Sometime in Ashan
Seven little ducks sat in a row along the uneven ridges of a crumbling, cobblestone wall. They were all clearly ducks, but not one of the little feathered creatures looked the same. The largest of the ducks, the fourth from the left, was almost entirely white save for a single red feather in the middle of its noodle-like head, right between its beady little eyes. The smallest of the ducks, the second from the right, was a mix of greens and yellows with a bright orange crest that looked very much like an explosion frozen right in the middle. The sixth duck from the right was covered in dark, ashen fethers and had an incredibly long neck from with a hooked, needle beak extended out from its bulbous head. The fourth duck from the left was named Apocrypha. The second duck from the left suffered from early onset arthritis and had, roughly, ten or seven pale pink feathers left clinging to its shaggy skinned, average sized body. The duck on the right had no eyes but disconcertingly long legs with little fingers attached to the ends of them that it used to slowly preen its sapphire blue plumage that stopped just below its neck, leaving its drumstick of a head bare. Finally, the duck on the left was just a duck.
"These here ducks," Clinton began, shouldering his shovel that doubled as an axe boomerang in function when he threw it hard enough and far enough. "Are the finest ducks you'll find in anywhere."
"Anywhere?" Marvin asked, a little bit nervous given the prestigious claims. He'd never been in the presence of prestige before. "What about Fendleston?"
"Fendleston's got gooses," Martha corrected him, spitting something dark and putrid from her lips before wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. "And Barliesville's got them sheeps and hydrogenated dairy stuffs."
"That's right," Marvin nodded, muttering. "I knew that..."
"Anyway," Clinton turned, his shovel swinging through the air at an alarming speed - but just slow enough but Marvin and Martha were able to duck before it struck them. "One of 'ems an imposter."
Slowly rising back to a standing position, hands still protectively covering his head, Marvin ventured a timid, "Im-imposter?"
"S'like a doll per ganger," sighed Martha, clearly already weary of giving an explanation, even it if was for the first time. "Magic mojo garbage we ain't have no time for."
"And you want me to-" Marvin began, but was interrupted by Clinton's laughter.
"You? No no no." He clapped a hand on Marvin's shoulder. The weight and force of it were more than enough to cause him to stumble. "You're here to keep an eye on him."
"On who?"
"'On who?'" Martha mimicked with a whining, high pitched voice. "Why don't you let Clint finish before you ask any more dumb questions."
Marvin held his tongue and looked down at his muddy boots apologetically. "Yes ma'am."
"His name's-" But Clinton didn't finish. There was a flash of light, a loud scream, and several quiet whispers then Marvin and the ducks were alone. Well, not entirely alone. A man had appeared, and, though Marvin wasn't a gambling man due to his crippling debt and complete lack of self-confidence, he was willing to go out on the proverbial limb and assume that the newcomer was the one he was supposed to be "keeping an eye on".
With a small cough to clear his throat - though more so for a very small burst of flimsy bravery - Marvin stepped forward, the ducks all placidly taking in the scene with about as much interest as a stepfather who'd married rich at his stepdaughter's fifteenth wedding to his cousin's nephew's pet badger. "H-hello, are you here for the... the ducks?"
Seven little ducks sat in a row along the uneven ridges of a crumbling, cobblestone wall. They were all clearly ducks, but not one of the little feathered creatures looked the same. The largest of the ducks, the fourth from the left, was almost entirely white save for a single red feather in the middle of its noodle-like head, right between its beady little eyes. The smallest of the ducks, the second from the right, was a mix of greens and yellows with a bright orange crest that looked very much like an explosion frozen right in the middle. The sixth duck from the right was covered in dark, ashen fethers and had an incredibly long neck from with a hooked, needle beak extended out from its bulbous head. The fourth duck from the left was named Apocrypha. The second duck from the left suffered from early onset arthritis and had, roughly, ten or seven pale pink feathers left clinging to its shaggy skinned, average sized body. The duck on the right had no eyes but disconcertingly long legs with little fingers attached to the ends of them that it used to slowly preen its sapphire blue plumage that stopped just below its neck, leaving its drumstick of a head bare. Finally, the duck on the left was just a duck.
"These here ducks," Clinton began, shouldering his shovel that doubled as an axe boomerang in function when he threw it hard enough and far enough. "Are the finest ducks you'll find in anywhere."
"Anywhere?" Marvin asked, a little bit nervous given the prestigious claims. He'd never been in the presence of prestige before. "What about Fendleston?"
"Fendleston's got gooses," Martha corrected him, spitting something dark and putrid from her lips before wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. "And Barliesville's got them sheeps and hydrogenated dairy stuffs."
"That's right," Marvin nodded, muttering. "I knew that..."
"Anyway," Clinton turned, his shovel swinging through the air at an alarming speed - but just slow enough but Marvin and Martha were able to duck before it struck them. "One of 'ems an imposter."
Slowly rising back to a standing position, hands still protectively covering his head, Marvin ventured a timid, "Im-imposter?"
"S'like a doll per ganger," sighed Martha, clearly already weary of giving an explanation, even it if was for the first time. "Magic mojo garbage we ain't have no time for."
"And you want me to-" Marvin began, but was interrupted by Clinton's laughter.
"You? No no no." He clapped a hand on Marvin's shoulder. The weight and force of it were more than enough to cause him to stumble. "You're here to keep an eye on him."
"On who?"
"'On who?'" Martha mimicked with a whining, high pitched voice. "Why don't you let Clint finish before you ask any more dumb questions."
Marvin held his tongue and looked down at his muddy boots apologetically. "Yes ma'am."
"His name's-" But Clinton didn't finish. There was a flash of light, a loud scream, and several quiet whispers then Marvin and the ducks were alone. Well, not entirely alone. A man had appeared, and, though Marvin wasn't a gambling man due to his crippling debt and complete lack of self-confidence, he was willing to go out on the proverbial limb and assume that the newcomer was the one he was supposed to be "keeping an eye on".
With a small cough to clear his throat - though more so for a very small burst of flimsy bravery - Marvin stepped forward, the ducks all placidly taking in the scene with about as much interest as a stepfather who'd married rich at his stepdaughter's fifteenth wedding to his cousin's nephew's pet badger. "H-hello, are you here for the... the ducks?"