Dawn of the Battle for Chickenhold Keep

You count the banners of the assembled lords. There is the holy red orb of House Flimoflam, burning bright upon a green field. It flies over Lord Burchuf Flimoflam's force, 5000 henraiders and 2000 piethrowers, garbed in shining chainmail and the classic red/green costumes of his House. Further east, Lord Grabliurg's 4000 elite skirmishers are arrayed in deep purple, trained in both the use of rubber chickens and deadly long-range seltzer. Their proud yellow/purple rubber chicken banner flies tall. And off on the right flank, is the Pretender's banner itself. You count at least 10,000 lowborn infantry in his van, but no one can be sure. Beside his tent is the black tent of Ilbozo, the Dark Clown. A fierce monster of a Clown, he is said to ride a warhen whose feathers are all black, just like his unhappy black clown costume. Ilbozo mounts the heads of his enemies on spikes, and is said to spare no one, not even women and children, from the wrath of his two-handed rubber chicken, Pregmatar.

"I see the banners of the three main lords." says Pungrim, your squire. "And who knows how many lesser lords in their rear. All in all, they must be at least 30,000 strong. Tell me Lord Clown, is all lost to the sundry ambitions of the Pretender? Our forces are so few. No one seems willing to follow a baby piglet, even if his is the rightful claim to the throne. Can we even hope to win?"

"It does look bad, doesn't it Pungrim?" you say. The boy scowls as you ruffle his hair and you say "They may have the numbers that we lack, but we know this terrain like no one else. Between here and our fortifications is a long and treacherous course, full of capers and pratfalls that our foes will not find too amusing. And once they do get there they will have our Wall of Fun and a thousand flower sprayers to deal with. Do not lose heart, boy."

"Look." Pungrim points. "They are sending their negotiators."

"Aye." you nod, staring across the field at a small contingent of warhens approaching. Glancing behind, you spot the Regent himself, Lord Fred of House Pigletrun, approaching with a handful of trustworthy Clown riders.

Lord Fred pulls up next to you. "Here they come, old friend." he grins. "Shall we hear them out?"

"I see no harm in it." you say. "Perhaps we can convince them to lay down their seltzer bottles and slink back to their homes like the dogs they are."

"Would we have them leave emptyhanded after they've come this far?" Lord Fred laughs. "We've prepared such a hearty feast for them, after all."

The Pretender's parleying contingent finally rides up. Their leader is a swarthy Clown in the bright blue motley of the Pretender's own House. A grossly fat clown, he daubs sweat away from his brow along with makeup. You stare with disqust at the places on his face where the colors have come off. Truly a gruesome sight.

"Hale, Lord Bob." Lord Fred says. "I trust you have come bearing good tidings for us from the north?"

"Only this, Lord Fred." Bob spits angrily. "Retire your Clowns and regular infantry off the field, and bend the knee before King Bozo. If you do, you will be allowed to keep your lands and titles, and we will write this whole thing off as a misunderstanding... a poor joke if you will."

"King Bozo?" Fred grins. "The Pretender has always liked to pretend. Now he pretends to be a King?"

"Don't you dare speak like that about his Grace!!" Bob yells, the veins in his neck bulging. "We have offered you our terms. We will not settle for less. We have a full 50,000 men in the field. Armored warhens and roosters, a full thousand score balloon animals, and mimes, jugglers and acrobats beyond counting... you cannot hope to win. Yield, Lord Fred!"

"And what of the boy?" Fred asks. "What of my nephew?"

"He will be surrendered to the rightful King, to do with as his Grace deems fit in his mercy."

"Right." Fred said. "Here is my answer."

Fred reached in his pocket, and flung a water balloon straight in Bob's face. The fat Clown shrieked, wheeling back in his warhen, but he was too slow. The water splashed in his face, washing the paint off almost completely. "You will pay for this!" Bob yelled. "I swear I'll see you dead before the day is done!!"

The Pretender's negotiators turned and rode back toward his encampent, their riding chickens sqwuacking loudly. "It seems we had no other choice." you say. "Let us ride back, and prepare for the storm."

1. "Right." Fred nodded. "A Storm of Rubber Chickens."

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