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c
The village square reeked of burnt grain and fear when Cluck stormed through splintered gates, crimson comb quivering. Feathers littered the bloodstained mud—his sister’s downy tuft caught on a fence post confirmed his nightmares. A grizzled hen shoved a clawed scrap of parchment into his wings, her voice raw from screaming. *"Gobblon’s brood took them at moonhigh—said they’ll roast the chicks by dawn’s first light unless we surrender the Golden Egg."* The hero’s talons clenched. No bargains with scaled filth. He spat into the embers of the watchtower, armor clanking as he unearthed his grandfather’s battle-spurs from beneath the altar. Through gritted beak, he growled the oath of Crimson Roost—three times, until the trembling survivors took up the chant. Torches were lit. Scythes sharpened. By the time the war-drums echoed from the volcano’s throat, Cluck’s war party had become a storm of feathers and fury, their battlecry scorching the night: *"Not. One. Chick."*
