Now, as a Canadian, I already celebrated Thanksgiving correctly in October. But, as today is American Thanksgiving, and I’m in the middle of a month-long writing kinda thing, here’s a scene that’s at least Thanksgiving-adjacent.
On the one hand, Kat and Aurorean Sorceress Apolline had succeeded in bluffing their way into the private library of Sigismund von Bücherhaus to steal back the private journal of the legendary pirate Blackboots.
On the other hand, once Sigismund von Bücherhaus learned that, he sent a whole army of mercenaries after them. Kat, Dunstana, and Amara tried to lose the mercenaries in the forests outside of Porthaven. Thus far, the plan hasn’t really worked.
Kat and Amara are sheltering behind a fallen log as the mercenaries advance on them and loose a constant storm of arrows at them.
“I said I was sorry!” Kat calls, flinching at the sound of a barrage of arrows burying themselves into the nearby trees.
“No, you didn’t,” one of the mercenaries calls.
Kat bites back a curse.
“Man,” she mutters. “I thought that would work.”
Amara stares incredulously at her best friend.
“You thought insincerely apologising to a group of hardened professionals mercenaries, working on behalf of one of the most infamously greedy and vindictive man in Realmgard was going to convince them to stop?” she exclaims.
She sighs and shakes her head.
“Oh, Katherine.”
“Okay,” Kat says, “in my defence — Where’s Dunstana?”
“Don’t worry Kat and Amara!” Dunstana calls from somewhere in the bushes. “I’ll save you!”
There’s a rustling of leaves and snapping of branches. The storm of arrows suddenly stops. Kat can hear the mercenaries exchange startled shouts and desperate commands with each other.
“Bwahaha!” Dunstana laughs giddily. “The boot’s on the other glove now, chumps!”
Kat and Amara cautiously peer over their log.
“Gobble gobble gobble!”
Dunstana has come onto the scene, astride the largest bird cat has ever seen.
“My goodness,” Amara says. “I do believe that’s a Dire Turkey. Actually, I’m impressed Dunstana could tame one so quickly…”
“Right now,” Dunstana warns the mercenaries. “It looks like the turkey’s gonna eat you. Isn’t that ironistic?”
“The word is ironic,” one of the mercenaries notes.
“Quiet, you,” Dunstana says, taking a shot at him with her cork gun.
“You know,” Dunstana muses from her perch on the back of the Dire Turkey, “it is the Harvest Festival. You guys know what I’m thankful for this year?”
“Peace and goodwill?” one of the mercenaries offers.
“Wool socks?” another asks.
“M-mashed potatoes?” a third stammers.
“I do like mashed potatoes,” Dunstana admits. “Mostly, though, I’m feeling especially thankful that I’ve got lots of butts to kick.”
“I think she’s talking about us,” one of the mercenaries whispers to another.
“Gobble gobble gobble!” the Dire Turkey cries as Dunstana spurs it forward, brandishing her wooden sword and cork gun.
Kat and Amara stare in bewilderment as Dunstana rides the Dire Turkey in pursuit of the mercenaries, chasing them around the forest clearing
“Well, I can’t say I was expecting that,” Amara says, breaking the stunned silence. “That is quite the turkey.”
“Yeah,” Kat says. “And she’s riding a really big bird!”
Dunstana looks at her sister from over her shoulder.
“Hey!”
In Fantasy, “Dire” is basically the adjective you add to any given animal to make it more impressive and Fantasy-y. This is likely based on the fact that the Dire Wolf was a real creature and basically a modern wolf, but bigger.
Dire Turkey seemed like the obvious choice for something I wrote on American Thanksgiving.
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