Redwall Story Unfinished, Part 1
The Redwall book series is soley responsible for Rook and my inclusion in the fur fandom. I used to roleplay as Rook's earliest iteration on message boards dedicated to the series. These collaborations are, in part, why I want to write. The character Glennoar was one that Rook interacted with quite a bit and, fortunately, her player and I have remained close friends. When the community disbanded, I stopped writing stories about the people I knew and the characters I loved. This is a story I started to try and regain some of how those days made me feel and, possibly, tie up a few loose ends between dormant threads. I hope you enjoy.
Glennoar first noticed it as night became early day, the soft morning light revealing the wide expanse of Mossflower woods against a backdrop of ominous looking grey clouds. Several miles from the ridge where she camped, thick smoke curled out of the forest canopy, appearing as a single strand of black thread against the dappled green horizon. At once she could smell it on the gentle breeze, the acrid aroma tickling her nostrils and instilling in her an immediate pang of anxiety."No fires should be burnin' out 'ere. Not this early in tha' year." she said through a dry throat, eyes fixed on the distant anomaly. Only a week or so removed from winter's final frost, the woods were abandoned so that barely a bird could be seen so soon after the melting of the snow. Moreso, whatever was burning out there was too large to be a campfire. Was it a bonfire, maybe? The otter immediately dismissed that idea as unlikely. This blaze was larger still; its mere presence in Mossflower was ominous and it made Glennoar uneasy. She watched the sky for a little while longer and then turned with a disdainful snort."Bah. It ain't my problem."Returning to her makeshift camp, she sat by the edge of her own small fire and poked a stick into the embers, kicking up a few bits of smoldering white ash. Turning a charred log to expose more glowing coals, Glennoar set about retrieving breakfast from her tattered haversack. It consisted of little more than a few stale scones wrapped in beech tree leaves and a flagon of cherry cordial. Placing the scones on the warm rocks wreathing her fire pit, she crossed her arms over her knees and hugged herself, staring into the cinders. Despite her best efforts to ignore it, what the otter had seen still troubled her. The smoke and the implications that came along with it could not be so easily dismissed; worry was gnawing at her gut and dissolving her appetite. With worry came reflection on what had brought her to this point.Overlooking the forest in the later spring and early summer months it was not uncommon to see faraway points of faint light twinkle from under the forest canopy as cooking fires illuminated the woods. These were tended by beasts venturing home from the southernmost lands, the tribes of Mossflower that outlasted winter's snow by settling along the coast where the climate was mild. She had sweet memories of these annual pilgrimages, memories of warming her paws in comfort while sweet smelling cedar and pine needles crackled in the fires her family built to cook their food and give light to their laughter. As night encroached on them and the merriment finally died down, she'd curl her body close to the waning flames, close her eyes and breathe in the cool air of the night before passing into dreams with the deepest sense of security she'd known before or since. This was their ritual and it came without fail every spring.Every spring before Karra...Before the entire world
caved in...Thoughts of her sister came unbidden, flooding her eyes with hot tears. She wiped them away on her sleeve, swallowing the mass that had formed in her throat as she picked one of the scones and turned it over. Any hunger she'd previously felt was gone. Still, she forced herself to eat, fingering the stale bread without much interest and flicking little bits of it onto the grass.Dearest Karra...The spring that her sister died was the coldest and most miserable that any beast could remember. It had also been Glennoar's last with her family. She stole away from them under the cover of night and made her way due north in search of solace but finding only grief and isolation. She journeyed through the spring and on into late summer, never spending more than a few days in any one place as she trekked towards the barren plains of the northern coast. The beast that arrived at Ruddler that autumn nameday was not the beast that had left the warm southern sands. Mourning had hardened her heart.Through