Ewegene, a plump sheep with a perpetual smile, orchestrates the chaos, her wool suspiciously spotless. Lambchop, the smallest of the flock, darts between legs, tossing seaweed with unnerving enthusiasm. Old Ramsey, ancient and stoic, inspects the simmering pot with a chef’s scrutiny. The flock moves in an odd choreography, never missing a beat, as if rehearsed for weeks.
Viktor[/@ch_4], rugged and cocky; Moira, sly and skeptical; and Pip, naive and hungry—stride into the farmyard, sniffing the air. The sheep freeze for a split second, then burst into welcoming applause.]
"Welcome, friends! You’re just in time for the feast,"
"Well, aren’t you all just... accommodating,"
"Would you care for an herbal rinse before dinner?"
"A what now?"
"Just a little tradition of ours. It really brings out the flavor—of the evening!"
The wolves exchange uncertain glances as the sheep bustle around them, ushering them to a makeshift “spa” area adorned with garlands and ominous-looking basins.
"We believe in making our guests as comfortable as possible,"
"You sheep sure go all out,"
"It’s not every day we have such... distinguished company,"
"What’s in that pot, anyway?"
"Oh, a bit of everything. The secret is in the seasoning,"
The sheep’s cheer grows more unsettling as they tie bibs around the wolves’ necks and sharpen butter knives with clinical precision.
"Smells... stronger than I expected,"
"Are those oyster shells or... bones?"
"All part of the authentic experience! You must be starving,"
"Maybe just a little taste first?"
The sheep herd the wolves toward the table with gentle but unyielding hooves, their eyes glinting in the firelight. A sudden silence falls, broken only by the sinister bubbling of the pot.
"To new friends, and fresh beginnings,"
"Don’t worry, you’ll get what's coming to you,"
"Wait. Why are we the only ones without food?"
The sheep erupt in laughter—too loud, too rehearsed. The wolves stiffen, eyes darting for exits as the sheep gently but firmly block every path.
"Isn’t it delicious, how the tables can turn?"
"You... You’re not really going to—"
"It’s all a matter of perspective, dear. Some feasts are just... more memorable than others,"
As the camera pulls back, the laughter and chewing blur into a grotesque symphony. In the final moment, Lambchop slips a claw from his fleece, winking at the camera—suggesting the cycle of predator and prey might not be as straightforward as anyone thinks.
