“Narro!”

  The man-child was hungry. Narro realized—hangry was a universal concept. Shared by men, women, and small animals alike.

  “I’m hungry,” Reralt repeated, as if the first time had been a whisper into the void.

  The Void scratched him. Again. She’d made her annoyance known several times already. After the second swipe, Reralt unceremoniously dumped her at Narro’s horse.

  Patience, it seemed, was reserved strictly for his own endeavors.

  Narro, too, was hungry.

  They were out of food.

  Since the river incident.

  Reralt called it “a daring aquatic escape.”

  Narro called it “a severe misjudgment of depth,” wherein “wadeable” proved to be a highly relative term.

  They’d lost everything—food, sleeping gear, and their last few gold pieces—to a river that looked like a puddle, but turned out to be a mildly judgmental torrent with a taste for irony.

  There had been a bridge. Not far from where they crossed.

  They both saw it.

  Both knew it was the better option.

  But neither of them had the energy—nor the coin—to go through that again.

  ***

  The road they followed bent gently toward a castle in the distance. Soft, contented smoke rings curled upward from its chimneys—each one whispering a single, sacred promise: “Food.”

  The scent was almost palpable.

  Reralt's stomach growled in agreement.

  Waiting, as always, did not suit him. He lacked the patience of saints, monks, or even mildly distracted squirrels.

  Then—a sound.

  From a nearby hunting lodge came a proud, echoing:

  “Honk!”

  Reralt turned to Narro, eyes wide. A single tear formed at the corner of his eye—whether from joy, hunger, or draft was unclear.

  “A glorious meal awaits us,” he whispered, voice trembling with devotion.

  He dismounted in a single, heroic motion, drew Ms. Hacky from her sheath with reverence, and held her aloft—so she, too, could greet the sunlight.

  Around the corner of the lodge, a large white goose came into view.

  It locked eyes with the silver-haired man—glistening with oil, sword in hand, hunger in heart.

  Its eyes narrowed. Reralt’s eyes narrowed back.

  Only one of them had eaten today.

  Reralt had not. Not since breakfast. Four hours ago.

  A lesser man might’ve called it peckish.

  Reralt called it existential hunger.

  His right bicep—normally a flawless example of taut, oiled heroism—looked slightly… deflated.

  He took one grand step forward, met the goose’s gaze, and swung.

  The goose stepped back.

  “Honk.”

  Ms. Hacky thudded into the mud just inches short, burying herself in a patch of unlucky grass.

  The goose looked different at Reralt now, intelligent, calculating, very upset.

  Reralt destroyed the piece of grass he was just nibbling at.

  Then it happened.

  Later, Reralt would claim it was divine intervention.

  Cluck’thulhu, Lord of Beaks, had possessed the bird.

  Narro didn’t think the goose actually ate human flesh or commanded an avian empire.

  But he couldn’t be entirely sure

  Reralt took a step forward. The goose took two.

  Then, with surgical precision, it bit his ankle—

  —and yanked.

  “Ooww!”

  Reralt crashed chin-first into a stump, dropped his sword, and groaned like a dying bard.

  When he looked up, the goose was holding his sword.

  In its beak.

  “Honk,” it said. Menacingly.

  It stepped toward him and shook its head—just once.

  The blade sliced across Reralt’s chest.

  He lunged, swinging a fist to reclaim Ms. Hacky.

  The goose flapped its wings, leapt aside, and countered—

  A clean strike across Reralt’s favorite bicep.

  He screamed.

  “Now I’ve had enough!” Reralt roared.

  He jumped—arms outstretched to tackle the beast.

  The goose sidestepped. Effortlessly.

  Reralt tasted mud. Bitter. Humiliating. He pushed himself up—

  —only to feel the goose land on his back.

  “Honk”

  “Auw” Ms. Hacky clubbered his head, again and again.

  ***

  Narro rounded the lodge, wondering what was taking so long.

  He found the goose sitting triumphantly atop a whimpering Reralt, who lay face-down in the dirt.

  Ms. Hacky gripped firmly in its beak,

  the goose slammed her against Reralt’s head with rhythmic spite.

  “Honk. Honk!”

  It sounded amused.

  Narro considered helping.

  The goose that is.

  Then shrugged and waved his arms half-heartedly to scare the goose.

  It didn’t budge.

  Meanwhile, The Void—watching from a respectable distance—decided this was clearly beneath her divine concern.

  She lay back in the morning sun.

  Tail curled. Judging.

  It was unclear who she favored—

  her subjects...

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  or the clearly superior Untitled goose.

  ***

  Narro tried to shoo the goose away.

  It did not appear the least bit impressed.

  Slowly, it turned to him.

  Beady little eyes locked onto his soul.

  The sword bobbed slightly in its beak—just enough to imply… aim.

  Narro raised both hands and shushed again, like one might soothe an upset infant or negotiate with a very confused ghost.

  The goose charged.

  Narro had no time to process this.

  A goose. With a sword.

  Charging. With clear and present malice.

  He barely managed to sidestep the first swing—

  Which meant full-body contact with a hissing, flapping, meat-seeking missile.

  The sword clattered to the ground.

  But the beak did not.

  It bit him.

  First the calf.

  Then the leg.

  Then the belly.

  “Honk!” it screamed, pleased, as Narro doubled over, clutching his gut.

