It is a crisp, clear, cool day at the set of winter in Mossflower Wood. The sun rose to greet a brilliant blue sky devoid of all but the most distant of clouds, with a gentle breeze only slightly stirring the trees to announce the oncoming spring.
Yet since well before the dawn - much of the day prior, and even through much of the night - it has been anything but quiet in Redwall Abbey. The people of the old fortress have been hard at work, bustling between this job and that, preparing the abbey for a crowd unlike any that has shared its halls in generations, and a feast to satisfy them all.
Today Redwall hosts visitors from throughout the known lands today, from the high reaches of Marshwood to the swamps and woods of Southsward, from the peaks of Salamandastron to the depths of the old caves, from the windswept Badlands to the mountains of the north to the far reaches of the western sea. Under banner of truce, peace, and welcome never before extended over all of Redwall Country, the gates of the abbey have been opened to any who would come to bear witness to this historic moment.
The lands of Mossflower and the surrounding territories to the north and west are well-known to the peoples of Redwall Abbey and its various extended allies and neighbors. But few have dared travel east, beyond the deepest reaches of Mossflower Wood, to find what lies beyond the forest's darkest groves - the land that, in recent months as the final plans and preparations have come together through the past autumn and winter, has come to be called the Deep Green.
Today begins the end of that mystery. A coalition of allies has chosen to sponsor an exploratory journey east, to travel into the great reaches of the Mossflower Wood and learn what resides there, perhaps even to establish a new domain in that unexplored territory. Legends abound of lost travelers, roguish bandits both vile and heroic, cruel monsters, and dread hauntings, and it will be their duty to discern truth from fiction.
Thus have the residents of Redwall been laboring for anywhere from the past day to the past fortnight, depending on the task placed in their hands, in preparation for today. The cooks have been busy beyond measure, creating among the grandest feasts that have ever graced the tables of the Great Hall. Farmers, hunters, and caretakers have gathered the supplies and resources needed to provide for such a fantastic spread. Woodworkers, fletchers, blacksmiths, tailors, leatherworkers, and craftsmice of countless other sorts have prepared supplies, equipment, and resources for the departing, ensuring they will be sent off with suitable protection - both from the elements and from dangers of the wilds - and armament when the time comes. Apothecaries and herbalists have done the same for their health against the ravages of poison, disease, and infirmity, as best they can, gathering and stockpiling what medicinal materials can be spared both for the intrepid few who will lead the way after today, and those who may eventually follow if indeed the Deep Green is suited for others to call home.
And of course, the warriors and defenders of Redwall have prepared themselves for the possibility that, among the many visitors they will see this day, not all come in peace. Bandits, brigands, and pirates still abound in the lands of Mossflower, as much as all would wish otherwise, and many would see such a gathering of seemingly-ill-defended visitors packed within the abbey's walls as a prime opportunity for foul-gotten gain; likewise an opportunistic owl, eagle, or serpent might well sense this many gathered prey as an easy chance to make one or two stragglers disappear unnoticed. It was the duty of Redwall's defenders to ensure this did not happen, that by neither malice nor by inaction was their promise of peace broken this day.
Thus, if one could name or even think of a person of import in all of Mossflower and the lands that surround it, and if they were even inclined toward the pretense of peace and civility, one would find them present at this great gathering today. All of Redwall of course was present, including its Abbot Dajali, Champion and bearer of the Sword of Martin the Warrior Eleine the Shieldsquirrelmaid, and Badger Mother Ardulia, as well as the sparrow Banchak of the Warbeaks. Sammson, Badger Lord of Salamandastron and elder brother of Ardulia, was present accompanied by several members of the famed Long Patrol hares. A delegation from the Toad Lands, led by Greatwart Olorg. Zjeva the High Seer, from the Gorge of Foxes. The Guosim shrews and their leader Log-a-Log. Kasskit the Egg-Keeper, Great Warrenmother of the Marshwood Lizards. Almost too many sailing captains and famed travelers to count. And more, so many more, too many to name, too many to remember.
It was a miracle Redwall could hold them all. Yet hold them it did, and with room to spare.
