The land changed without announcing it.
Grass thinned first—patches of green giving way to dry, uneven soil that broke apart underfoot. Then the color shifted. Browns deepened into rust. Stone pushed up through the earth in jagged lines, as though the ground had split and never quite settled back into place.
By the time the canyon walls began to rise, the road had narrowed into something more suggestion than path.
Red stone. Sun-baked. Heat held in the rock and pressed outward.
Open sky above. Nowhere to hide.
I adjusted the strap of my pack. The motion pulled at muscles that had not fully recovered, a lingering reminder of how little time we had given ourselves to rest.
We had camped. Briefly.
Long enough for a fire. Long enough to sleep.
Not long enough to feel rested.
Minsc had taken first watch. That had been a decision.
Boo had been… active.
I hadn't asked. Imoen had—once. She had not asked twice.
The scroll case at my side knocked lightly against my hip as we moved.
Mirror Image.
Still untouched.
Scribing would take time. Focus. A steady hand.
Light. Space. Quiet.
None of which I had possessed the previous night.
By the time we had stopped moving, I had not had the energy to do more than sit, eat, and let exhaustion win.
Another delay.
Another advantage waiting to be claimed.
Eventually.
Ahead, Minsc slowed slightly, scanning the canyon with open, unguarded intensity.
"Good place for ambush," he said.
Xan sighed. "Every place is a good place for ambush. That is the defining feature of an ambush."
Rasaad said nothing. His gaze moved differently—less broad, more deliberate. Watching the spaces between the rocks rather than the rocks themselves.
Branwen adjusted her shield as she walked, expression set.
Imoen glanced upward. "Feels weird. Too open, but also not."
"That is because it offers neither comfort nor concealment," Xan said.
"Helpful."
"I strive to be."
We continued forward.
The canyon bent gradually ahead, the path curving just enough to break line of sight beyond a short distance. Wind moved through the stone in uneven currents, carrying dust and the faint scent of dry earth.
Something pale caught briefly between the rocks ahead—movement without pattern.
Gone before it resolved into anything I could name.
A figure stood just beyond a cluster of stone, half-turned as though unsure whether to approach or retreat.
A man.
Simple clothes. Sun-worn. Hands rough from labor.
He spotted us fully this time, hesitated, then raised a hand.
"Hey—!"
His voice carried unevenly in the canyon, caught and redirected by the stone.
"You—uh—travelers, right?"
He took a few steps closer, still uncertain.
"I need a bit of help."
He paused, as if reconsidering how to say what came next.
"It's… about a chicken."
The man shifted his weight as he approached, eyes moving quickly between us as though trying to decide which of us looked the most reasonable.
"I just need to confirm something," he said.
He pointed vaguely back the way he had come.
"Chickens," he said. "They don't… talk. Right?"
There was a brief pause.
Xan blinked once. "Not in any language I am aware of."
Rasaad inclined his head. "No."
Branwen's brow furrowed. "Such a thing would be… highly irregular."
Imoen glanced at me. "Pretty sure that's a no."
The man nodded slowly.
"Right," he said, as if repeating it might make it settle.
He looked down at his hands, flexed his fingers once, then let them fall back to his sides.
"Good," he added quietly. "That's good."
A single feather lay caught against the stone nearby.
White.
Clean.
Too deliberate to have drifted there by chance.
I recognized the shape of the encounter.
Not the moment—just the pattern of it.
Which meant it was already deviating.
He looked back up.
"Because I heard one."
No one spoke immediately.
"It spoke," he continued, more firmly now. "Clear as anything. Common. Not… not sounds. Words."
Xan closed his eyes briefly, as if bracing for something inevitable. "I see."
The man nodded quickly, encouraged.
"Yes. Exactly. You see."
He didn't wait for confirmation.
"So either—" he said, raising one hand slightly, "—I've gone completely mad…"
He raised the other.
"…or there is something out there pretending to be a chicken."
The canyon wind shifted, carrying a thin line of dust between us.
"…and talking," he finished.
Minsc's eyes lit up.
"A demon chicken!" he said, delighted.
Boo squeaked sharply from his shoulder.
"Yes, Boo, I see it as well! A fiend most foul, hiding in feathers to deceive the innocent!"
The man stared at him.
"…I didn't say demon."
Minsc leaned in slightly, lowering his voice.
"Many demons prefer unexpected forms," he said gravely. "It is part of their cowardice."
"That's not—" the man started.
Imoen clamped a hand over her mouth, shoulders shaking.
Xan exhaled slowly. "Of course it is a demon. Why would it not be a demon."
Rasaad remained still, watching the man rather than the conclusion.
"You heard it clearly?" he asked.
"Yes," the man said immediately. "No mistaking it."
"What did it say?"
The man hesitated. His expression shifted—uncertainty creeping back in now that he had to repeat it.
"It…" he began, then stopped.
"It asked for help."
That landed differently.
The wind moved again through the canyon, softer this time.
Branwen straightened. "A creature capable of speech and seeking aid should not be ignored."
Xan opened one eye. "Assuming it is not attempting to lure us into something unpleasant."
"That is also a possibility," Rasaad agreed calmly.
Minsc drew himself up to his full height.
"Then we shall face it!" he declared. "Chicken or demon, Boo and I do not shrink from righteous battle!"
He paused.
"…though we have already lost time."
His expression tightened.
"The witch remains in gnoll hands. Boo and I delayed once to gather strength. We will not delay again without purpose."
Boo squeaked, softer this time.
Minsc nodded once, as if reaffirming it to himself.
"If this creature seeks aid, we will judge quickly," he finished. "Then we move."
The man looked between them again, still uncertain.
"I just—" he said, faltering slightly, "—I needed to know I wasn't imagining it."
Imoen lowered her hand, recovering.
"Well," she said, "good news."
He looked at her.
"You're probably not."
A pause.
"…probably?"
She shrugged. "Better odds than the alternative."
I glanced toward the bend in the canyon ahead, where the path curved out of sight.
A talking chicken.
I knew exactly what that meant.
And exactly why I wasn't going to explain it.
"Polymorph," I said instead. "It's possible. Not common. Not stable, if it's been forced."
That drew a few looks.
"It would explain the speech," I added. "And the request for help."
Xan considered that. "A wizard with a sense of humor, then."
"Or a poor one," Branwen said.
"Those are not mutually exclusive."
I shifted my grip slightly.
"Where?" I asked.
The man turned immediately, pointing toward a narrow break between the rocks.
"Just past there," he said. "Near a little rise. It was there when I saw it."
He hesitated.
"It didn't stay," he added quickly. "Kept moving. Panicked, I think."
He looked at us, a little embarrassed.
"If you're going to look for it… you'll want to keep an eye out."
A brief pause.
"…for a chicken," he finished.
Minsc nodded firmly.
"Of course," he said.
"The most dangerous kind."
He turned without hesitation, already moving toward the canyon bend.
"We have delayed enough," he added. "The witch will not wait for chickens to finish their business."
Boo squeaked in agreement.
The rest of us followed.
I gave the narrow break in the rocks one last look.
A problem.
Not ours.
For now.
Then I turned and moved on.