the seasons, a series of contacts she maintained on her travels kept her abreast as to the movements of her kin. They'd continued to make the trip as always, moving amongst several larger groups for security. With time however, these migrations became less and less frequent as the seaboard forts started to fall into disuse and the vermin hordes they been established to keep at bay grew bolder. Each passing year saw their nefarious ranks push further inland from the coasts, the old warriors they'd once feared passing away into legend. So many of those now remembered in story and song had once been friends to her. The thought made her bitterly cold and she drew her cloak about her shoulders before turning another one of the scones. Pensively she ate, brooding as she turned to look over her shoulder, out over the sun-spotted expanse of deep green forest. In the sky, crepuscular rays broke through the clouds at random and were swallowed whole again as grey thunderheads approached from the east. The smoke was still rising, still beckoning her."...damn...ye' ain't going ta' let it go, are ye', gel?"Try as she might, she knew she'd never shake the feeling of obligation if she didn't investigate, even if it meant certain trouble. Trouble had a way of finding her. She'd carried its curse since that fateful night like some might an heirloom, guiding herself through troubled waters while imperceptibly burdened. The thought made her grimace ruefully as she gathered the rest of the scones to put in her haversack. She pocketed her flagon after taking a sip of the sweet cordial and retrieved her trident from where it rested nearby. Using its prongs to shovel dirt and grass into her fire pit, she began plotting her course.Trekking back into Mossflower would take her a good portion of the day; the path off the ridge and back into the forest would cost her a couple of hours alone. She expected the rains
to start by then. If she could make it into the canopy before the storm, she should arrive before nightfall. A rumble of thunder sounded high above. A brisk wind rose up, pulling at the cloak around her shoulders; it shook the leaves in the trees until the sound resembled a chorus of whispering voices, all hissing at once. As she shouldered her belongings, Glennoar looked out across the vast forest once more, eyes fixed again on that menacing black thread. Her jaw clenched and she wheeled around, darting into the dark woods with the hood of her cloak pulled up over her ears.~Several miles away, a pair of figures camped in a clearing on the banks of the river Moss. The larger of the two crouched at the water's edge, dipping his paws into the fast moving current and splashing the cool water across his face. He was a broad shouldered otter with a frightening collection of scars; they formed a silver and white lattice pattern that clustered across the mottled fur on his back and shoulders, traveled down his arms and spread out over his chest and stomach. Three long scratches cut a swathe into the fur of his right cheek, the result of an encounter with a wildcat. Part of his left ear was missing and a grayish cloud was starting to form in his left eye where he'd previously caught the butt end of an axe handle. Daunting appearance aside, he spoke softly when addressing his companion, a salt and pepper speckled hare reclining a few feet away with his back resting against the trunk of a large evergreen."You're not going to have much luck dreaming up some vittles, old friend. Get up and help me hunt down some food. We're running low here."The hare grumbled but didn't wake, his face partially obscured by the bycocket hat that sat perkily between his drooping ears. All that was visible of him were the long grey whiskers which curled into a handlebar from under the hat's pointed brim. He smacked his lips once and resumed snoring soundly. Chagrined, the otter walked back from the muddy riverbank and gathered a faded red tunic off a low hanging branch to slip on. Over it, he threw a tattered navy cloak across his shoulders and polished the faded clasp with his thumb before securing it about his neck. He'd once worn his cloak as an officer in the northlands. The silver grip still bore his name, Rook Scarbin, and the insignia of a captain."Merrick! Rouse yourself and dig through our packs. I'm starving over here, mate!"The hare stirred and turned over with a grunt, showing his backside. Rook groused. "Oh? So that's how it's going to be, eh? I'll fix you good..." Plucking a few leaves of grass from the murky sludge collecting at the riverbank, he snuck over and crouched beside his cohort with a snicker, brushing the muddy stems beneath Merrick's nose. The hare cracked an eye open, then shot up with a yelp when he realized what was happening. Furiously, he tried to rub the greasy muck from his nose and upper