New arrivals were met at the gates, where their weapon were taken by a combination of Redwall sentinels, Long Patrollers, and lizard-knights, ensuring that none enter the abbey proper armed with anything beyond tooth and claw, that the peace might be better preserved. Then they are ushered forward through the open lawns and into the Great Hall. Even though no food has yet been served, the mingled scents of the countless dishes in the final stages of preparation or waiting for the moment of the feast to come can already be smelled wafting through the air, tempting and tantalizing the crowds as they mingle and converse, waiting for the events of the day to unfold. Even those with the sharpest of noses can't quite distinguish the individual scents from one another, so blended are they currently, but all are certain that the time is yet short before the feast will begin.
The clatter of the last minutes of labor in the abbey likewise mingles with the susurrus of countless conversations both quiet and aloud as the visitors and residents pass the time within the Great Hall. Eyes dart about here and there, looking for familiar faces, famous names, and most of all curiosity-driven glances toward the fortunate few chosen to take the first steps on behalf of all Mossflower into the Deep Green.
Who are these brave souls? What have they done to earn this privilege - or what crime are they being sent to repay? What skills, friendships, or leverage to they possess that I lack? Are the gazes those of envy? Of fear? Of pride? Of hope? Of trepidation?
All and none and more, it seems, depending on where in the crowd one glances.
Winter falls, spring rises, and today we feast - for tomorrow we tread into the unknown.
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Dahlia trembles with excitement as she waits at the gate with her parents and the collection of gentlemice gathered to greet the new arrivals. She silently marvels at their strange forms of dress and the half-overheard snatches of conversation in their exotic tongues, her mouth involuntarily forming a little 'O' of wonder. With her head bowed in awe, she stares at everything and everyone from the folds of her monk's cowl and listens to the soft and subtle clink of her chain coif as she turns her head this way and that. Then, at the signal, the group makes their way to their place beside one of the long banquet-tables.
Her father, Thaddeus Churchmouse, is given a seat of honor for his family and household, due to his standing in the community. He lounges comfortably as they await the festivities, his half-moon glasses sparkling in the fire-light, snacking on cheese and crackers while they wait for the servers to bring the first course. Dahlia's youngest sisters mill and dance about the room behind them, giggling to themselves and occasionally bursting out with gales of laughter. Mrs. Churchmouse sits opposite Dahlia's father, gossiping with Mrs. Gillyweed about the latest scandal concerning Mr. Titmouse and his second wife, seemingly unaware of the behavior of her husband and four daughters. Dahlia loves her parents, but she worries that the lack of a firm hand in her family's upbringing will bring shame upon their name. She especially fears that young Camellia is becoming the most determined flirtmouse ever to rouge her whiskers. Dahlia stands dutifully behind her father, regretting that she must leave them all for now, and soaking up the comforting warmth of their presence as much as she can.
She looks over at her eldest sister, Lily, who even at this festive occasion has her nose stuck in the pages of a book-- a dreary tome about the history of the abbey's grain production and developments in seed efficiency. She is only a year behind Dahlia, and takes after their mother's coloring and style of dress more than that of their father. Lily is such a serious maid, she thinks, and it will fall to her to watch over Camellia and Poppy when I am gone. She sighs, resolving to tell them she loves them and will miss them as often as she can before the expedition departs. "I love you papa," she murmurs to him, placing her hand on his shoulder, and he smiles absently and clasps it in his. She smiles at her mother when she catches her eye, and mama smiles back.
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Kizzirark Bloodstripe. Bloodstripe? Bloodstripe! Cursed Bloodstripe. Kizzirark. The Worst. Is he back? Bloodstripe? Bloodstripe!
Kizz closes his eyes. He takes a big breath and then a big gulp from his cup. And then another. And another. So thirty years were nothing at all. The freaking place was churning with animals and voices and whispers. Hushing whispers and looks and gestures and fingers.
Why did he return again? Oh, right, the bounty. And he was tired. Too tired of constantly fighting for his life, tired of waking up without knowing he'd be alive by the end of the day. 'Still alive' was both his first and last thought of each day.
"Still alive." Another gulp and his glass was empty. He reaches for the tap besides him and refills, pretty easy. Too easy, considering the many mice fighting to get close to the other barrels, but this one? No one was coming close, as if Kizz had an unbearable stink. A stink of death and blood. "Still alive!" He toasts to no one in particular. And another gulp.
