stone itself might swallow it whole. A single heavy tome rests open on his desk, its pages thick with script so old it looks like it was carved into bone.

The magistrate gestures lazily, the motion almost absentminded, yet it sends a tremor through your body. “Come closer.” He speaks without hesitation, as if he had always known you would be here.

You step forward, keeping heihei held against your chest. ‘How can we be of assistance?’ You ask The magistrate’s face is unreadable in the dim glow of the candle, but his eyes—dark and calculating—lock onto you with unsettling focus. He exhales through his nose, the sound almost like distant thunder. “You,” he says, gesturing toward you with a gnarled finger, “are something of a curiosity.”

You hold heihei tighter, feeling the chicken’s steady heartbeat against your chest. The magistrate reaches forward, not toward you, but toward the tome resting open on his desk. He turns a page with slow deliberation. “The hayhay,” he murmurs, almost to himself. Then, he looks at you again. “You claim to have been searching for it. Interesting.” ‘I was taught by my grandmother, that the chicken god smiles favourably down upon those who believe. I have proved my devotion by finding heihei, the chicken god himself!’ You tell him A dry chuckle escapes the magistrate’s lips as he traces a symbol carved into the desk’s surface. “Your grandmother’s wisdom carries more weight than you realize.” He rises from his chair, the movement surprisingly fluid for someone who seemed so aged. His robe brushes the floor with a soft rustle, revealing feet encased in boots worn smooth by countless miles.

“The hayhay,” he continues, his gaze fixed on heihei, “was once known by many names in these parts. But now…” He pauses, his fingers drumming against the desk. “Now, it seems the old gods are stirring. Your arrival here is no coincidence.” ‘Does that mean you will let us go?’ You ask. The magistrate’s fingers pause mid-drum, and for a moment, the only sound in the room is the occasional drip of the candle’s melting wax. His eyes remain locked on heihei, but he speaks as if addressing something unseen. “Let you go?” He repeats, a slight hitch of humor. “Oh, I don’t let things go.” He steps around the desk, each footfall deliberately placed. His presence is commanding without effort, a man accustomed to being obeyed.

“I have a different offer for you.” He stops a few paces away, his gaze sweeping across your face before settling on heihei. “You seek meaning. Purpose. That much is clear.” He gestures toward the chicken. ‘And an audience with the chicken god, would also be good.’ You add. ‘What kind of purpose are you offering us?’ Heihei, rustles his feathers and settles down further into your arms as you talk with the magistrate. The magistrate’s eyes flicker with something unreadable—not amusement, not pity, but perhaps curiosity. He steps closer, his boots scuffing softly against the worn stone floor. The candle’s light catches the edge of his profile, and for a fleeting instant, you see how young he might once have been.

“Purpose,” he repeats, tasting the word as if it were a rare vintage. “You believe the hayhay offers it to you.”

‘Belief is the only way to be truly free,’ you say, clutching heihei tighter. The chicken lets out a soft cluck, as if in agreement.

The magistrate’s lips quirk—not quite a smile, but something close. ‘Perhaps.’ You suggest, not trying to sound tooo hopeful, ‘perhaps, you can see how we should be out in the wider world searching for other old gods, if they seem to be awakening like you suggest. Maybe, you think, we could be of assistance to you. Like, in your own search. Maybe you’re looking for them too, and I bet you wouldn’t even need a halfling, you could just command them to appear through your will, but maybe you need a small spy to go places you can’t, or a person to handle people you don’t want to deal with. I mean, if the chicken god is moving on the world now, it stands to reason that others are too, right?

The magistrate watches your words fall away. The candle gutters, casting wild shadows across his sharp features. “You think yourself capable of finding more than just a chicken?” he asks. ‘Well I did find the chicken, he was due to be sold for food.’ You point out. You nod, feeling heihei shift in your arms, his feathers bristling with pride at the mention of his rescue. “And I’m not just a halfling,” you add, trying to sound confident despite the way your voice trembles. “I’m clever. I can slip into places others can’t. I can talk my way out of trouble—”

The magistrate’s lips curve in a smirk, his eyes glittering like the surface of a still pond. “A rogue,” he muses, tapping a gnarled finger against his chin. “With a divine companion. How… amusing.” His gaze settles on heihei, then returns to you, measuring. ‘So if you could just see it to let us leave this place of incaseration, we can prove our worth to you.’ The magistrate’s smirk does not fade, but something in his eyes deepens—calculation meeting curiosity. “Leave this place?” he repeats, as if the idea were so foreign to him that it requires testing. He steps closer, the candlelight flickering across his face. The aroma of old parchment and something herbal drifts from him.

“But why would I do that?” He speaks with soft menace, measured with intrigue. “When you’ve just arrived at the heart of everything I’ve been searching for?” He stops mere inches away now, forcing you to crane your neck to look up at him. Heihei’s feathers puff up slightly, but the chicken does not back down. You nudge heihei, and give him a meaningful look and a nod of your head in the direction the the magistrate. Hoping your newly found chicken god friend leans more to the chaotic good life can offer, and help you out again. heihei cocks his head towards the magistrate, and eyes him beading like he did the guards. You nudge heihei, and give him a meaningful look and a nod of your head in the direction the the magistrate. Hoping your newly found chicken god friend leans more to the chaotic good life can offer, and help you out again.

heihei cocks his head towards the magistrate, and eyes him beading like he did the guards. His feathers stand on end, his neck straightens, and a low, guttural cluck rumbles from his throat. The magistrate doesn’t move. He watches, his eyes narrowing slightly as he observes the chicken’s stance. The air in the room shifts—something unseen yet palpable rolls between the three of you. And suddenly heihei springs up out of your arms and viciously starts to peck at the magistrate, before shouting eggs at him, allowing you to flee from the room back into the corridor, looking for a way out. As heihei unleashes a barrage of eggs against the magistrate’s unguarded form, you dart for the door, knowing that hesitation could mean getting caught in the crossfire. The magistrate stumbles back with a strangled curse, arms flailing as viscous yolk splatters across his pristine robes. The wet thwack of shells breaking against him fills the air, and you don’t look back.