lip."Rook?! Y'e ugly, river-swillin', bottom-feedin', no good four-flushin' waterdog! I'm gonna' box yer' ears fer that!""You'll box nothing, cottontail." The otter shot back as he pulled Merrick's haversack over and started to rifle through it. "You should have gotten up when I told you to.""Yer' not gonna' find no vittles in there." Kicking a pebble dejectedly, the hare trudged over to snatch his pack from Rook's paws. He turned it upside down and all manner of things tumbled out: a soup ladle, parchments, a sketchbook, a sauce pan, an embroidered cushion, a change of clothes and a tin of boot polish but nothing remotely resembling food."All dried up 'ere, mate. How bouts on yer' end?"Rook pulled his satchel up onto his lap and opened it. He felt around inside, brushing aside his meager possessions until he located a pewter flask tucked near the bottom. He held it up to his ear and gave it shake, then tossed it back to Merrick."Shrimp 'n hot root soup. Not much of a breakfast, but it's all I've got. Go easy on it." Merrick snorted indignantly as he uncapped the flask and took a swig of the thick, spicy broth."Yer' one ta' talk there, mate. Don't'cha know us hares are the finest grubbers in tha' land? There ain't nothin' from either pan 'er pot we can't handle! Why tha' feasts ah've seen would've... would've..."Rook turned, expecting his friend to finish the sentence. He never did though. Instead, Merrick had shifted back towards the river. His ears were erect, his nose aimed skyward. A queer look had come over his face. It wasn't often Merrick's concentration was broken, especially in the middle of a rant. The garrulous creature could prattle on for hours about nothing at all and little else but food could bring him about. Something had grabbed him though, grabbed him and shaken him in a way that Rook had never seen before. It frightened him a little and he rose to touch his friend on the shoulder."Merrick. What's going on? What have you got, eh?""Fire. A big'un too. 'Tis off a ways but somethin' large is burnin' out there.Once a fearsome fighter, age had crept up on the hare, graying his fur and leaving him slow and arthritic. Though not as spry as he'd once been, his senses were as sharp as ever. He was quiet for what seemed like an eternity, eyes squeezed shut and brow ridges knitted together. When he finally spoke, his tone had changed to one of grave seriousness. "Damn mah' seasons. C'mon now. Pack yer' junk. We've gots' ta move.""Move? Move where?""West. Whatevah's burnin', it's due West of us." He pushed past the otter and started to repack his haversack. Rook followed, rubbing his palms down the front of his tunic. They'd started to perspire."Mate, you've got me pretty bothered here. What kind of trouble are we looking at?"Merrick grunted. He swept his haversack onto his shoulders and retrieved a
long ash stave from where it rested near the tree he'd been sleeping against. Rook followed suit, gathering the few item strewn about their camp that hadn't already been packed. Merrick took one last swig of soup from the flask before dropping it in his friend's paws. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve as he turned towards the imposing line of trees ahead."Polish that off, rudderbutt. Ye' likely won't be getting' vittles fer some time now."The flask was already empty. Rook shook his head with a dubious chuckle and pocketed it, joining his cohort at the forest's edge."You still haven't answered my question.""It's hard ta' know." Merrick snorted. "Ah'll tell ya' this much though: 'fer somethin' so large ta' be burnin' that it would carry this far, this early in tha' season? No. Ah' ain't ever heard o' such a thing before."He was right, of course. Even left unsaid, Rook knew it. Though younger than Merrick by a good bit, he was familiar enough with Mossflower and the patterns of its inhabitants to realize that. All at once, he felt their prospects go bleak, a numbness absorbing his gut. Almost reflexively, he crossed his paws behind his back and touched his weapons, a pair of long-handled daggers cross belted at his waist. Merrick took note and clapped the otter hard on the back."Ye' ready?"Hoping to inject a little levity into the situation, Rook scoffed and gave his friend a playful shove. "Think you'll be able to keep up this time, graybeard?""Ha! Just keep that thick rudder outta' ma' way!"With that the pair was off, navigating the gnarled undergrowth and dodging through the woods as fast as their paws could carry them. Ahead the sky was blackened and at random intervals the clouds were split by cracks of menacing thunder. Neither beast could have known of the true storm that was bearing down on them.