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Sylthara rolls her eyes at all of the pomp and circumstance for their little band's maiden voyage, as it were. She has spent most of the party slinking around the edge's of the party, knowing just how most of the people here would likely treat her anyway.
When her clan had sent her away to be their 'representative' in this little adventuring band, she had known it was an honor. She was the Prophet of Flame, after all! She was here to spread the glory of flame amongst the lands that didn't have the enlightenment she could provide. But these people, all these self-serving cowards hiding behind the walls of the fort? They were so foreign to her, so strange. She had spent all of her life in the muck and mud of the marsh that all of this pretentious ceremony seemed beyond her.
And yet, she still mingled when appropriate, to the right people. They may be foreign, but they certainly weren't useless. More supplies, more help, you never knew what people would be willing to give to appear good in the eyes of others.
She had seen several of the others in their lucky band floating around through the hall before dinner was served, but hadn't spoken to them yet. All of those introductions and pleasantries could be taken care of after the food was served. And holy fire, was she hungry.
Dahlia notes two of the visitors to the great hall that she believes to be members of the expedition, as she saw them when they came through the gate and were welcomed by the abbot. Though she has not been formally introduced to them, she decides to try to make them feel more welcome and taps her father on the shoulder. "Papa," she murmurs in his ear, "I will return before the feast begins." He nods amiably, guessing what she intends to do, and makes a "scurry off with you" gesture with his paw.
She glances toward the badger drinking from a barrel of what she assumed was beer, but could certainly be something stronger. (She knew the apples they grew in the orchards beyond the wall were sometimes used to make a heady drink that her constitution was not strong enough to endure.) Slightly afraid of him, she makes eye contact and then quickly lowers her head. Instead she approaches the lizard-maid near the group of others of her kind, thinking that she would try to exercise her familiarity with their native tongue.
Rowan Brunk rapidly opened and closed his claws, once among many times since he arrived at the Abbey. He didn't know what to do with his claws ever since he handed over his iron-shod quarterstaff upon passing through the abbey doors. Not that he would be twirling it around if he had it, but since he nearly always had to carry it around with his claws, he constantly felt like something was missing without the staff in his grasp.
He has travelled to many different hedgehog communities in the past few years, in order to learn a little bit from each of them, be it magic, the art of war, or any skills of interest that people were willing to teach. So, he's used to knowing someone wherever he travels, but here in these crowded walls, anyone he might know is lost among the sea of faces that he doesn't know, but who seem to know who he is.
He's easily recognizable, what with the many colorful sashes tied in various places over his armor, and of course, his reason for being here has earned him some small measure of notoriety. And though he knows that there are other hedgehogs at the Abby, he doesn't see any of them at the moment.
He needs a drink. He finds a mug and squeezes past a badger to fill his mug and is about to take a drink, when...
"Still alive!" He toasts to no one in particular. And another gulp.
"Sorry, what?"
"Sorry, what?"
"Many are sorry, yes." Kizz growls in response. "Can't say I am." Most of the time.
"It's just an expression. I'm not actually apologizing for anything. What you said just didn't make sense."
Rowan looks the badger over.
"You're the badger representative for the expedition, aren't you? We'll be traveling together. My name is Rowan Brunk."
Rowan reaches up to shake... hands? Claws?
"Wra! You not making sense of my words is different from my words making no sense." Kizz counters. "I say I'm alive and that many are sorry that I am." And another gulp.
His eyes narrow on the hedgehog. So he either did not know or was playing dumb. He reaches to shake his paw.
"I am Kizzirark..." Bravestripe? He could not use that anymore, but for the spirits he'd not use Bloodstripe as well, not if he was being serious in his new path. "... Devorst." Considering all the lies he could tell, this one was pretty close to the truth.
"And I'm a badger, yes, and I'm on this expedition, yes." Another gulp, followed by him cleaning the foam in his fur. "But I'm no represent'tive." He lowers himself so his maw gets closer to Rowan's ear. "They want to get rid o' me."
"Get rid of--
"...get rid of you?! Why? What did y--
"What happened?"
Instead she approaches the lizard-maid near the group of others of her kind, thinking that she would try to exercise her familiarity with their native tongue.
Sylthara stares over at the strange sounding lizard-speaking mouse. It is hard to tell if she is judgmental or impressed until a huge smile spreads across her face, revealing a wide mouth full of sharp teeth.
