Enter the Falcon
The Origin of Reginald Featherbottom III
In the summer of 1969, while the world had its eyes glued to the television as humans prepared to walk on the moon, a far more sophisticated mission was underway behind closed aviary doors at Buckingham Palace.
Reginald Featherbottom III was no ordinary falcon. He was a Her Majesty’s Avian Emissary of International Affairs and Light Afternoon Beheadings. With a plummy accent and a monocle too large for his beady eye, Reginald spent most of his days scoffing at pigeons and sipping vintage rainwater from a tiny porcelain teacup marked “RFIII”.
But when he overheard some NASA diplomats bragging at a royal garden party about their upcoming lunar excursion, Reginald simply could not abide the idea that pigeons in America would get bragging rights over anything. So, with the help of a disgruntled Corgi and an experimental Queen-approved jetpack (powered by tea steam and aristocratic disdain), Reginald stowed away on Apollo 11.
He arrived on the moon before the astronauts. Naturally.
There, he established the short-lived but deeply pretentious Lunar Falcon Empire, complete with a throne made from Neil Armstrong’s sock clips and a constitution that banned all pigeons from space (on grounds of "commonness and clumsy cooing").
But his reign was cut short when he strutted too close to a strange crater and, in an explosion of sparkles and tea leaves, was yeeted through a glowing portal...
Reginald Featherbottom III was no ordinary falcon. He was a Her Majesty’s Avian Emissary of International Affairs and Light Afternoon Beheadings. With a plummy accent and a monocle too large for his beady eye, Reginald spent most of his days scoffing at pigeons and sipping vintage rainwater from a tiny porcelain teacup marked “RFIII”.
But when he overheard some NASA diplomats bragging at a royal garden party about their upcoming lunar excursion, Reginald simply could not abide the idea that pigeons in America would get bragging rights over anything. So, with the help of a disgruntled Corgi and an experimental Queen-approved jetpack (powered by tea steam and aristocratic disdain), Reginald stowed away on Apollo 11.
He arrived on the moon before the astronauts. Naturally.
There, he established the short-lived but deeply pretentious Lunar Falcon Empire, complete with a throne made from Neil Armstrong’s sock clips and a constitution that banned all pigeons from space (on grounds of "commonness and clumsy cooing").
But his reign was cut short when he strutted too close to a strange crater and, in an explosion of sparkles and tea leaves, was yeeted through a glowing portal...
When Reginald Featherbottom III was yeeted through the moon crater portal—still mid-rant about “the proper steeping temperature of Earl Grey on lunar surfaces”—he expected to land somewhere sensible. Like a gentlemen’s club in Soho, or perhaps atop the Eiffel Tower.
Instead, he crash-landed in an enchanted glade... full of glowing mushrooms, iridescent mist, and suspiciously handsome Elves with existential baggage.
Claw-deep in moss, monocle askew, he looked up to find a silver-haired Elven warrior staring down at him, one eyebrow perfectly arched.
And just behind him? A purple-furred werewolf holding a brandy glass and a deadpan expression that screamed, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Reginald blinked.
“Oh bloody hell. I’ve stumbled into a Tolkien fanfiction, haven’t I?”
Behind the trees, Percy the Pigeon just snorted and said, “Welcome to the party, Featherbottom. Try not to monologue too hard, the mushrooms bite back.”
