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Dahlia is startled by Squawkowk's question. "Oh! Did you intend for me to wear that? I-- well, I have never worn such colorful things in my life, for my sisters usually prefer to be the center of attention more than me, and so such gaily-worn pieces of apparel typically found their way to them in our household. So I had thought it was a sort of totem, or a favor received before a tournament. I would think it would look much more fetching on you! Would you like to try it? I should like very much to see that."
Dahlia is curious about the hedgehog's scarves, and asks him about them while they all prepare. "That is good thinking. Are all hedgehogs as clever as you?" she laughs.
Rowan shares the laugh.
"No! Some are definitely not as smart. Some are smarter. I think it's more about using the talents and skills you have, not worrying about what you don't have."
He holds up the scarf he's just finished untying from his belt. It's white (or at least it was once white) with green stripes. "I got this scarf from a group called the Pintips Enclave. A cranky ol' hedge there taught me my first spell: arcane mark."
Rowan casts the spell and touches his finger to a nearby crate, causing a magical rune to appear that looks like a ten pointed star with a diagonal line across it. This is Rowan's personal rune.
"What about you, Dahlia? Where did you train?"
Dahlia gasps in amazement at the basic cantrip, and applauds excitedly. "I am all wonder and amazement," she says with awe in her voice. "Truly, you understand more than simply how to say large words and what they mean. You have made good use of your time studying! Me, well, I have spent my days at Redwall Abbey studying the Way of Martin the Swordsman," she admits almost shyly, beaming with pride. "He is a distant relative of mine, through my father's line. My fencing-master tells me I am a fair hand with a blade, though I always strive to do better every chance I have to practice."
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Dahlia is startled by Squawkowk's question. "Oh! Did you intend for me to wear that? I-- well, I have never worn such colorful things in my life, for my sisters usually prefer to be the center of attention more than me, and so such gaily-worn pieces of apparel typically found their way to them in our household. So I had thought it was a sort of totem, or a favor received before a tournament. I would think it would look much more fetching on you! Would you like to try it? I should like very much to see that."
“I have a vast multitude at home, my dear, so please don’t fret. Besides, you are a very beautiful lady in your own right.”
"You have studied under Martin? While I'm sure that I'm not anywhere near your equal with the blade, perhaps we could spar a little to pass the time? And maybe you could give me some pointers on how I can improve?"
Dahlia shakes her head. "Martin passed on long ago, before my time. I have seen pictures of Him, and of course my fencing-master relies upon traditional practices that He is said to have perfected. I have seen scrolls that it is said He wrote, describing the Art of the Sword and the Hero's Journey, but these are all kept safely archived beneath the Abbey because they would deteriorate in the open air, and so it is rare that they are made available to petitioners. I believe I am quite fortunate to have gotten a look at them. But I would be happy to show you some of what I have learned, of course!"
Svetlana seems content to continue to listen to the conversation, though she does duck away at one point and return a few minutes later with bread and soup for everyone for dinner. It's simple fare compared to the lavish feast of Redwall, with only water and a light dandelion beer to drink rather than any fine wines or fantastic main courses, but it's nourishing and filling after a long day on the road.
Oleg on the other hand quickly tires of the adventurous sorts exchanging tales of their travels and the legends of Martin the Warrior, and resumes his place on the roof, continuing the repairs he'd been working on when the travelers arrived.
The rest of the day passes without incident, and after making preparations for the morning's expected encounter you are all able to set yourselves up comfortably in the small rooms (or, in Kizzirark's case, moderately large room but small for a badger) set up for guests by your hosts.
Per your plans, Svetlana wakes you about half a bell before dawn to provide a small breakfast so you all don't go into the upcoming confrontation on an empty stomach, while Oleg finishes loading up the "gift wagon" with the last of the expected supplies, an appreciable look of frustrated irritation already on his face. Both are doing a pretty good job of hiding their anticipation of the events to come, which the less generous among you might interpret as uncertainty about the team's plan while others might more kindly presume to mean wariness about the impending violence that will no doubt ensue.
As dawn nears, Svetlana presents Rowan and Tawny with their "bandit" disguises - beat-up, tattered and crudely-stitched tunics and tabards to throw over their armor and equipment to better sell Kizzirark's ruse. Once everyone else is in place, she and Oleg retreat back into their own quarters, and there's the quiet sound of the door being locked and barred.