You sprint down the corridor, your boots echoing against the stone. Behind you, the chicken’s outburst has triggered something deeper—a roar of something ancient, something wrathful. The very walls seem to vibrate as the magistrate’s presence surges outward like a tide. Unsure of what to make of the fight going on in the room behind you, you spot the stairwell to the entrance of the prison. Running up it, you grab the nearest piece of guards armour you can find, pulling it on in a vain effort to disguise yourself as you race towards the exit. Looking down you are surprised to see the mail shirt has a word etched into the links across the chest. It’s reads ‘paladin’. You yank the mail shirt into place, the cold metal biting into your skin as you straighten the ill-fitting armor. The weight of it is unfamiliar, but the word etched across the chest – “paladin” – gives you an idea. You square your shoulders, attempting to stand taller, hoping that in the dim torchlight, you’ll pass for one of the prison’s sentries. Your heart hammers as you approach the heavy wooden door leading to freedom, gripping heihei close to your chest where the armor doesn’t quite meet.

The door’s iron hinges groan as you push it open, and you step out into the crisp night air. The cacophony of noise coming from the prison behind you starts to fade as you quickly (And unsuspiciously as possible) walks away from the prison, heihei in tow. Soon you make to the tree line and slip into the shadows out of sight. The cold night air rushes in as you push through the heavy wooden door of the prison. You step out onto the cobblestone street, heart still hammering against the cold metal of your stolen paladin’s armor. The dim light of lanterns flickers in the distance where the village slumbers unaware, but here, by the prison, the street feels abandoned—except for the handful of guards stationed at the entrance. You exhale slowly, forcing yourself to move with a purposeful stride, rather than the panicked stumble of an escapee.

A single guard near the door stiffens slightly as you emerge, his eyes flicking toward your mail shirt. You smile, trying to smile how you think a paladin would smile, give him an awkward little wave, and keep walking. The guard hesitates for a second, but then his posture relaxes, clearly assuming a paladin wouldn’t be sneaking out of the prison. You maintain the act of purposeful movement, adjusting the ill-fitting armor as you descend the steps.

Behind you, the sound of chaos erupts from within the prison—shouts, the clatter of weapons being drawn, and the occasional panicked squawk. You don’t turn around. Instead, you focus on making it through the village without drawing attention. Your footsteps echo against the stone steps leading down to the dirt road. Heihei clucks softly against your chest, its head poking out of the gap between the chest plate and the gorget. ‘Let’s go do some paladinly things, heihei’ you mutter quietly to the chicken. The stolen armor clanks softly as you navigate the moonlit cobblestone streets, each step carefully placed to avoid the echo that might draw unwanted attention. Heihei’s warm presence against your chest provides unexpected comfort as the stolen gear settles into place. The village of Millbrook sleeps around you—small cottages with smoke rising from their chimneys, a few stray dogs prowling the edges, and the occasional shuttered window offering glimpses of candlelight within.

As you approach the village square, where the main road splits toward the forest and the neighboring towns, you spot something that makes your breath catch. A pair of riders dismount near the well, their horses stamping impatiently in the darkness. Trying not to show your uncertainty, you boldly continue to walk up to the village square and past the two figures with their horses, hoping to look like you belong there as much as a halfling rogue / fake paladin can. The pair of riders turn toward your approach, their faces hidden beneath hooded cloaks that flutter in the night breeze. One of them steps forward, the metal tips of his boots scraping against the cobblestones as he moves into your path. He stops mere paces away, close enough that you can smell the leather and oil from his gear. “Brother,” he says, his voice carrying the rough edges of someone who has spent too many years on the road. “That armor looks familiar.”

You freeze mid-step, heihei’s weight suddenly feeling heavier in your arms. The other rider dismounts smoothly, his movements suggesting a deadly grace beneath the dark clothing. ‘Does it?’ You try to ask as normally as possible. The rider’s eyes flicker with amusement, but his stance remains rigid. “Indeed,” he drawls, taking a slow step closer. “One of our brothers went missing earlier tonight. Struck down by bandits, we were told.” His companion chuckles, a low, menacing sound. “And here you are, stumbling about in his armor. A miracle, then?”

Your pulse pounds in your ears, but you keep heihei pressed close, hoping his divine presence will lend you the courage you need. “Aye,” you manage, trying to sound pious. “The hayhay works in mysterious ways. Perhaps He saw fit to deliver this armor to me, as a sign of my new calling.” You throw caution to the wind, ‘Behold, the holy poultry!’ You cry gesturing to heihei ‘The old gods have shown me the way.’ The riders exchange glances, their hoods casting deep shadows across their faces. A tense moment passes, punctuated only by heihei’s sudden burst of clucking. Then, the first rider lets out a short bark of laughter, his posture softening just slightly. “A chicken?” He speaks with a note of disbelief. “You claim the gods sent you a chicken?” You lift your chin, forcing yourself to hold their gaze. “Not a chicken,” you correct. “The chicken. Hayhay himself.” Heihei clucks proudly, as if understanding your words. The second rider takes a half-step closer, their face now bathed in moonlight. ‘Was your brother, perchance somewhat mentally challenged, such that they require their profession stamped across their breastplate?’ You ask The first rider tilts his head slightly, his amusement faltering for just a moment as your words strike home. His companion shifts, their cloak rustling in the night breeze as they consider you. “A mental challenge,” the first rider echoes, his lips quirking into a wry smirk. “Well, now. That’s a clever thought, little paladin. Clever enough that we might actually believe it.” He folds his arms, studying you with renewed interest.

