It was late evening and the chef was trudging across the fortress courtyard toward his kitchen. He had just finished his evening break and was about to finish his evening routine of cleaning his workspace and prepping for breakfast. Mornings were easier when he had things laid out.

He was a thickly built man in his late thirties with dark red hair that stuck out like shocks of wheat from beneath his chef’s hat and the nostrils of his overlarge nose. He was mild mannered, liked his kitchen kept in an orderly manner, and had a thing for poultry. Like all of Rumadrane’s human thralls, the chef had been taken prisoner during a raid on his village. However, unlike many of his peers, he had no qualms about serving Vevic and her horde. You see, the chef was not a particularly moral person, nor was he immoral. He simply was. He cooked and he prepared food and he fed people, as was his job. However, none of that was what he lived for. No, what the chef really enjoyed was to butcher any small animal that came into his kitchen and then to conjure a creative way to serve said animal to his hungry clientele.

He thought of this as his calling.

Butchering, slaughtering, de-boning, and otherwise dissecting small animals was such an enjoyable experience for him that the chef woke up every morning with a spring in his step and a tune on his lips. For him, the prospect of waking up with a fresh pig to butcher and feed was a joy in its purest form. The manner of animal did not matter to him greatly, only that it was small enough to not give him too much trouble. Oh, and he insisted that he be the one to kill it. No, the chef did not keep underlings of any kind. The chef worked alone.

Upon being presented with these facts, one might suspect the chef was into torture and one would be right. However, it was not the physical torture of the animal that intrigued him the most but the psychological. He had a special ability to let the animal know that it was going to die long before the fell swoop happened.

So it was, that as he had left his quarters this morning, the gnolls had informed him that a very special surprise was awaiting him. When he asked them what it was, Shelia, the gnoll alpha, had refused to tell him but mentioned Vevic expected a personal sample.

Walking across the yard, the chef began to sing his favorite tune.

“Yorn desh der born,

der ritt de gitt der gue.

Orn desh, dee born desh de umm,

bork! bork! bork!”

As he neared the cookhouse, the chef found himself getting excited. What could they have possibly brought me? He wondered. Could it be a chicken? It has been a while since I felt the fear of a chicken. Perhaps it is a suckling pig. That would be a sweet thing. Or maybe it is a goat or a calf. His guess was a hoofed animal of some sort. He couldn’t wait.

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

He shut the door behind him and set his lantern on the mantle. The edge of the lamplight caught a cage on the far table where a white shadow was sitting still and solemn.

“Varfor hej lilla killeh,” said the chef.

However, the shadow did not move. Must be scared. Good, thought the chef. He found a second lamp and used a wick to light it. Whatever animal was sitting inside that cage could wait. Someone had left a window open last night and the room was cold, so he went about making a fire. Once he had a stack of logs burning in the fireplace, he took both lanterns in hand and carried them to the corners opposite the fire. After he had set the second lantern down on its shelf, he walked over to the table with the cage where he came face to face with a very calm, very confident white feathered duck.

Pressing his hands into his pockets, he looked down at the duck.

The duck looked back up at him.

Deep within the beedy black little eyes of the waterfowl, the chef could see an evil intelligence that gave him a moment’s pause. The duck appeared to be … studying him. He was not sure how he felt about that. Ducks were not supposed to study people, they were supposed to quack, waddle about, and eat bugs.

And be cooked in cook pots. With beats and onions and maybe a little pepper and salt.

The chef decided he would ignore this affront as he filled a pot of water and set it on the fire. Next, he pulled out a cutting board and his knives. He looked up. The duck now had a glare. Unperturbed, the chef began to sharpen his largest knife. This duck was going to learn what was good for it and what was good for it was to be afraid. Very afraid. He was the chef. The duck was a duck. There was a natural order to things and that natural order needed to be maintained.

Once he had sharpened the first knife until it gleamed in the light, he checked the water. It was nearly to a boil. Good, thought the chef. It has been some time since I cooked a nice little duck. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to boil the duck yet or not. Maybe he would just roast it. Alive.Regardless, the water would be good for intimidation.

He then took out the pot of old bones he kept under the table and set it on an end table where the duck could see.

He turned back to his charge. The duck was ignoring him. Time to show this animal what’s in store for it. He picked up the cage and carried the duck over to the cutting board with the knife, and then to the now boiling pot of water, and finally to the pot of bones. The duck, unperturbed, seemed to consider each in turn.

The chef then set the knife on the table next to the cutting board and began sharpening a second knife. The duck remained nonplussed, almost as if he were ignoring the chef and his threats altogether.

“Vet du ar du varr?” the chef asked.

The duck fluffed himself and looked out the window.

The nerve. The chef was growing annoyed. No, he was past annoyed. He was insulted. This duck was breakfast but as acting as though he were an honored guest.

Picking up the larger knife, he carried it over to the cage and held it in front of the fowl. “Vet du vad der harr arr?”

The duck, not acknowledging him, continued to stare in the opposite direction.

Holding the knife so it gleamed in the light, the chef asked, “Vad vill du att jag ska skara av forsta vingen eller benet?”

The duck made a sound that could only be described as casually insulting.

We shall see about that, thought the chef as he straightened. Shelia was right, this has been a surprise.

“Kanske ar det fel verktyg.” The chef set that knife down and picked up a cleaver to present to the duck. “Vad sags om den har?”

The duck warbled in disappointment.

The chef straightened as he let out a grunt. “Vad frackt.”

The duck let out a contented quack.

The disrespect! The chef had never tolerated this from any animal, let alone a bird. If this duck thinks he is going to walk into my kitchen and act like this …