Wormwood has a centuries old tradition of slaughtering Turkey's once a year and eating their remains in a festive and decorative manner. some have rumored this to be called "Thanksgiving" in the outside world. But in Wormwood we call this disgusting little holiday Turkey Death Day and it has just as dark of a history.
It all began with the founding fathers of Wormwood who were believed to have been pirates. They travelled to Wormwood (although no one is quite sure how they arrived on Wormwoods barren shores, as this remains a long speculated mystery to this day) to live out the remainder of their days in peace and quiet after a lifetime of pillaging and pirating across the high seas. When they arrived, they soon realized that they should celebrate said arrival through a rioting good pirate-esque celebration. And what better way to do that by finding and killing local wildlife.
The problem you see, is that this is exactly what the wildlife was thinking when they saw these gangly salty seamen making their way across the Wormwood River and establishing their foul-smelling base camp at the very spot that would later become Wormwood Square.
Wormwood has always, well as far as anyone has ever been told, been a dark and dangerous place, full of mystery, legend, and creepy things that go bump in the woods. And the native inhabitants of Wormwood forest were no different. One particularly nasty local pack of forest roaming meat-eaters was the Worm Turkey. They often roamed in the woods in packs, their clawed scaly legs quickly darting through the woods in search of any prey unfortunate to be out after dark. they had an extremely mischievous glare in their beady little eyes, solid and black like two marbles set deep into the wrinkly sockets of a scaly bald and scabby head. This frightening appearance was only augmented by the greenish-yellow beak that peaked in a cruel curl, ending in a spindly sharp point at it's end. And unique only to the Wormwood Worm turkey was their small, but very sharp rows of serrated teeth that lined the tops and bottoms of their foul facial accessory. The name Worm turkey came to be on account of their ability to squiggle and worm from the hands of any hunter on account of the long, snake-like neck that ended in a squat and rather foul-smelling hodgepodge of mottled feathers and wrinkled fluff. they had a pension for scratching, and so it was not uncommon to see your average Worm turkey with various bald spots spread across their backside and under their small and utterly flightless wings.
It was on a cloudy and overcast November evening that the Pirates of the galleon Bloodroot gathered to celebrate their freedom and future retirement in a blazing bonfire in the forest clearing, just west of the beachfront. Muddy Midge and Sven "the Axe Head" as his shipmates called him had stepped outside the circle of tattered deck chairs and wooden stumps to forage for a bit more wood to place on their ever-growing heat source. As rum was passed around the group, tents were pegged and mead and mutton were shared, Sven and Midge hobbled into the woods just out of sight of the rest of their crew.
As Midge slowly gathered kindling and small scrub from the overgrown tree roots he noticed a rank stench coming from the darkness, just beyond the light of the dancing fire, casting strange and eerie shadows across the twisted bark of the massive forest canopy. As he looked up from his crouched position, his arms full of the dark scratchy branches, he squinted into the darkness and thought, briefly, that he say movement. He watched as the dark shadow seemed to split into three, then four, then more...everywhere! It slithered and waved in the shadows like a strange dance.
"Sven!" he called quietly over his shoulder.
Sven, being a giant of a man, was not prone to fear in the shadows of the night. But he had also been raised on the seas, and so was not entirely familiar with the land, nor comfortable on unexplored shores. He moved slowly closer to Midge, staring at the same ever growing shift in the forest darkness, his axe twisting in his hand nervously. Sven was not called "The Axe Head" for nothing. Not only was his head a peculiarly similar shape to a dull and randomly blemished axe, but he was never without his trusty weapon, a massive norse-looking device he called "Svort"suitable for splitting both enemy ships and limbs in one swift blow. No one aboard the Bloodroot was truly sure what "Svort" meant, or why he chose such a distasteful sounding title for his most familiar companion, but few really wanted to know, nor dared to ask him.
As the two seamen stared into the distance, Sven suddenly swooped his head back as a cloud of splintered wood and tossed sticks flew into the night air from below. He looked down and saw the round shape of his shipmate disappearing into the underbrush, his gathered wood flying in the melee. Midge screamed as the shadows, dark gangly looking birds of a species Sven had never seen wrapped their jagged beaks and twisting necks around the feet of Midge and dragged him out of reach. Quickly Sven grabbed his axe, and put Svort to work on these long spindly heads now attacking from every direction. Swooping and arching in wide motions of skill and brute strength, Sven fell the foul looking birds in single sweeps and before his crew mates could reach the end of the forest he emerged from the darkness, a wide smile across his face and an armful of Worm Turkey's in his massive arms.
They of course honored the loss of Muddy Midge by roasting the foul beasts right there over the fire, and Turkey Death Day was born. Now, Why, you may ask, was it not named Muddy Midge day? A just question, but do remember, pirates were used to living in close quarters, and often it was not uncommon for them to grow quite tired of each other after long months at sea. Unfortunately for Midge, he had become quite 'muddy' (hence his well-suited nickname) from working in the bilges aboard the Bloodroot and he had become severely ripe with the scent of old seawater and dirty bilge water. Few were sad to see him go, but then again, Pirates are not known for their sincerity either. So, because the birds provided such a memorable feast for the crew, it was celebrated each year as an annual holiday. One is encouraged to eat until they are sick, participate in any number of pirate games brought to the shores of Wormwood, such as Pirate Dice, Pirate Checkers, or even Pirate Poker, and lounge, cavort, lollygag and idle away the afternoon with loved ones and close relatives in as Piraty of a way as possible.
Happy Turkey Death Day, and may your heart be as full as your belly.
Reporting from deep below Wormwood Square,
Inkly Tolew the Third Esq.
Manager, Operator, Owner
Wormwood Valley Information Operations Publication