“After all,” he continues, his voice dripping with faux-solemnity, “it would explain why he wandered off half-dressed and promptly disappeared into the night.” His companion chuckles, stepping back to lean against the well. Somewhat surprised, by the turn of events, you nod in agreement. ‘It’s possible he has been taken to the prison, a little ways down the road back there, this is where I found his armour as I left.’ You offer in explanation. The first rider narrows his eyes, his amusement flickering as he looks back at the road leading to the prison. “Hmm,” he hums. “The guards will have told us already if our brother was found within.” He turns back to you, head tilting slightly. “And yet… you emerged from that direction. With his armor. Which you claim was waiting for you. The words drip with skepticism. You resist the urge to swallow hard. Instead, you lift your chin and force a steady breath. ‘Not all answers come from the gods, paladin,’ you say, with what you hope sounds like world-weariness. ‘They work in their own time.” You nod your head at them, trying to conclude the conversation, ‘if you would like for the return of your brother’s armour, I would be happy to return this to you now, and I’ll be on my way.’ You try to reason with them. The first rider watches you with an unreadable expression. The moonlight catches the edge of his cloak, revealing the glint of chain mail beneath. He doesn’t take the armor, though. Instead, he exhales slowly, a stream of mist curling from his nose.

“You’re either the most foolish paladin I’ve ever met,” he says at last, “or the most interesting.”

His companion snorts. “Or a thief with a very creative story.”
Sensing tensions, rising again, you wriggle out of the chest[late and place it on the edge of the well. nodding at heihei, the chicken puffs himself back up and prepares Thor an attack if needed. The paladin’s boots scuff against the cobblestone as he approaches the well, where you’ve laid down the ill-fitting armor. His companion remains by the horses, watching with arms crossed and an amused smirk playing on his lips. He eyes you curiously, gaze dwelling a moment on the chicken before returning to your face.

“So,” he muses, reaching for the mail shirt, “a divine messenger.” His fingers brush the metal links as he lifts it up. He makes no move to put it on, instead holding it loosely at his side. “And what does your message say, little paladin?”

You don’t let yourself breathe too deeply. ‘My message is, the old gods are returning, and I will carry out their will. The chicken god heihei requires me to leave here and search for others.’ You tell him The paladin’s grip on the armor tightens slightly, his smirk fading as your words settle over him. His companion shifts beside the horses, their face now unreadable. He turns to you fully, lowering the armor to his side. “The old gods,” he repeats, testing the words in his mouth like a man unsure whether to swallow or spit them out.

For a long moment, he studies you, his gaze shifting between your small stature, the chicken in your arms, and the seriousness of your expression. Then, slowly, a new look flickers across his face—respect, perhaps. Or the beginnings of belief. “And you,” he says, tilting his head, “carry their will?” You nod your head in the affirmative ‘I do’ you say, the chicken god has willed it so. The paladin exhales through his nose, something unreadable in his stance. He doesn’t hand the armor back to you. Instead, he folds it over one arm, as if considering it for himself. “Then I should thank you,” he says at last. “For bringing me the gear of a dead man.”

The words sit heavy between you. Heihei clucks softly, nudging your chestplate with his head, as if sensing the unease. His companion remains silent now, watching with narrowed eyes. The air between you and the riders is no longer as light-hearted. It’s laden with something more serious. The paladin’s grip on the armor remains firm. Growing weary of this exchange and endless threats from the brothers, you look around and spot something out the corner of your eye. You THINK it is a legendary steam powered horse, chasing your luck, you make a dash toward it. Jumping on its back, you notice that there is a name and date carved into the side of it’s neck ‘Toyota, 1999′ The machine beneath you hums to life as you straddle it, the paladins’ shouts dying behind you. The ancient steam horse grinds its gears and begins moving with you clutched to it like a stormwind. Heihei instinctively tucks his head down into the crook of your arm as the world blurs past in a series of flashes—farmland, roads, woods, all rushing beneath you as you guide this unnatural thing forward by sheer willpower and desperation.

The pursuing paladins’ shouts fade quickly as you put distance between you, their horses no match for this miracle of steam and metal. Eventually after many miles, Toyota, starts to slow down. You realise it’s out of fuel. As the horse slows to a trot, you look at heihei. ‘What does it run on?’ You ask the almighty chicken god. Heihei clucks thoughtfully, tilting his head to examine the machine beneath you. After a moment, he pecks at the empty fuel tank with his beak. You see a small brass tap on its side.

“Ah!” you cry, understanding dawning. “Pulped grapes! They’re good for you, right?” You ask the chicken god, who nods enthusiastically.

You search your surroundings—woods encroach on either side of the narrow dirt road, stretching into the dim afternoon light. Nearby, wild grapes grow in abundance along a trellis of gnarled trees.

As you climb down, the steam horse’s pressure gauge whistles faintly in warning. Clambering over to the wild grapes, you begin to picks big bunches from the vines. Looking around for something to carry them in, you spot a small, rusted pail leaning against a tree. You quickly empty it of old dirt and then use it to harvest as much as you can reach.

You fill the pail to the brim with dark-purple grapes, then turn back to the steam horse. As you approach, the chicken god suddenly cackles and points with his wing towards a small grove off the road. A dilapidated windmill stands amid tangled fruit trees—perhaps an old orchard that has been left to wildness. You understand immediately. This is a place where the steam horse can refuel without being seen. A safe haven. ‘That’s perfect!’ You cry. Gathering the reigns of Toyota, you lead the horse over to the weathered windmill carrying the pail full of grapes, followed by a contented heihei, clucking and scratching at the ground as you make your way over. The windmill stands crooked against the graying sky, its sails rusted still by years of neglect. You lead Toyota beneath its shadowed overhang, where the air smells of damp wood and old iron. The steam horse shudders as you loop the reins over a post, his metal flank still warm from the chase.

Heihei hops down from your arms and immediately begins pecking at something unseen in the grass. You turn your attention to the fuel tank, prying open the small brass cap with a grunt. The smell that drifts up—fermented and sweet—is unmistakable. “Right,” you mutter. “Let’s make this happen.” In tried and tested end manner, you pull off your boots and socks and slowly begin to pulp the grapes in the old metal pail using your feet. The juice squishes between your toes as you crush and stomp, the grapes splattering up around your ankles. The juice fills the pail with deep, rich purple. You pause only when you hear a wet plop behind you—the chicken has begun drinking from the runoff that’s seeped onto the ground. ‘The gods are pleased,’ you declare with a grin, looking down at your mess of purple-stained feet. You hitch the pail over the tank and pour, the thick liquid gushing into the chamber with a satisfying glugging sound.

