Family of Fish Fingers
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Sir Cluckington The Brave
When the sun first kissed the waters of Lake Eggshell, its brilliance was met not with songs of joy, but with silence — the silence of fear. For within those waters lurked monsters of nightmare: scaled leviathans whose eyes burned like embers, whose fins sliced the waves like lances, whose jaws gnashed with hunger for any who dared draw near. Entire flocks whispered of their terror, yet none dared challenge them. None, save one.
Sir Cluckington the Brave was no ordinary rooster. Born in the Hills of Scratch, where famine gnawed at the earth and chicks often cried to empty skies, he was raised on hardship and forged by hunger. His comb, bright as a crown of flame, marked him as chosen by the Great Mother Hen — or so the elders whispered when he first raised his spur-sword as a chick barely grown.
But what set him apart was not only courage; it was vision. In a dream lit by moonlight, Cluckington beheld Lake Eggshell, teeming with fish, shimmering like silver coins cast by the gods. A voice boomed from the heavens: “Take what is hidden beneath the waves, and your family shall never starve again.”
Cluckington awoke with fire in his heart. He rallied his hen, Lady Peckara the Wise, and their brood of stout-hearted chicks. “We shall not peck at dust while bounty waits beyond fear,” he declared. “By beak and by blade, by net and by wing, we shall tame the waters!”
And so began the saga of the Eggshell Fleet. With spider-thread lines and thorn-hooked rods, with reed-woven boats that creaked like the bones of giants, the family of Fish Fingers sailed into the jaws of terror. The lake boiled with fury as the monsters struck: serpents coiled around boats, whirlpools yawned like hungry maws, and the colossal Leviathan of Eggshell rose from the depths, a mountain of scales and shadow.
Yet Sir Cluckington did not falter. With ancestral spur-sword gleaming, he carved through hide and fin. Peckara cast cunning nets, barbed with enchantments, ensnaring the beasts as their chicks darted bravely, pecking at eyes and underbellies. For seven days and seven nights, feathers and scales, courage and carnage clashed beneath the watch of the moon.
At dawn of the eighth day, Sir Cluckington faced the Leviathan itself. Perched upon the bow of his shattered vessel, waves thrashing around him, he shouted words that echoed through history:
“For family, for feather, for fish — we prevail!”
With a mighty leap, he drove his spur into the beast’s blazing eye, and the water churned red. Together, the family dragged the monster ashore, its body falling with the tremor of a mountain. The beasts fled, banished to the abyss. Lake Eggshell was free.
On its shores they raised Fingerhaven, the first fishing village, a haven of nets and songs, where fish were pulled from waters that once promised only death. From this day forth, Cluckington was no longer just a knight — he was a founder, a savior, the First Fisher-Knight of Eggshell.
Generations later, his shield, etched with the sigil of the fish over waves, is still raised high by his descendants, who guard the waters in his name. Bards sing of his fire-crowned comb, his blade that struck monsters from the deeps, and his vow to never let hunger rule the flock again.
And when the moonlight dances across Lake Eggshell’s surface, some say they still hear his voice carried on the waves:
“For family, for feather, for fish — we prevail!”