~It was late afternoon by the time Glennoar approached her destination. The gathering thunderheads had overtaken her a little before midday, bringing with them a steady, soaking rain. Though it continued to fall as evening approached, she kept a brisk pace, shuffling through thickets, over deadfalls and between brambles. Her clothes were sopping wet and a thin layer of mud dripped off the cape of her cloak. Water and grime had soaked through the seams of her boots and they squished miserably with every step. High above, the impenetrable cloud cover had turned the world the color of cold skin and wild shadows seemed to run in step with her, as if in pursuit. Abruptly, the terrain began to change, inclining at a steep angle and forcing her to drop to her forepaws and crawl. When she was halfway up the slope a strong wind picked up, spinning wet leaves around her in a tight, gusty spiral. As they tore by, Glennoar felt herself begin to slip back and scrambled to keep her footing, digging the toes of her boots into the soil as her fingers raked the loose, wet grass. It was
no use. She couldn't hold her footing, the saturated ground beneath her giving way and sending her sliding back in the muck. She would have rolled to the bottom of the hill too had it not been for a sapling in the way. As she passed it, the otter managed to twist to her back and grab hold of the infant tree, stopping her descent. The storm seemed to howl with laughter at her plight, as though the elements themselves were conspiring against her. This notion only fueled her temper. Turning over, she cursed and screamed and punched at the ground, clawing ferociously until she finally crested the hill and collapsed under a cluster of tightly grouped pines. Exhausted, the otter lay there for a very long time, unable to bring herself to move but blessedly secluded from the tempest.When at last she could persuade her body to cooperate, night had completely overtaken the land. The skies had since cleared and a large, white moon was climbing in the sky, bathing the forest in an ethereal glow. It shone bright enough for her to see beyond her enclosure, revealing a scene that horrified her: the grove of trees she'd been sheltered by bordered an oval-shaped clearing in the woods, roughly a hundred yards from end to end and almost fifty yards across at its widest point. It was not a natural clearing either. A winding dirt path led in from the forest and bisected the site almost perfectly down the center. The entire oval had been logged out but abandoned seasons ago. Rotted stumps like gravestones dotted the field, jutting up through ankle high grasses. About half of them had been pulled up by their roots and piled on one side of the path. In the moonlight they appeared as a twisted, otherworldly gargantuan. Further up the path, a trio of ornate wagons had been pushed into a circle and lit ablaze with kerosene. They'd been smoldering in the rain for hours and were now little more than ashen wreckage dotted with glowing embers. Glennoar had found the source of her smoke.Unloading her belongings, she hid them in the pines and took up her trident before darting into the high grass. She kept low, eyes keening about as she crossed the field towards the wrecked caravan, the stench of kerosene growing overwhelming the closer she came. Twenty yards from the path she froze, slipping quickly to her knees. Her eyes trained on a formless bundle of cloth that had been piled a few feet behind the still torrid debris. The mass was cast in shadow and had no real discernible shape, but nevertheless her heart began to beat like a drum in her ears as she started to slowly circle and approach. As she passed the wagons, the otter cast a glance at their sad remains. Even burnt, she could see they had been beautiful once, lovingly carved with care and reverence for the craft; those intricate little flourishes were still visible in the wood that now resembled stacks of scorched paper. A tide of grief rose to her cheeks which were already flush with heat from the