She extends a sharply clawed and well-muscled hand towards the mouse, in a sign of greeting not malice, before switching to a more common language. "Name's Sylthara Flamescale. Good to officially meet you as well, though I wish it were anywhere but this blasted abbey. I do not care for cramped spaces, nor civilization in general. Once we get out into the field beyond all of the politics of this place, I will feel much much better. I might even be convinced to teach you the finer details of my language, so as to help you not embarrass yourself when it really matters." she says only halg-joking.
I'm SO sorry for posting this late. I hadn't noticed that the gameplay thread had even opened up. Mea Culpa, Mea Maxima Culpa. I promise I will post at least once a day from now on
A strange group approach the abbey. They are a group of rabbits with an unmistakeable family resemblence, led by a partriarch. Must be nearly a dozen of them in total. All are quite obviously dressed in their best and that best, while very clean and well mended, is obviously well worn and been adjusted for size many times. Not too surprising for rabbits, really, since they always have large families and little money.
Within the family, and being obviously treated exactly as one of the family, is a cat both armoured and armed for combat. As they approach the gates he somewhat reluctantly hands over his weapons.
"Hello. I'm Tawnystripe. These are my father Sunstrip Warren and my mother Germaine Warren. I'm going on the expedition and I brought all my family to the banquet. I hope that is ok?"
After all are admitted, the Warren family immediately head over to the banquet tables. Tawnystripe instead heads over to where the musicians are
"Do you mind if I join you. I rarely get to practice with others who are any good. While I love my family dearly, musical aptitude is NOT on their list of skills. Say, do you all know Rappity Tap".
Without waiting for an answer he starts singing Rappity Tap in a fairly loud but quite melodious voice.
A little later, he sees what seems to be an argument break out between a badger, a hedgehog and a lizard. Realizing that these may be his fellow explorers he leaves the musicians and heads over to them
"Hello there. My name is Tawnystripe. Are you also going off on this expedition? I was very proud when the Rabbits chose me as their Rabbit"" he says while munching happily on a carrot
"Get rid of--
"...get rid of you?! Why? What did y--
"What happened?"
"What happens to all us badgers. Bloodwrath. Some are good about controlling it, some are bad." He shrugs, playing the thing down. And another gulp. "I'm prob'bly the worst at it."
Kizzirark then looks around to all the faces pretending not to look at him. Look, and judge, and whisper. Hate and fear. "Ye'll hear plenty o' it, I'm sure ye'll do, and when yer neck barbs get up with what the stories and ye doubt 'em..." Kizz shakes his head. "Ye better believe'em, and in truth they know only half o'it."
Another gulp. "I'm no hero. Far from it."
Tawnystripe suddenly realizes that he has been abandoning his family and heads over there. He is absolutely NOT retreating from the Badger. Honest.
A little later, he sees what seems to be an argument break out between a badger, a hedgehog and a lizard.
"What happens to all us badgers. Bloodwrath. Some are good about controlling it, some are bad." He shrugs, playing the thing down. And another gulp. "I'm prob'bly the worst at it."
Kizzirark then looks around to all the faces pretending not to look at him. Look, and judge, and whisper. Hate and fear. "Ye'll hear plenty o' it, I'm sure ye'll do, and when yer neck barbs get up with what the stories and ye doubt 'em..." Kizz shakes his head. "Ye better believe'em, and in truth they know only half o'it."
Another gulp. "I'm no hero. Far from it."
Rowan blinks at the sudden burst of emotion, and he's silent for a moment as he thinks about how to respond. That's when it registers for him that someone else had come up and addressed them.
Tawnystripe suddenly realizes that he has been abandoning his family and heads over there. He is absolutely NOT retreating from the Badger. Honest.
...and then just as suddenly backs away.
Rowan blinks in confusion, but the distraction is enough to get his thoughts in order. He reaches up and gently grabs hold of Kizzirark's wrist to pause his drinking.
"Listen. You don't need to be a hero. Nobody here is expecting that. This expedition is a job. This ceremony is because the souls here not going east are excited to see what we find. We're not here to rescue anyone, or right any wrongs, or defeat any great villain. We're just going to head east and see what's out there. That's it. And we'll get thanked for doing that.
