The rusty orange sun was setting in the underground, and dusk was settling in for an extended stay. All throughout the Goblin City, sounds of drunken revelry could be heard, along with the inevitable crash of pots, crates, and other detritus as an inebriated goblin or two stumbled their way through the narrow streets. Now, everyone in the land knows it doesn't take much to set the inhabitants of the Goblin City to drinking and partying, but on this day, well, this day was extra special.
Goblins had seen a thing or two in their day. And although human holidays were never much honored by the Fae, this holiday was an exception…At least, it was for the residents of Goblin City. After all, what goblin could resist a human holiday that wholly endorsed drinking copious amounts of green tinted ale from sunup to well after sun down? Of course, St. Patrick's Day wasn't always the wild party holiday that it is today. The North American settlers from Ireland brought the holiday with them, and as Americans are wont to do, the holiday quickly grew into a much larger, brasher, celebration and frankly, was an excuse to party excessively. The goblin horde glommed onto that holiday quickly after observing the revelries for themselves once upon a time during an ill-timed visit above. It was a day the Goblin King cursed mightily. For as much as the goblins embraced the holiday, the Goblin King dreaded it. Every year for one day, the Goblins antics were magnified exponentially, and their destructive capabilities, imaginative and surprising during regular days, were beyond comprehension during a 26-hour bender.
Most years, the Goblin King hid himself away in his rooms, enveloping himself in a magical cocoon, shutting out the sounds, and smells, of the alcohol-fueled disaster occurring outside the castle, and, unfortunately, in his throne room. But this year, in an ill-advised attempt to drown his sorrows over his recent defeat and subsequent heartbreak, he decided to join the disgusting little merry-makers, and now, too many sheets to the wind, he was contemplating some of his many life choices that had gone terribly, horribly, deeply wrong…
Weaving his way unsteadily through the dimly lit corridors, the king warbled out an Irish folk tune while attempting to balance his crop in one hand, and a pewter stein of green ale in the other. Bits of foam and green drops left a trail behind him.
On Raglan Road of an autumn day
I saw her first and knew
That her dark hair would weave a snare
That I might one day rue…
He snarled out the last note, and brought the stein to his lips as he entered the throne room. Engrossed in his drink, the king was not watching his feet, and literally stumbled over one of those poorly made life choices, which squawked at him loudly and indignantly, and then attempted to fly in his face. Feathers flew, and ale spilled as the king swatted the pest away. He spit out feathers, muttered another curse, and resumed his unsteady trek to his throne.
The din assaulted his ears, which in turn made his eyes water. Or maybe it was the smell. He looked around blearily, wondering if it was really possible that there were more chickens in the room than when he'd left to go to the loo. Couldn't be, he thought, they don't reproduce quite that quickly.
Slumping into his seat, he gazed over the littered room. The goblins were strewn everywhere, some near to passed out, others still enthusiastically drinking, and challenging one another to unwise feats of idiocy. The floor was littered with the usual goblin trash, bits of cloth, a stray pot no doubt stolen from the kitchens, chipped and broken crockery. But overlaying all of that was a film of feathers. Downy pieces floated in mid-air resembling falling snow, if snow was grey. Jareth sneered at the mess, then dismissed it in favor of another sip of ale. A loud "Bwack" suddenly assaulted his ears. Startled, the king jumped in his seat, spilling green ale over his silk shirt. Scowling, he turned his head, and leveled a death glare at the black chicken balanced on the edge of his throne. It attempted to glare back at the sovereign, feeling an unwarranted sense of bravo after the goblins had shared some ale with it. Jareth, not to be outdone by fowl, added a sneer to his glare. The feathered creature oddly did not back down, it's glare unrelenting…until it slowly teetered backwards, and fell to the floor behind the throne. The king blinked once, gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head, and turned his attention back to the disaster taking place in front of him.
Gods, he hated chickens! Biggest mistake ever allowing those cretins to collect chickens. Second biggest mistake, allowing them into the castle! The goblins, not the chickens. The king was certain the chickens would be much better behaved without the goblins egging them on all the time. He slumped in his seat, flinging his leg over the arm, and groaned as his head thunked against the back of his throne. The clucking was now louder than the din made by the goblins. How was that possible? How was he supposed to croon his love song over that gods awful screeching?
He needed more ale. Anything to drown out this noise. But with each draw of the liquid, the sound seemed to get louder, and louder. "QUIET!" he bellowed, and for a brief, blissful moment, all was quiet. Then all of the denizens, goblin and fowl, seemed to redouble their efforts at loud conversation, laughter, and clucking and the king's temper ratcheted up several notches.
The goblin din was always loud and annoying, but manageable with a swift kick and trip to the bog. The chickens were not so easily dealt with. Jareth wasn't even entirely certain they were real chickens. They were too wily, and stealthy, seeming to possess an innate sense for knowing when a nearby boot might suddenly lash out, or artfully dodging a badly made net as it suddenly whooshed down upon them. In truth, it seemed to Jareth that they almost seemed to be plotting the kingdom's downfall. The king pondered for a brief moment that they might be succeeding.
The chickens needed to go. Now. Immediately. He would round them all up, and deposit them in the Fiery Forest! Let them chilly down out there, he chuckled. And, Jareth thought, as soon as he was able to sit up, he would do just that. But the effort it was taking to open his eyes, made him rethink his plan. He needed something fast. Ah, magic, sweet blessed magic! The answer to his problem.
Jareth quickly summoned a crystal and lobbed in the general direction of where he thought most of the chickens had gathered. That should carry them off and out of my hair, he thought, and let out a sigh of relief. His peace was short-lived.
In the next second, he heard the plucking of an untuned fiddle, followed by a scratchy thump on a bodhrán as two chickens sporting instruments warmed up. Soon, what passed for an Irish reel could be heard throughout the throne room. Puzzled, Jareth sat up, and peered across the room. His eyes bolted open wide at the sight of eight chickens, in two formatted rows seemingly standing at attention. Then, his eyebrows shot up to his skull when each chicken suddenly kicked out a leg in what could only be described as a "point", and held position for four counts of the beat. The goblins sat stunned, and utterly silent at the display.
In sync, the chickens began to Irish step dance, skipping, hopping, turning and jumping to the beat of the reel. Jareth stared in horrified fascination as their widely-splayed claws, and scrawny legs moved in time to the fiddle. Wings, which had been tightly pressed to their bodies, suddenly whipped upwards, and connected with one another as they did a wheel around the center, turning and repeating the move back to where they'd started.
The goblins, no longer paralyzed by their surprise, inched closer to the dancing beasts, fascinated with the movement. They began clapping somewhat in time to the rhythm. Jareth laughed out loud as one goblin who had gotten a little too close was suddenly flying across the room, having gotten too close to one chicken's high kick move. Other goblins seeing this thought this was great fun, and deliberately moved themselves into close position for their turn at being kicked by the dancing chicken horde. In short order, goblins began sailing overhead in every direction, one barely clearing Jareth's head before smacking in the wall behind the throne, giggling madly as it slid to the floor. Soon, it was up and running back into the center of the room for another turn. The music played louder, the chicken dancers kept reeling, and then suddenly, a rooster sporting a head band flew in front of the group, attempting to strike a pose as a gallant Irish dancing warrior. While the goblins loudly applauded the effort, Jareth could only continue to stare with morbid fascination. Oh, what had he done?
Jareth slumped again, pinching the bridge of his nose. A headache had begun to throb in his temples. Again. A decision gone terribly, horribly, deeply wrong. Slowly, he stood, and quietly made his way around the horde of cheering goblins and dancing chickens. No one noticed him slip silently out the door and down the corridor.