Steam immediately begins venting from the pressure valves in short, controlled bursts. ‘He lives!’ You cry. Trying to peer into the tank to see the level of liquid inside, you decide to go and gather another-ail of grapes, to endure the take is as full as possible before setting off. BEfore you leave Toyota and heihei, you carry the drunken chicken god and place him on the saddle of Toyota to sleep it off. His small, satisfied form sinks into the leather seat, his head lolling slightly to one side. You stand back and admire your handiwork—an aged steam horse, a passed-out chicken god, and a pulped-grape fuel tank. It’s like something from a bizarre fairy tale.

You retrieve the pail and make your way back toward the overgrown vines. The fading light darkens the woods around you, casting strange shadows through the leaves. Your purple-stained feet squish in the earth as you walk, making no sound except for the occasional crunch of gravel beneath them. The air is cool but heavy with the sweetness of ripening fruit. It’s at; this point you realise you haven’t eaten in almost 24 hours. While picking more grapes, you begin to eat some of them to settle your rumbling stomach. The grapes are sweeter than you’d imagined, bursting with juice as you pop them into your mouth one after another. You stuff your pockets with as many grapes as they’ll hold, their deep purple staining your fingers. You make your way back to the windmill, the pail half-full again with fresh grapes. The chicken god snores softly in the saddle, his head tipped back at an angle that surely couldn’t be comfortable. You finish refilling the tank before stepping back to admire your work. The steam horse’s frame rattles slightly as he absorbs the fuel, his gauges clicking softly as they adjust to the new pressure. Heihei’s gentle snores continue uninterrupted. You decide to make camp here for the night. The forest around you deepens into twilight as you search for kindling near the old windmill. Dry twigs and small branches lie scattered beneath the trees—evidence of nature reclaiming what was once cultivated. You pile it near a flat stone that serves as a good makeshift hearth, then strike a flint against your stolen dagger until a spark catches. The flame wavers in the fading light as you coax it to life with careful puffs.

You hang the empty pail on a nearby hook and settle beside the small fire, pulling your boots off and setting them to dry. The night passes uneventfully. As morning approaches, you wake to find that heihei has come and curled up next to you in the middle of the night. The chicken’s body radiates a surprising amount of heat, keeping you cozy against the chill of the morning air. His eyes flutter open as you stir, watching you with that unreadable chicken gaze. ‘Good morning,’ you greet him in the early morning hush, voice rough with sleep.

You stretch your limbs and reach for your boots, noting with mild annoyance that the grape juice has dried to a sticky film inside. It’ll need proper cleaning later. Meanwhile, heihei hops off your lap and peers up at the windmill. He cackles softly, then pecks at a rusted gear mechanism, nudging it until it creaks slightly. The old windmill groans as if waking up itself. You decide to explore the windmill further as the new day dawns You climb the rickety ladder built into the windmill’s frame, each step groaning under your weight. The air inside is thick with dust and the smell of aged wood. Heihei flies up behind you, wings fluttering as he perches on a nearby beam. As you reach the top level, you find yourself in a circular room dominated by the massive central gear that connects to the windmill’s blades. Rotating beams and chains crisscross the space like a metal web.

The morning light filtering through gaps in the wooden walls casts dark patterns on the dusty floor. A wooden catwalk encircles the room, allowing access to the mechanisms. You take a closer look at the mechanisms, and a closer investigation reveals that they are still in fairly good working order. ‘What do you think, heihei, should we stay here for a while and make this home?’ You ask the chicken god. Heihei cocks his head and clucks thoughtfully before pecking at a dusty gear. The windmill groans as if answering. The idea takes root in your mind—this could be a place to rest safely, to rebuild strength. You set about cleaning the space, sweeping away dust and dirt, bringing up buckets of water from the nearby stream to wash the floors.

The chicken god watches you work, occasionally helping by scratching at stubborn spots with his claws. You salvage what food you can from your packs—a few dried rations, some stale bread—and set them out on a makeshift table you craft from wooden planks. As you straighten up from your work, your stomach growls audibly. ‘Time for some more grapes’ you say to heihei as you chat away to the chicken. Grabbing the metal pail from the nail on the wall you go out to find the wild grapes again. You step into the morning sun, pail in hand, and breathe in the crisp autumn air. The wild grapevines climb over several nearby trees, their leaves shifting gold and red in the sunlight. As you pick, the morning air carries birdsong and distant rustling—deer or small animals moving through the underbrush. Your stomach rumbles again as you bite into a grape, sweetness flooding your mouth.

Back at the windmill, you set the pail down and begin preparing to make the space livable. You take the old horse blanket from Toyota’s saddle and spread it out as a bedroll near the warmest part of the windmill’s interior. Slowly but surely, you make the space habitable, Toyota gets his own little makeshift stable, heihei spends the day exploring new part of the mill and getting stuck in the rafters, as you create a small home. As the days pass, you settle into a rhythm with the windmill. Each morning, you wake to the steady groan of the old gears turning as the wind tugs at the sails. Heihei clucks from his perch on a beam, watching as you step out to collect fresh grapes. Your hands have turned dark purple from constant handling of the fruit, but they’ve softened from all the work you’ve put in—clearing debris, sweeping the floor, repairing loose boards. The pail of pulped grapes sits outside the windmill each night, ready to fuel Toyota when he needs it next. You’ve even begun collecting wood from the nearby forest to heat the windmill’s interior when the nights grow cold. Looking down at your hands, you wonder if the staining is permanent from the frequency you pulp the grapes. One evening you go and sit with Toyota and start chatting to him as you clear up the stable. ‘What do you do each day to need so much pulped grape fuel?’ You ask him. Toyota’s metal flanks shudder slightly, a faint creak of steam pipes beneath his surface. The sound isn’t quite an answer, but it feels like he’s acknowledging you. You wipe your hands on your trousers, leaving dark purple smudges on the fabric. The smell of fermented grapes hangs heavy in the small stable, mixing with the faint iron scent of the old machine.