In the mouse-sized building, Bertram stands by the door, ready to pull it open for the mousemaid Dahlia. He strains to hear the sounds of the approaching intruders through the nearby window. A witness might think his darting head is a sign of nervousness. In truth, he’s vexed with his unseen companions who are bickering over what his strategy should be once the fight begins. He hisses quietly at the unseen presences, ”Do kindly shut up! I’m trying to hear when they come.”
First thing when he wakes up, Rowan prepares his spells in anticipation of today's battle. Beyond donning his bandit disguise, there's not much else he needs to do to prepare. He sits on the back of the wagon and waits.
Not really a lot of prep for Tawny to do. He will grab a spear and make sure that his rapier is mostly hidden since he assumes a bandit is far more likely to use a spear than a rapier
Kizzirark sits alone in his room, taking the time to don his scale armor. He notices it is rusting in a couple places. He'd need to clean it and sand it properly, something he pretends he'll do later.
The badger then checks his daggers and sword, and all three slide out of their sheaths smoothly. Too smoothly, to the point of bringing back memories of time where he had the weapon more out of its sheath than within it.
His hands were shaking, both from fear and anticipation. He reaches for his flask to take a loooong gulp. To this day, all the smart people had yet to come up with a better cure for hangover and lack of courage than some good gulps of more alcohol. Say something about Kizzirark, says he is very diligent in drinking his medicine.
You hear it before you see it - a sort of soft murmur to the southeast that could easily be mistaken for a sudden gust of wind through the trees or a swell of water in a shallow brook, if only it didn't persist for so long. A few moments later it's joined by a hollow crunching, grass and loose earth crunched under hard feet and rough wheels.
With the door to the tradepost left open, the arriving bandits don't even slow down as they approach, and instead simply trundle into the courtyard of the structure with a casual ease that implies they're completely comfortable with the area and expect absolutely no trouble.
Their arrival is heralded with the appearance of a beetle as warned - the creature is actually slightly smaller than Kizzirark, though makes up for it by being significantly stockier and more heavily-armored than the badger, with a purplish-reddish carapace and a pair of massive curving horns sprouting from its head, curved so their tips almost - but not quite - overlap. Strapped around the creature's body are a set of harnesses, attaching it to the wagon it pulls while also preventing it from opening its shell to make use of its wings. The beast is surprisingly docile-looking, for a creature of its size and obvious strength.
Riding atop the beetle's shell, between the straps as they go between its pairs of legs, sits a shaggy, sodden-looking river-rat with small squinting eyes, prominent foreteeth stained a dark orange hue, and wrapped in a tattered, hand-sewn cloak over leather armor stained a similar verdant hue. A longbow rests across his lap and a boxy quiver hangs from his belt, along with a bandolier of knives.
In the wagon behind him - which is about a third full with sacks, small crates, and barrels - are three more equally-drenched-looking river-rats, likewise with shortbows either at hand or stashed in quivers and long knives somewhere visible on their persons, dressed in similar ragged and handworn clothing, though lacking the apparent "leader"s choice in green hue and instead going for more natural browns and greys.
The lead rat tugs on a set of reins with his free hand, bringing the beetle to an obedient stop, and the wagon likewise rumbles to a halt just past the tradepost entrance. His eyes have immediately locked onto the pair huddled around the wagon of Oleg and Svetlana's supplies, and his whiskers twitch with visible annoyance as he chews on a long, ragged nail on his other hand.
"Well, whassis then?" he announces, with a voice that sounds as waterlogged as he looks, spittle flying at the elongated sibilants and the fricatives coming out slobbery and thick. "Yew gots about ten seconds ta shew me yer marks 'erfore I turn yews int' target practice."
Dahlia spends the short time before the bandits arrive praying in her own way, thinking of Martin and focusing her thoughts on the battle that is to come. She hopes that she can live up to his legacy, and imagines that if she comports herself with valor and compassion, Martin's spirit will shine upon her as it is said to have done on others in the past, his voice speaking to her within her heart.
Rowan jumps down from where he was sitting on the wagon, staff in hand. He feigns a confused look on his face and then turns to Tawnystripe. He lifts his upturned claw towards the cat in a universal "Do you know what this is about?" gesture.
Obviously, he's stalling for time so that the river rats don't opt to open fire before more targets, er, his allies reveal themselves.
Sorry, I'm a little confused. The bandits won initiative. I think they have all basically delayed. Is that correct?
Sorry, I'm a little confused. The bandits won initiative. I think they have all basically delayed. Is that correct?
Kizzirark's shaking paws reach its peak when the bandits arrive. He flexes them once and twice, takes another gulp from his flask and then they are steady. He peeks through the gap in the window at the courtyard, waiting for the right moment.