"And as for your bloodwrath? There's bound to be some creatures that won't be friendly, and so long as you keep your violence directed at them, then we'll all be right glad that you're with us. Yeah?"
The paw on Kizzirark's wrist gives a little tug. "Now, lay off the drink a bit, okay? All we have to do is pay attention when they talk to us before we head out. It won't look good to be too wobbly to do even that."
As the prospective travelers muse and mingle, all notice a slight lull in the surrounding conversation that slowly but steadily spreads across the whole of the Great Hall; discourse drifts and fades, sometimes mid-sentence as the conversation is interrupted by the notice of the spreading silence or the issue that caused it in the first place.
The clatter and clamor of work in the kitchens has come to a halt, and only silence echoes forth.
Moments later, however, the noise is reintroduced with incredible fanfare as the kitchen doors swing open wide and a procession that would give the Long Patrol a run for their acorns issues forth, led by mousemaids and voles clutching pots, pans, platters, and pitchers. Great pallets and small wagons bring larger fare into the Great Hall, hauled by squirrels and moles to the various tables and bearing the main courses.
Almost as one the crowd begins to filter to their seats, little discussion groups bidding their regards and farewells as their participants disperse throughout the Hall to seek out their places as the food is served and set out.
If there's one thing Redwall does well, it's a proper feast.
First out is a series of appetizers, fried greens laden with slivers of crisp mealworm, shellfish, and braised almonds. Mushroom turnovers accompanied by a chestnut and reed stew. A toad specialty, dragonfly wing crisps dipped in a silvery nettle sauce. And of course cheeses in multiple varieties of white, yellow, and red. Lemongrass tea and dandelion ale provided for early drinking - not too strong for either, with the whole feast yet to come.
The first course was soon to follow, with the aroma of loaves of fresh barleybread and milkwort butter making their presence known almost immediately before the meal itself could be seen: mushroom steak, with just enough char on the cap to give a little crunch while leaving the center juicy and tender, with a valley scallion garnish and accompanied by beer-battered escargot and a parsnip-and-patchweed salad with pecan crumble and summerseed dressing.
Once all was delivered, the bustling kitchen crew began to withdraw as agilely and swiftly as they had arrived, sweeping through the crowd, around tables, and over benches and steps back behind those double doors. The head cook, the towering molemaid Sister Dolovi, turned to face the crowd and spread her hands wide in a gesture of amiable greeting. "Oi an me kishen staff be mos' pleased t' sherve 'oo all 'is mos' 'pordent day, an' oi good hopin' 'oo emjoy wot we 'as in store for 'oo all 'et t' come." And with a grand bow, she disappeared back into the kitchens, upon which the ramshackle clatter of Redwallers at work immediately resumed. There woud be more food yet to come.
It did not go unnoticed by almost anyone, but most certainly not by a few certain guests, that a single table remained otherwise unoccupied - a smaller one, barely with room enough for six, with a pair of larger seats provided at either end as if expecting unusual guests. The table was, of course, in a prominent position near the front of the hall, directly in front of the Abbot's seat and its own distinguished table, where all could see.
There was no question who the seats thereon were reserved for, and even as the first round of the feast began to disappear into mouths and down throats, eyes moved toward the clearly-reserved table and to its erstwhile residents.
"Ye seem like a nice fellow, Rowan, but if ye show yer dick to a rabbit and a lizard, ye'll have very different respons's. Both right."
"Animals don't throw out a party this big unless they have high hopes for s'mething. T'is it. Ye can be the heroes who will be thanked if ye return." Kizzirark raises a claw. "If. Not when. If we don't return, they'll be
sad, for sure, but if I do not return, there's at least a silver lining." He shrugs. "Ye are the 'hope for the best' part. I'm the 'plan for Devorst' part."
He says nothing about the bloodwrath comment. He'll listen to the stories and when he does, he'll realise how naive his comment was. Kizz would not be spoiling it for him.
Now, the comment about the booze was just plain fun. "Wra! What!? T'is just the appetizer 'fore the grub. Have ye never seen how much a badger can drink?" He can't help himself from laughing hard and shakes the barrel around, showing it is still pretty much full. "Me? Pers'nally? When this boy is about half full ye can start to worry about me getting a tad wobbly." Kizz takes another gulp. "This ale do taste better than those in the North, but oh boy, it is watery as piss. Kids back there drink stronger stuff! Wra!"