“Heihei,” you call, glancing toward the ladder where the chicken god had been pecking at something. “Did you hear that? Toyota’s talking to me.”

The chicken clucks softly from above, hopping down to the ground with a rustle of feathers. He trots over, tilting his head to examine the steam horse. You sigh contentedly, basking in the quiet company of your animal companions. ‘We should build a shop here, offer travellers a place to rest and enjoy pulped grape juice .,’ you muse. ‘Maybe even make some wine.’ Toyota gives another soft hiss of steam, almost like a nod of agreement. Heihei clucks approvingly. The idea festers. The mill, you realize, could serve as both home and sanctuary. The surrounding woods provide plenty of raw materials—grape vines, fruit trees, timber. You’ve seen the occasional traveler pass by on the road below, always glancing curiously at the windmill in the distance. If you establish a proper place to stop, they might visit. The thought excites you. You spend the next few days planning, sketching out ideas on the floor with charred wood. A tasting room. A small shopfront. One evening as you add further details to your shop front plans you suddenly have the best idea for a shop name, ‘the golden feather!’ You cry, that’s what our shop should be called! You laugh at your own exclamation, the idea taking root and filling you with exhilaration. “The Golden Feather!” you repeat, your words echoing in the windmill’s circular chamber. Heihei tilts his head, cocking it in curiosity, then cackles as if in approval. You imagine the sign swinging in a gentle breeze – golden paint catching the sunlight, the word ‘FEATHER’ in elegant cursive.

You start planning in earnest, sketching out a layout on a scrap of parchment you found in Toyota’s saddlebag. A small counter for serving pulped grape juice, tables and chairs made from salvaged wood, shelves for bottles of your homemade wine. The next day, building the shop front starts in Ernest. As you build a trailer comes over to see what all the commotion is all about. You wave at the travelers, a wide grin spreading across your grape-stained face. “Welcome to The Golden Feather!” you call out, brushing a strand of hair from your forehead. Heihei clucks proudly from his perch atop a stack of wooden crates, while Toyota gives a satisfying hiss of steam.

The wagon draws to a stop, and two weary-looking travelers disembark – a burly man with a thick beard and a woman wearing a tattered cloak. They eye the windmill-turned-tavern with curiosity and skepticism. “This… is quite the setup,” the woman says, her voice carrying a hint of amusement. “Pulped grape juice and chicken worship?”

You nod enthusiastically. ‘Yes!’ You happily exclaim, the old gods sent heihei to me and showed me the way! ‘Heihei the great chicken god, manifests everything we need.’ The woman and her companion exchange glances—confusion and something like amusement passing between them. The man scratches his beard, looking from you to Heihei perched above, then to Toyota steaming gently in his makeshift stable. “Right,” he says slowly. “And you’re… serving food too, or just… juice?”

You hesitate, then brighten. “Oh! I could! There are grapes aplenty, and I’m sure with a little effort—” You glance at Heihei, who clucks as if reminding you of his divine nature. “With Heihei’s guidance,” you amend quickly, “we could make quite the feast.” You look back over at them with enthusiasm. ‘Would you like to join us?’ You ask. You rub your purple-stained hands together, feeling the grit of dried grape skin under your nails. “Please, come in,” you add, gesturing toward the open door of what will one day be The Golden Feather. The travelers hesitate—just a heartbeat—before following you inside.

The windmill’s interior feels smaller than you remember with three people in it. The woman ducks slightly as she steps through, her eyes adjusting to the dim light filtering through the gaps in the wooden walls. Toyota’s steam pipes let out a soft hiss behind you, and Heihei clucks from his perch, watching the newcomers with what you swear is approval. ‘They like you.’ You tell the couple as you clear some planks to make somewhere for them to sit with a makeshift table between them. ‘ please wait here and I will go and fetch some food.’ You tell them as you head back outside to the grape vines. As you pick grapes by the handful, your fingers work quickly, stripping the juicy clusters from their stems. You can already imagine the taste—sweet and rich with hints of earthy tang. Your pockets grow heavy as you harvest, the purple berries staining the fabric of your trousers deeper still. Some grapes fall to the ground in a dark pool of juice, creating a subtle aroma that draws hummingbirds flitting overhead. You turn back toward the windmill with a brimming pail, arms straining slightly under the weight. As you approach the shopfront, Heihei flies down to join you, walking in circles around the base of your load. ‘Heihei,’ you begin, ‘can you manifest these grapes into a meal worthy of our travelling companions?’ You ask the chicken god. The chicken god tilts his head, regarding the pail of grapes thoughtfully. A soft cluck escapes his beak, and suddenly, the grapes shift and reshape themselves. The purplish fruit pulses with an otherworldly glow, expanding into plump roasted grape skewers, golden and glistening. Heihei cackles triumphantly, preening his feathers as steam rises from the divine feast. You carefully lift the pail-turned-platter, the warm grapes giving off an intoxicating aroma. Heihei leads the way back inside the windmill, his steps deliberately regal. As you enter, the travelers’ eyes go wide at the sight of the pulsating grape feast. ‘Dinner is served!’ You cry as you enter the shopfront with a flourish. heihei, showing off his main character syndrome by looking proud of himself as he follows you inside. The two travelers stare in slack-jawed amazement at the pulsating grape feast, steam rising from the plump roasted skewers. The burly man rubs his thick beard, his eyes darting between you, Heihei, and the divine grape creation. “Well,” he says after a long moment, “I’ve seen a lot of strange things on the road, but this takes the cake.”

The woman leans forward, sniffing cautiously at the warm grapes. “It smells… delicious,” she admits, her words laced with wonder and uncertainty.

