Goose

Goose had the words for things, knew their form and function -- here, a street, a cobblestone, for ease of carriage wheels.

But a deeper part of him writhed in confusion every time he followed farmer Redding to the busy street markets. Who bowed the mighty mountain, to flatten its stones thus? What secret was whispered to the tree, that it knew to grow its branches into wheels? Why did those horses suffer the reign and bridle and steering lash, where were their swords and polearms and maces? Who the hell was in charge of these marching armies, to whence did they carry their cartloads of supply?

Goose knew he needed coin, so at first resting opportunity did he seek direction to The Crown and Thorn for an opportunity at independence.

Opportunity, not promise. Goose was Goose as long as his nature bade him thus, to bustle and herd and boss whatever creature meek enough to listen, his people of the generously pecking kind. Perhaps the Guard work on offer would be different from the Guard work on the farm, perhaps a different kind of watchkeep from herding, one that Goose could not scowl and bluff and cuss his way through.

Perhaps Guard Work was like Old Work, with armor and blade -- and these words Goose knew too, as abstract concepts that held little keeping in nature. Weapons could be a lot of different things. Even flowers could poison. Even water could drown. Even houses could burn.

your new character is the ally sheedy of your breakfast club cast

and your friend assassinates you by pointing out the rest of them are just different judd nelsons