Day Three-Hundred-Thirteen: Fowl Afoot

WHAAAAAT THE HEEEEEELL

The boars of yesterday - remember the boars, diary? - are fitting in nicely. When we do see them, they're either greeting we human members of the community or keeping watch over the amateur loggers whom Libby has appointed to start bringing down redwood trees. Damn mighty fine of them, assuming they don't have a hidden agenda. 

And they have friends. More friends. Feathery friends. Friends we met while AGAIN surveying the forest.

Grylock's been having too much fun riding around on his boar pal, so he agreed to come with Libby 'n me when we made another stab at the valley. I'd spent the rest of yesterday trying to deal with the boars and the new farmers, and we'd run out of daylight before we could continue the survey. Another day, another babysitter for Grayson, another foray into the wilderness. 

(No Edmund this time, though. He stayed at the counter of the pub, talking to Bora. SEE, they ARE meant to be together. Shove my dumb brother outta the picture, he's WAY too pale.

Sorry, bro. That's kinda mean. You'll never read this, though, so I'll say what I want. Yaha! You smell like onions and feet! Take THAT, you overweight slug!)

We got a little bit further into the forest than we did the previous day, perhaps half a kilometre away from the valley. Then, again, we heard the interminable shuffle of many feet on the wet leaves. 

We hid. We listened. Grylock nudged his boar into hiding behind a log while he tipped his nose into the air and sniffed. Sniff, sniff, sniff… sniiiiiff… his mouth dropped open… drool…

"Grylock?" I whispered, a little panicked. "What're you…?"

"CHICKENS!" Grylock yelled. He spurred his boar onward, charging into the trees and towards the massive line of feathery brown and white that was winding through the forest. "CHICKENS CHICKENS CHICKENS!"

The birds scattered as the boar ran into their midst. Grylock, flopping off the back of his mount, jumped at the nearest chicken. His drool dripped on the ground. "Oh dear gods, it's been so long, so many shitty meals, c'mere, you delectable, you!"

Running after him, Libby grabbed Grylock and held him in the air while he swiped for the spooked animals. Most of the chickens ran over to me, clustering around my feet and clucking nervously as they watched the goblin flail and swear. For some reason I promised that Grylock wouldn't get them, and bless their hearts, they seemed to believe me.

So.

Yeah.

We now have chickens.

And another farmer. Says he specializes in poultry. Where do these people COME from?

And the animals, for that matter? Boars migrating through a forest, sure, I get that. But chickens? In the wild? Who's ever heard of that? They're strictly domestic birds. They also don't migrate. Why was a big flock of 'em walking through a forest where they could easily get picked off by predators like, um, Grylock, I guess? It makes no sense.

We're gonna try this surveying thing one more time tomorrow. Libby's determined to get into that damned valley. Right now she's too busy building a fence to keep the chickens contained, and I'm all for it. Dutiful though these chickens may be, I'm kinda looking forward to a nice, meaty dinner.

Om.

Sincerely,

Dragomir the Surveyor