You set the pail-platter down on the makeshift table, Heihei hopping up to perch beside it with a self-satisfied cluck. You walk away from the table slightly to give your visitors some space to enjoy their meal. Heihei, not being as generous, stays on the table to watch them eat. The woman delicately takes a grape from the skewer, her eyes never leaving your face as she bites into it. Juice runs down her chin, and she gasps in surprise at the burst of flavor—rich and complex, like fine wine with undertones of earth and sunshine. “This is… incredible,” she murmurs, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

The burly man follows suit, eating two grapes in quick succession before nodding his appreciation. “I’ve never tasted anything like this outside the capital’s best kitchens,” he admits, his thick fingers already reaching for another skewer. You nod to yourself in satisfaction and bustle off to continue with your preparations to the shop front and they finish their meal. Once you can see the travellers are finished, you slowly wonder back over to them to clear the dishes away. Heihei preens himself proudly as you gather the now-empty skewers, his presence still filling the room with an aura of something greater than just a common chicken. The woman watches you with renewed interest, her earlier skepticism replaced by fascination. “So,” she begins, dabbing at her mouth with the edge of her sleeve, “you’re not just a tavern keeper, are you?”

You pause mid-clearing, considering her question. The woman leans forward slightly, bracing her elbows on the table. “That chicken of yours… He’s more than just a pet, isn’t he?” Her tone is soft but persistent, probing for answers.

You smile, feeling the satisfaction of someone recognized as more than they appear. ‘I was a paladin for a short time, but the amour was a little obvious and it didn’t suit me.’ You tell her in an amused manner. Heihei tilts his head toward you, his eyes bright with a strange and knowing light.

“I have no formal education,” you continue, your fingers brushing against the last few grapes on the table, “but I know how to listen to the old gods. And they speak through him.” You gesture toward the chicken with an open hand.

The woman’s brow arches slightly, though she still seems to be taking you seriously. She glances at the burly man beside her—clearly her partner—who nods encouragingly. He shifts in his seat, rubbing at the rough fabric of his shirt sleeve. “You’ve got a gift, then,” he says finally, voice deep and measured. “Or a curse.” ‘Can it be a little of both?’ You ask. ‘While we come from more turbulent times, we’re all, very happy here together.’ You tell them. The windmill groans slightly as a breeze catches its sails, the sound almost like the building itself is listening to your conversation. Heihei hops down from the table and makes a slow circuit around the travelers, pecking at invisible things on the floorboards with exaggerated focus. The woman studies you for a long moment before exhaling softly. “I believe you,” she says at last. “Or at least, I believe that you believe.” A dry chuckle escapes her. “What’s your name, by the way? I’ve heard everything else about you except that.”
‘My name, is squeekerdoodle’ you tell them. ‘My parents had a bad sense of humour.’ You sigh. The woman blinks, then gives a short, genuine laugh. “Squeekerdoodle,” she repeats slowly, testing the sound. “Well, that certainly fits.” Her partner smirks beside her, shaking his head. “That’s one for the road,” he mutters. He reaches into his coat and produces a small leather purse, pressing it toward you. “For the meal,” he says. “And… for whatever you’ve got going on here.” You hesitate before taking it, surprised by the gesture. The purse feels heavy in your hands—more coins than you expected. You look between the travelers with gratitude, but also curiosity. ‘You don’t seem like normal travelers. Your curiosity about them appears to show through your question as you ask it. ‘Can I ask who you are and where you come from?’ The woman’s smile turns knowing as she settles back against her seat. “I’m Noa,” she says, tilting her head slightly toward her companion. “And he’s Cade.” She gestures to the burly man beside her. “We don’t come from anywhere in particular. We just… know things. People talk to us when they have something they need explained.”

Cade nods along with her words, his thick fingers drumming a slow rhythm against the table. “We deal in secrets and coincidences,” he adds. “Noa here? She sees the threads between people before they even start weaving. And I…” He pauses for a moment, ‘I…. keep the things that make people hesitate.’ He glances meaningfully at Heihei before returning his gaze to you. You feel something shift in your chest—a recognition, like your body is adjusting to something it didn’t know was missing. The windmill groans softly, the steam horse outside letting out a long hiss of pressure release. Heihei hops back onto the table with an air of self-importance, settling near the platter with the last few grapes. ‘And you think I have something worth knowing about?’ You ask them. Noa and Cade exchange a meaningful look. “We don’t think,” Noa corrects gently. “We know.” Cade folds his arms across his broad chest. ‘I’ll talks that as a compliment’ you say to them. ‘Have you ever considered settling down somewhere for a while?’ Noa glances at Cade before giving you a measured smile. “We’ve thought about it,” she admits. “But stopping means missing things.” Her fingers tap absently against the wooden tabletop. “And sometimes, the right place doesn’t reveal itself until you stumble upon it.”

Cade’s deep-set eyes narrow as he studies you. “Like this place,” he says, gesturing vaguely at the windmill, at the steam horse outside, at Heihei with his self-important air. “You don’t build a shop like this for simple wanderers. You built it for someone.”
‘Or you build it because the old gods require it of you.’ You say to them. Noa’s breath hitches slightly at your words. Cade stiffens, his fingers pressing into the table’s rough grain. A heavy quiet settles over the space between you—one thick with something neither side names aloud. The windmill creaks, as if holding its breath. Heihei, unshakably himself, pecks at the last grape on the platter. Noa inhales slowly, as though tasting the air. “You’re right,” she says at last, the words quiet but certain. Cade exhales through his nose, a slow, thoughtful sound. “But that’s not all of it, is it?” He leans forward slightly, his thick arms bracing against the table. ‘What do you mean?’ You ask him Noa watches you intently now, her gaze sharp but not unkind. “The way you hold yourself,” she says. “The way Heihei—” she gestures to the chicken who watches her with equal intensity, “—lets you take the lead sometimes, but not always. You have more power than you let on.” Cade nods. “And more fear than you show.” You feel your heart beat faster, your fingers flexing slightly against the wooden edge of the table. “I don’t fear much,” you say, though the words come out more hesitant than you intend. Heihei suddenly hops up onto your shoulder, pressing his beak close to your ear. You absently begin to pet the chicken as he nuzzles into your cheek. Suddenly, a toucan flies in through the open window frame and lands on the table. Almost as if heihei recognises the bird he hops down from your shoulder and towards the toucan, puffing himself up to look as big as possible. The toucan regards Heihei with a sideways tilt of its crimson beak, feathers fluffed in a way that looks half like challenge and half like an awkward attempt at diplomacy. Its black eye rolls toward you, then back to the chicken god who’s clearly determined to assert dominance over this new arrival.

