The council room was hollowed from the basement of a tree, roots and dirt for walls. It doubled as part of the armory; weapons and shields cluttered the perimeter. Pitch torches filled the room with orange light and pungent soot.
Brogan had been the first to arrive. Half a dozen of her trusted leaders pressed into the room. Had a busybody snooped through the windows, they'd have seen Fiona dwarfed by the musclebound masses surrounding her. And yet, each ogre gave her rapt attention. Her frame was slight, but her presence was weighty.
"Listen up, everyone. Word has come from Far Far Away." Fiona had been waiting all day to drop the bombshell: "Stiltskin is leading tonight's ogre hunt himself."
Astounded exclamations escaped the others. Exactly her goal. Fiona crossed her arms and closed her mouth, letting the fervor grow on its own.
"If that cupcake-eating clown finally leaves the safety of his filthy witch nest, he'll be vulnerable!" Brogan picked up the tone and spread the optimistic mood around the table.
"The plan's simple." Fiona turned her attention to the table, focusing a dozen other eyes on the battle map. "If they follow the usual patrol route," – she propelled a goose-egg carriage along the map – "they'll reach the river by midnight. We'll be concealed along this road, waiting for his caravan. Once they reach the clearing, I'll give the signal." Fiona prompted her own wooden miniature to display her blade, then she drew her own wicked dagger with a threatening ring. "And then, we attack!"
With a swipe of her dagger, Fiona directed dozens of figurines to descend en masse upon the model carriage. Carved ogres collided with wooden witches, bodies toppling indiscriminately, black-gowned corpses arcing across the battlefield.
Fiona continued, developing to a crescendo, "And when the smoke clears..." She spotted a figure she'd never noticed before, an ogre with a cart and an umbrella, waiting patiently at a distance for the simulated smoke to clear. Fiona pointed a finger at it. "Wait. What's this?"
Cookie, bedecked in apron strings and a chef's hat, answered with a matter-of-fact shrug, "That's my chimichanga stand." As if no battle could be complete without fearsome fighting and fried fillings.
Cookie was invaluable in supplying the troops with both rations and passion, but this idea didn't actually make any sense. "Um, no Cookie," Fiona eased in gently. "We won't be needing that," she replied with her own apologetic shrug.
"Trust me Fiona, y'all gonna be really hungry after this ambush, 'mkay?" Cookie replied condescendingly, as if he'd catered a dozen battles. Fiona glanced around for support, then back at Cookie, impressed with the persistence. Her brow tilted in imbalanced bemusement. How could Cookie suggest bringing utensils to a knife fight?
"Now go on finish yer little speech."
Cookie was trusted leadership, inner circle. This issue wasn't worth endangering esprit. She blinked herself back on track. "Alright." Fiona turned back to the cadre and put on her game face. She gestured their attention back to the battlefield, the stout ogres standing, wicked witches wilted. "As I was saying. When the smoke clears, Rumpelstiltskin is gone, and the chimichangas have been eaten," Fiona allowed a kind glance to Cookie, then her face hardened again, "Far Far Away will finally be free."
"And so will we!" chorused Brogan, infected by her assertiveness.
"Spread the word. We move out as soon as Rumpel leaves the palace."