One Word Prompts

Chicken - Those Damn Daves...

"My Lords and Ladies," a woman in white and green had walked into court. Her clothes were hand-me-downs, but she wore them as if they had been commissioned for her and her alone. She gave a flourishing bow to the royalty before her, "My King, my Queen. I bid thee attend and bear witness to this, the Circus of Saint David!"

And as if unleashing the flood gates, the court's doors flew open, and in rushed a sea of garishly colored performers. They carried banners of azure, emblazoned with victory wreaths of argent and slugs of gold.

At the head of the pack, ran a woman small in stature but large in presence. Acrobat, fool, and potter, she did it all as time permitted. Today, she did not hesitate to whoop in glee as the troop poured into the court room. As she reached the throne, she gave the king a deep bow, both arms flying to the left of her body, her right arm crossing over her face, both hands flicking in a stylish flourish at the end.

At her heals ran a handful of men and women, no more graceful, significantly less well dressed, but just as rambunctious. The man in the center of this crowd raised a roasted chicken above his head, whooping along with the rest of the procession.

A number of those in the court shook their heads, but most smiled, even among those shaking their heads. One muttered, "Those damn Daves and their chicken..."

The circus had come to court.

With more composure, the circus master walked into the room. She was a young woman who had inherited the troop with little warning and with less say in the matter. Despite her sudden appointment, she had since led the circus to new heights, appearing now before the King's court on a regular basis.

A step behind her walked a woman and man, the financial manager and her trainee. The woman was haggard, she prepared her retirement, but there was still too much to do. Her assistant's head flitted around the room, a hundred questions on procedure undoubtedly on the tip of his tongue.

The three bowed before the king. This seemed to remind the rest of their mob that they were supposed to as well, as this was followed by a dozen or so bows from the rest.

"Your highness," the circus master said. Hers wasn't the booming voice of their herald, or the whoop of undying confidence of their fool, but it neither lacked in determination nor authority. It was not the sickly smooth voice of a performer, but neither was it the hesitant voice of a child. Perhaps better suited to a private conversation, but no worse for being broadcasted across the court. "We have come today to invite you and your court to our circus. From dusk till midnight, we have shows and displays. We hope they will entertain you."

"But until then," the fool leapt to the front, her full circle sleeves flying with the movement. "Enjoy a selection of our talents. A joke, your highness?"

The king nodded.

With a grin the fool asked, "Where does a king keep his armies?"

The king pondered the question a moment, before, very seriously saying, "Why spread across his kingdom of course."

Grinning ear to ear and all but unable to hold back the laughter at her own joke, the fool shook her head. "No, no, my lord. A king keeps his armies," she paused again, spreading her grin to the rest of the troop and court, "In his sleevies." She waved her arms about in emphases, her big sleeves flapping with her glee.

A groan went up from several audience members, as did a handful of chuckles. The performance continued like this, the jokes intermixed with groans and chuckles.

The man who'd carried the chicken into court took the stage, recounting the court with tales of strange adventurers into dark, spider infested dungeons and voyages onto the stormy sea. Art was carted out for display, fine bead work, delicate paper crafts, stunning pottery.

Finally, it came time for the finale. A tall, slender man in hood and the fool carted out two impossible beasts. Slugs the size of horses. They were yellow, their hide glistening with their natural goo. A top their backs two troop members in shining armor, one the circus master herself. Both carried lances, padded at the tips, and shields, one of gold, one of blue.

The Daves' herald stepped forward again. To the already enthralled crowd she called, "My Lords. My Ladies. My King, my Queen. Please attend, here we begin the true event of the evening. Slug jousting!"

A hushed excitement swelled through the room, the novelty trumping proper court behavior.

"Here before you, from the kingdom to the west, from a land enshrouded in mist, deep with in dark woods, two greater crown slugs, trained for your viewing pleasure. In blue," she waved to the King's side of the room where the first slug was readied, "we have our fearless leader a top Rosencrantz." She swept her hand to the other side, "In gold, I present you our own Manual-Dexterity-Iricami a top Guildenstern."

The two riders waved to the crowd.

"The rules are simple," she out lined the details in simple words, before turning to each contestant in turn. "Ready?"

They both nodded.

The herald drew forth a handkerchief from her bodice. She waved it before her, stepping back with full haste. "Lay on!"

The slugs surged forward. Slower than horses, but no less impressively. They collided, lances hitting shields and helmets, wood splintering in every direction. The crowd went wild, laughing in awe of the fantastic spectacle before them.

Three charges, and the circus master looked down on Guildenstern's rider from Rosencrantz, having unseated him. While she helped him back to his feet, the fool ran to the court nobles.

"Any volunteers from the audience?" she shouted, pulling up two faster than any could raise their hands.

Before any knew it, the circus had exploded within the court room. Few remained in their seats, everyone distracted by some performance of the Daves and their slugs. Laughter rang through the king's halls, and all were welcome.