“Well,” you say, blinking between the two birds, “this is… unexpected.”

Noa and Cade watch the avian standoff with identical expressions—mild amusement mixed with something sharper. Like they’re reading meaning into every feather ruffle.

The toucan clicks its beak, a sound that somehow manages to be both bird-like and oddly articulate. Noa clicks her tongue at the standoff, and in an amused manner states in a practical way.’ I think another old one has awoken, I believe this is C’tutu.’ The chicken god puffs up even further, his tiny talons flexing against the tabletop as he eyes the much larger parrot. He clucks rapidly, a sequence of sounds that almost resembles a challenge. The toucan responds in kind—a strange, complex series of clicks and whistles that carry an undeniable weight. Cade’s deep-set eyes flick between the birds, his brow furrowing slightly. “That,” he murmurs, “sounds like a conversation.” Noa nods slowly. “And an important one.” Heihei suddenly turns toward you, his head cocked dramatically as if expecting you to intervene. His beady black eyes fix on you with unnerving intelligence. ‘I don’t speak old one.’ You respond to Heihei’s pointed look. ‘Do you know each other?’ You ask. The chicken god clucks again, a sharp, insistent sound that carries something both amused and exasperated. He turns back to the toucan, who responds with another series of clicks and whistles, this time accompanied by a slight bob of its head. It’s hard to tell if this is a deferential gesture or a cocky one—possibly both.

“You do, don’t you?” Noa says softly, almost to herself. Her fingers trace the edge of the tabletop, her head tilted in contemplation. “The gods speak to one another, but they… they don’t always get along.”

Cade exhales through his nose, his broad arms crossing over his chest as he watches the continued exchange. You look towards the couple again, who are truly engrossed in the conversation being held between the two avion old gods. ‘Sometimes it’s good to stay somewhere a while, especially when that place is somewhere the unexpected gravitates towards.’ You say to them, again trying to pique their interest in staying here with you. Noa’s face shifts at your words, a complex expression of calculation and something softer crossing her features. Cade watches you for a long moment before noding. ‘Perhaps a short stay would be prudent. After all, someone needs to make sure you and Hayhay don’t get into trouble, right?’

He gestures toward the arguing old ones, who now seem engaged in what almost resembles an intense game of chicken. Or, more accurately, an old god version of chicken.
You laugh at the observing of the picture in front of you. ‘Cut it out you two’ you scold them, as if they were children bickering over the last cookie. ‘There’s more than enough room to share.’ Heihei hops back onto your shoulder, still puffed up with pride, while C’tutu settles his feathers with exaggerated dignity. The two birds watch each other warily, but the immediate tension has eased—at least until they decide to start arguing again.

You exhale slowly, the pressure in your chest easing slightly. “Well,” you say, glancing between the travelers and the now-reconciled birds, “this seems to be turning into a rather eventful evening.”

Noa smiles faintly, her fingers tracing the rim of the now-empty platter. “Seems like you’re used to that.” She says it gently, not unkindly, but there’s a weight to her tone that makes you pause. ‘What’s life if there is no fun.’ You comment to her. ‘We should look at finding you somewhere inside the mill you can both stay which will provide you with a little privacy.’, you begin to collect a few blankets and start to make your way up the stairs to the next level. Before you leave the shopfront, you look back at the two old gods. ‘Behave’ you instruct them as you leave the room. The wooden steps creak beneath your feet as you ascend to the upper level of the windmill, blankets bundled in your arms. The air is cooler up here, touched by the gentle breeze slipping through cracks in the walls. You scan the circular room, your eyes settling on a small alcove near the far wall—just big enough to fit a bedroll and still leave space to move.
Cade and Noa climb the stairs behind you, their footsteps heavier on the worn wooden planks. The windmill groans slightly as the evening wind picks up, making the old structure seem almost alive. You spread the blankets in the alcove, arranging them into a makeshift bed with the horse blanket from the saddle as padding.

Noa steps into the space beside you, her presence filling the cramped quarters with a subtle energy. She runs her fingers along the rough stone wall, nodding appreciatively. “Not bad,” she says, glancing back at Cade who’s examining the mill’s mechanisms with keen interest. “Old bones, but sturdy.” You smile at them as you begin to leave. ‘This place seems to be important.’ You tell him before you head back downstairs. When you arrive back in the store from, you come face to face with quite the picture. Heihei stands in the center of the table, his tiny talons clicking against the wood as he addresses C’tutu. The parrot, now perched on a stool, is listening intently, his feathers carefully arranged.

“—and so I told her, you can’t just expect me to—” Heihei clucks with indignation, breaking off to bob his head at you in clear demand for solidarity.

“——keep bringing me this inferior grape fuel,” the parrot clicks and whistles in response, his tone dry with superior amusement.

“——you call it inferior?” Heihei rears back, puffing himself up to nearly double his size. “These are the finest grapes in the region!” You stop in your tracks as you realise you understand every word they are saying. Your foot catching against the wooden step and making your presence known. Startled the two gods look over at you, realising they have been caught. You stare at them, your mouth slightly open, trying to process what you just heard. Heihei and C’tutu—two birds arguing about grapes like they’re discussing philosophy. And you understood them.

“No one else can hear us, can they?” Heihei asks, his voice in your head sounding exactly like his normal clucks, just… articulated.

“No,” you say slowly, lowering yourself onto the bench. “Just me.”

