“Miru! These things are fast! If we keep this up we’ll arrive in no time!”

Hem was right behind Freya as the two chickens were neck and neck en route to pick up some Ka-pi before the luncheon

“I told you it would be an experience,” Freya said behind the packed basket, riding Iron Beak.

“You can control their bodies?” Hem asked.

“Not so much. I keep them happy so they tend to do what I want,” Freya said. “In fact this Ka-pi was their idea.”

Iron Beak looked back at her for a second and Freya swore that it was the chicken version of a smirk she’d seen.

Hem’s grip in the saddle left little to chance.

“You’ll get used to the awkwardness after a while, and then it’s like second nature. I’m trying to get the scouts to get super comfortable with the idea of riding—they’ve dropped by more than once. You’ve got to learn to work with them.”

A short silence was filled with the scraping of the chickens' talons on the ground as they cleared the wall to be able to see the Ka-pi Farum.

“Oh well, isn't that something,” Hem said in quiet amazement. He whistled in appreciation.

“I’d show you them trying to fly if I wasn’t all made up and headed to the luncheon.”

“It sounds… wonderful.”

Hems' eyes reminded Freya of her first time, bright eyed and short tailed.

“You don’t get a lot of opportunities to make them run and jump, so it’s usually a special experience.”

“It does feel like something—something special. I’m quite taken with it. It’s liberating, and I can see why you like it so much.”

Arriving at the Farum, Freya was pleased to see that they had an appropriately sized barrel of Ka-pi for her to take with them. Well, not for her to take, as she made her brother hold on to it while he was on the chicken, but it’s the thought that counts right?

The pair arrived at the southern lawn, minutes away from the Yellowrock mesa, where a small crowd was gathering in front of the old veterans home.

Old campaigners in their pressed uniforms milled about the aristocrats, displaying ribbons and medals that Freya smiled at.

One older gentleman walked with a cane to greet them. On his side, Crenshaw, the retired cousin of Muk, waved to Freya. He eyed the barrel as her brother tried to navigate his dismount with it.

“Let me give you a hand, rookie,” Crenshaw said.

“Rookie? I’ve been in three years!” Hem said.

“And I did eighteen. Pass the chicken go-juice to your elder, rookie.”

Hem’s face looked as if he wanted to laugh, but his whiskers drooped.

“Cheer up, I may even pour you a cup, Corporal…?”

“Corporal Hem, Sir.”

Freya made a coughing sound to break up what she saw as a budding bro-mance.

“Master Sergeant Crenshaw,” she said.

The mouse snapped to attention.

“Please get this barrel someplace that it can give the old veterans joy, and although my brother—here,” she patted Hem on the back, “may be young, I think please at least don’t antagonize him until I’ve had a chance to eat. It wouldn’t do to see your cousin's colleague hungry would it?”

“Come with me corporal,” Crenshaw said, arranging Hem to carry one side of the barrel—the higher side—while he held it low. “This way.”

Her brother left, becoming a pair of brown ears in the crowd. Freya grabbed her basket and told the chickens to go rest nearby. Both nodded, picking a hill in the southlawn area, where the picnic would probably begin once the baskets were all bought.

In the very front, roughly fifty baskets each for a debutante sat without a note of who the owner of the basket was. The bidders would have to bid blind, but Freya imagined that they probably had a good idea of whose was whose.

A grey fox with a jaundiced scar down one eye approached Freya.

“Ah! Gilles! It’s been so long! How goes it?” Freya said.

With his good eye, the fox looked Freya up and down.

“You look like you’ve done well for yourself, miss, and Miss Abigail sends her regards,” the fox said. His brown coat fit over a grey tunic that seemed cut for a younger fox.

“Oh!” Freya's whiskers drooped to the ground. “She won’t be here today will she?”

“She’s taken a bit of this to heart.” He leaned in. ‘And between us, you should probably give her some space for a bit. Miss Bun has been telling her stories all morning… and well.”

Freya sighed. “What’s a mouse to do? We had a misunderstanding.”

Gilles one good eye looked somber as he reached out an arm for her basket.

“Allow me to place that for you, miss. It’s the least an old veteran like me can do… and you don’t need to do anything, just give it time.”

Freya handed the grey fox her basket, blinking back tears. In her haste, she had Old Gran apply only the most minimal amount of maquillage and although she hadn’t appreciated it when it happened, she was grateful now.

“Thank you Gilles, Raven bless your heart.”

“As long as it isn’t Miru, the gods can bless me all day and night,” he said hefting the basket with two paws towards the front where the gentry had begun inspecting the baskets trying to glean which belonged to foxes, and which belonged to mice, rabbits or perhaps some aviary gentry. A small marble placed in front of each basket was supposed to indicate which race the creator was from, but Freya has seen more than one Lady swap marbles. Freya thought that those ladies might have lost their marbles.

A sea of top hats obscured her view as Freya walked to find Hem and some Ka-pi.