  His head—exposed. Vulnerable.

  Cluck’thulhu saw the opening.

  And struck.

  A peck right between the eyes.

  Now, both grown men lay flat on their stomachs.

  Every time they twitched, the goose honked—low, guttural, menacing.

  Each time, they froze.

  “Reralt?” Narro croaked after what felt like an eternity.

  “Is this how we die?”

  Narro had always harbored the premonition that their death would be something terrible. Shameful.

  This... checked every box.

  Reralt’s voice came, weary, half-muffled by mud.

  “It was a good life. Defeated by a worthy foe. Sad no songs will be sung of this day.”

  Narro was just grateful no one had seen it.

  Then—

  A hiss.

  Sharp. Fierce. Feline.

  “No, Void!” Reralt cried. “Stay away! Save yourself!”

  But the cat did not run.

  The Void began to chirp and chatter—brabbling at the goose in that strange language only cats and birds seemed to understand.

  A series of warbling threats, interrogative meows, and disapproving clucks.

  It sounded less like a battle cry and more like a civil negotiation gone slightly wrong.

  The goose stared.

  Swordless. Disappointed.

  Then, with a final, insulted “Honk,”

  it flapped its wings and rose into the sky.

  Gone.

  Silence followed.

  Until Reralt whispered:

  “…We never speak of this.”

  Narro grunted in agreement.

  The Void sat down. Began to clean one paw.

  To this day, whenever they look at her, they see it—

  The disappointment.

  That she had to save them from a terrible goose.

  Worst of all.

  They were still hungry.

  ***

  They were catching their breath.

  Mildly ashamed.

  Of the not to be titled goose incident.

  “It was waiting for us,” Reralt said, still convinced.

  “Peace was never an option.”

  They sat on a patch of cleared land, surrounded by swamp.

  The hunting lodge barely peeked out through the trees.

  “Mmm,” Narro said, sniffing the air.

  “Something smells amazing.”

  “Yes,” Reralt agreed, eyes wide.

  “Like... mighty sweet steak.”

  They followed their noses through the muck, winding around reeds and puddles, until they reached a small island nestled in the swamp.

  There were no signs.

  No warnings.

  Just the delicious scent of something—cooked and wrong.

  “Perhaps with some eggs,” a voice said.

  “...Sautéed with onions. On toast.”

  Narro blinked.

  “Was that you?” he asked, eyeing Reralt.

  “Like I know what sautéed is,” Reralt said.

  “Sounds delicious, though.”

  The island was covered in hand-sized mushrooms.

  Strange. Glistening. Fragrant.

  They looked... tasty.

  “Can we eat those?” Narro asked.

  He already knew the answer.

  Reralt ate anything that didn’t scream—

  and sometimes even things that did.

  “Yes,” came the reply.

  But not from Reralt.

  It came from everywhere.

  “You can eat us,” said many voices.

  All at once.

  Narro’s spine stiffened.

  He looked again.

  The mushrooms were all smiling.

  Just a little.

  They waved gently in the wind’s soft bristle, carrying their lustrous scent even farther.

  “We should not eat undefined shrooms,” Narro said—

  already chewing the first.

  “Unwise to not first check if they’re poisonous,” Reralt added, half-swallowing, half-talking.

  “Eat all of us,” the shrooms seemed to whisper.

  “You’re so hungry.”

  “Forget the goose…”

  The two of them devoured the clearing.

  Frenzied.

  Mouths full of raw, sweet, shroomy meat.

  “Reralt?” Narro gasped, staring at his own hands. the sky just went from a blue to a strange bright colour.

  “What’s happening?”

  Narro’s fingers were dripping.

  Translucent. Gooey.

  Egg-white strands oozed to the ground.

  “I feel... so strange.”

  Reralt was taller now.

  His face grew, his mouth laughing as a thick brown mustache seemed to grow there instantly.

  His body grew paler.

  His limbs stretched to thin, off-white ribbons—noodly in nature, unholy in structure.

  “Oh-a no,” he said.

  His voice warped.

  His mouth made new shapes.

  “Whatsa you-a saying?” Narro replied, stumbling on feet that didn’t feel like feet.

  They tolled on there feet. strange music kept on rolling by.

  They both turned slowly.

  Twitching.

  Sliding.

  They had a craving.

  Something sweet.

  Something fruity.

  Peachy.

  But not any peach would do.

  They needed the sweetest, richest, most fragrant peach of them all—

  A Princess Peach.

  Mayo and Linguini, off to save the princes. they knew exactly in which castle she was held.

  …Yes who would have seen that one coming? I am not sure I did... Next episode: will Mayo and Linguini rescue their beloved dessert?

  as quietly recited by Narro, while nursing his pride

  We came with hope and empty hands,

  No coin, no meat, no feeding plans.

  Then from the lodge there came a sound—

  A honk that shook the very ground.

  With oiled chest and blade held high,

  Reralt met goose with battle cry.

  But fate was cruel and swift and vile—

  The Untitled struck with honked denial.

  It claimed his sword, it bit my side,

  It pecked our dreams, it crushed our pride.

  We dared to fight, we need to eat—

  The Untitled left us in defeat.

  So mark this truth, and spread it wide:

  Some monsters flap and do not hide.

  You’ll find no peace, no fair redress—

  Just honks, and wings, and righteousness.

  (True story.)