C’tutu clicks his beak thoughtfully. “Then you must be more than you appear.” His eyes, bright and intelligent, settle on you with unexpected weight. ‘But why haven;t you talked to me before.’ You ask bewildered at the sudden turn in events before you. Heihei settles back onto his haunches, looking almost sheepish. “Because,” he says, puffing up slightly, “I didn’t think you’d listen.”

You blink. “I’ve been listening this whole time. I just… didn’t know I could hear you properly.” You glance at C’tutu, who’s preening his feathers with deliberate calm. “And you’ve both been—” You gesture vaguely. “—talking the whole time?”

Heihei clucks indignantly. “Of course. Do you think we just cluck randomly?” His feathers ruffle in offense. “We have things to discuss. Important matters.” ‘Grape minds think alike’ you respond deadpan. Both of the old gods pause, their expressions blank with momentary disbelief before C’tutu erupts into a series of clicks that sound suspiciously like laughter. Heihei recovers first, straightening his feathers with haughty dignity.

“Well,” the chicken god declares, “I suppose that explains why you always seem to know exactly where to find the best vines.” He waddles closer to you, fixing you with an intense gaze. “You are… more interesting than you let on.”
‘I’ll take that as a compliment’ you say to him. C’tutu makes a series of thoughtful clicks, studying you with an intelligence that makes your skin prickle. “Yes,” he finally says, his tone contemplative. “I believe she is.”

Heihei cocks his head, his beady eyes bright with sudden intensity. “What does that mean, ‘she is’?” He clucks with an echoing thoughtfulness.

“She can hear us. And now… she’s not just listening. She’s understanding.” C’tutu hops slightly closer, his claws clicking against the wooden table. “You’ve felt it too, haven’t you, little hay? This… pull?”

The chicken god gives an emphatic nod. “Yes. Yes! Exactly!” ‘Is that why you showed up when I was in the prison?’ You ask Heihei clucks approvingly. “Of course. You were in the right place at the right time.” His tiny claws tap against the wood. “And I was… well, I was bored.”

C’tutu emits a series of clicking chuckles. “And I had no one to talk to.” His head tilts, considering you with old eyes that seem to peer through time itself. “You were a most… unexpected development.”

You look at the two birds, feeling strangely weightless. “So you both… what? Followed me here?”

Heihei nods proudly. “Obviously.”

“And you just happened to show up in the tavern earlier?” You look at the toucan. “Following me too?” C’tutu shuffles about suspiciously at the question. C’tutu preens himself with exaggerated precision before meeting your gaze. “Following? No.” He speaks with the careful articulation of someone choosing his words with great care. “Acknowledging.”

You lean forward, resting your arms on the table. “Acknowledging what?”

The parrot’s feathers ripple slightly. “That you are… connected.” His gaze flicks to Heihei before returning to you. “In ways you don’t fully understand.”

You consider this. “And you did this… acknowledging… in a tavern. Full of people.”

Heihei clucks sharply. “I needed the grape fuel.”

C’tutu clicks disapprovingly. “And I needed the company.” ‘Tu’can play at this game.’ You say to them, again dead panning the line Cade’s voice comes from the stairs before he’s fully visible. “You two getting along down here?” He appears in the doorway, one eyebrow raised as he surveys the scene—you on the bench, Heihei and C’tutu watching you with expressions that are disturbingly knowing.

“Define getting along,” you say, glancing between them.

Cade steps fully into the room, and Noa follows a moment later. She moves to stand beside you, her shoulder nearly touching yours as she looks at the birds. “You’re doing it again,” she murmurs, not quite a question.

“Doing what?” you ask, though you already suspect.

“Understanding them.” Her voice is soft, matter-of-fact. ‘They were the ones who started talking,’ you respond to her. You let out a short laugh, shaking your head as you look between Heihei and C’tutu. “I think we can all agree that they’ve been talking this whole time,” you say, gesturing to the birds. “It’s just that now… well, I can actually understand what they’re saying.”

Noa’s lips twitch into a smile, her fingers brushing against the back of your chair. “And they’re letting you in on the conversation.”

Heihei clucks indignantly. “Of course we are! What kind of rude gods would we be if we didn’t include our host?”

Cade chuckles, leaning against the table. ‘You can understand them to!’ You suddenly realise that noa and Cade are hearing the same as you are C’tutu preens himself with regal grace. “A small measure of courtesy, I assure you.”

Noa exhales slowly, watching you with a complex expression. “You didn’t know you could do this either, did you?” she asks. You shake your head. “No. It was… gradual.” You gesture vaguely, struggling to put words to the experience. “First, it was just pieces—half sentences, emotions. Then full thoughts. And now…” You look at Heihei, who puffs up slightly at your attention. “Now I hear everything.”

He clucks approvingly. “Because you’re ready.”

C’tutu clicks his beak in amusement. ‘And I think it’s bedtime.’ You announce to the room, ‘there has been quite enough excitement for one day. Will you be joining our little party?’ You ask C’tutu His feathers ripple in a series of subtle movements. “Indeed,” he clicks. “I believe I shall.”

Noa moves to stand beside the table where C’tutu perches. “You have a name?” she asks.

C’tutu turns his head slightly, considering her. “You may call me C’tutu.”

“And you,” Noa says, with an amused glance at Heihei, “already have a name.”

The chicken god nods, as if addressing an underling. “Of course I do.”

Noa’s lips twitch, and she turns to you. “You’re something else, Squeekerdoodle.”

The nickname sends a rush of something warm through your chest. Eventually, you all head to your respective sleeping areas, and turn in for the night. You, a halfling caretaker with an improbable connection to ancient gods, settle onto your bedroll atop the flat stone. The windmill groans as the night wind picks up, the old gears creaking softly in the dark. Heihei has nested himself against your chest, his feathers tickling beneath your chin as his breath warms your skin.

C’tutu sleeps in a perch you fashioned from scrap wood earlier, his talons curled around the branch as he dangles upside down. The wind carries whispers of conversation through the mill—Cade and Noa murmuring on the upper level, C’tutu’s clicks and Heihei’s clucks in response to something Cade says.