---
When the feast comes, Kizz dives right into it. There are polite ways of doing it, but if animals were interested in those, they'd have to look elsewhere. Too many years in the cold North cause the badger to toss aside pointless things like 'manners' or 'chew your food'. Say one thing about Kizzirark, say he isn't picky, for he eats whatever is within his reach. Greasy food he swallows mostly whole and the rest he takes care to lubricate with enough ale.
Halfway through the feast, tired of moving between his table and the barrel of ale, Kizzirark draws the eyes, the comments, the judgement and the jealousy of others as he drags the whole thing towards the table. Where it should have been in the first place, obviously.
Rowan casually shrugs when Kizzirark insists on drinking heavily. Let him drink his fill now; there likely won't be much opportunity to get drunk after they leave the Abbey.
When the feast is served, Rowan moves with the badger to their table. He'll introduce himself to any of the other members of the expedition who join them.
Later, about halfway through the meal, Rowan will turn to Kizzirark and say, "I don't get your analogy from earlier. About the lizard and the rabbit."
Dahlia bows politely to cover her blush, as Sylthara good-naturedly corrects her Lizard. "I would be very grateful for such instruction," she says carefully.
When it becomes apparent that there is a special place set aside for them, Dahlia looks around at the others, unsure at first if it is for them or for some other important guests. She returns to her family, but her mother and father both shoo her away, encouraging her to take advantage of the great honor that the abbey is according them. She almost sheepishly joins the group at the table, removing her hood to reveal her chain coif (and its little holes for her ears).
"Wow, what an incredible feast. I'm glad that we ALL came" Tawny says to his parents and siblings. "I guess I'm supposed to be over there. See you all later. And don't worry, I'm sure that Badger will be very very nice"
With that he heads over to the table for the guests, casually choosing the seat the furthest from the Badger that he can.
"Hello there. I'm not sure if I've met all of you. I'm Tawnystripe, the representative of the rabbits. Don't let my appearance fool you, I'm really a rabbit at heart. Oooohhhh, carrot sauce to put on the mushroom steak. EXCELLENT!!"
Later, about halfway through the meal, Rowan will turn to Kizzirark and say, "I don't get your analogy from earlier. About the lizard and the rabbit."
"Analogy? I think yer getting too much ahead, friend. I said ye're to show yer dick to a lizard and a rabbit, not to shove it in their butts." Kizz raises his cup nevertheless. "Wra! But I like how you think. That'd be a bold move, for sure, but I'm not sure it would end well for ye."
Kizzirark nods as the others join. He could smell the fear coming from the cat. Shocker. "Kizzirark Devorst."
"I would be very grateful for such instruction,"
"Of course! I am sure we will have much time for me to teach you." she answers genuinely, smiling widely again.
Sylthara stares in amazement at the veritable feast set out in front of both the group and the wider audience in general. She had never seen this much food in one place before; back in the muck and dirt of the marsh she had to fight for every scrap of good food. And here, they just got it served to them? Made her glad she was leaving these pompous fools behind even more.
Yet, that didn't stop her from gorging herself on the mealworms and shellfish from the first course, hoping the second had more meat for the more carnivorous guests. She had always needed less food and water than even other lizards, and had in fact not eaten the past few days on purpose in order to enjoy this food.
She is not a clean eater, her sharp claws cracking open shells and tossing pieces of the remains all over the table. No amount of stares or glares stops her from enjoying the fish and worms, but she does leave room for whatever meat may be brought out later. In between bites, she looks her newfound companions, seeing how they react to the abundance of food.
Rowan returns a wry smile to Kizzirark. ”I think you’re projecting.”
He tries to end that line of conversation by turning to talk to someone else. He nods bellow to Dahlia and introduces himself. He does the same to Tawnystripe and adds, ”I saw you over by the ale barrels earlier. Is it a good story, how you came to be part of the rabbit community?”
Rowan doesn’t react much to Kizzirark and Sylthara’s gusto towards eating. He prides himself in being well-travelled, and even if that has only been here at the Abbey and various hedgehog clans and households, he reminds himself that he’s seen all sorts of local customs.