embers that popped and hissed as she approached the indefinite shape, brandishing the tip of her weapon. The moon was at her back now, concealing the bundle in shadow as she crossed in front of it. In the darkness, a glint of something metallic caught her eye. All at once she froze, her mouth going as dry as the wind in the desert. Extending her trident cautiously, she dug the fore blade into the pile and pushed. The mound shifted, dislodging a lifeless figure that tumbled to her feet. Glennoar leapt back, her knees buckling beneath her in shock. A horrified scream rose in her throat and she had to clamp a paw over her mouth to stifle it. As the body came to rest in the dirt, it almost seemed to reach for her. A silver pendant, stained with blood, dropped from between its fingers, its glassy eyes fixed on the otter in an unwavering stare. "Seasons..." Her voice trembled as the word passed her tongue. She felt weak all over, her mind in a haze as she tried to process the scene. It was worse than she could have ever imagined. Bracing herself with her trident, Glennoar forced herself upright, trying desperately to get her bearings about her. The corpse continued to leer at her and she felt her stomach turn.Suddenly, her ears pricked up, the sound of footfalls approaching at a dead run jerking her from her stupor. She spun around and caught a brief glimpse of tattered cloth and the telltale gleam of steel being thrust towards her throat. Instinctively, she struck out with the handle of her trident, deflecting a powerful knife strike. The force of the blow set her back on her heels, her attacker coming again, striking out to try and knock her off her feet. Frantically, she parried and backed away, snarling a threat."Yer' testing an innocent beast! Back off or I'll tickle yer' gizzard."She leveled her weapon at the shape and set her feet apart, watching her enemy as he slowly stalked her. Very little of the hooded stranger was visible beyond cloak and shadow, though she could clearly see the knife in his paw, menacing her. He came again quickly, stabbing for her neck with a straight thrust, forcing her to duck away. She reeled back from him and desperately slashed at his legs with a wide swipe across her body, the prongs of her trident raking the grass like a scythe. The attacker was unfazed in his pursuit. He side-stepped and grabbed for her, giving Glennoar a glimpse of an arm replete with silvery scars...Scars...?She felt his fingers brush the cowl at her neck and rush of cold panic went racing into her veins; for a split second she was surely dead. Experience had taught Glennoar that spacing was her greatest ally in a fight. With time and a little good fortune, she'd become very good at keeping enemies where she could deal with them. This foe was different. This foe knew how to close gaps. Worse still, he was quick. He'd tighten his grip down on her cape, jerk her close and stick that knife
between her ribs...But he didn't. A hairsbreadth more, maybe, and that would have been it. Instead, her assailant brushed past her, momentum carrying him a good half dozen steps and giving Glennoar a welcome respite. Relief turned to determination instantly. She would not be slain in this field. Turning her pronged weapon in her paws, she began slapping at the knife in the hope of knocking it away, alternately dashing back to keep a little distance between herself and that vicious blade. The tactic started to wear on her enemy, his frustration aimed pointedly at her in a voice that seethed with anger. "All vermin plead innocence before death. By my blades, you'll pay for what you've done here!"That voice...Where have I heard that voice...?The cloaked figure drew a second, identical blade, turning both daggers deftly in his scarred paws as he circled and began to search for an opening in her defense.He fights with twin daggers... Those scars... Could it really be...?She had precious little time to contemplate. He came again, recklessly slashing, only this time she was ready for the assault. Ducking back to avoid his cutting strikes, she turned her trident and planted the prongs deep in the dirt, vaulting herself up. Violently she kicked out and caught him charging into her heel. This knocked him back a few paces and she closed on him before he could recover, throwing an open palm up under his chin. The blow crumpled him, the hood that concealed his face thrown off as he wheeled back into the grass and lay dazed. Instantly she recognized her foe, at once both relieved and furious."Rook! Ye' stupid blighter! It's Glenny! C'mon, don't 'ye' recognize me? Ye' were trying ta' kill me! Wake up! C'mon, I didn't hit ye' that hard!"She jumped on his chest and started lightly smacking his cheeks. When he didn't come around, she belted him one with the back of her paw and grabbed him by the lapels, shaking the scarred otter."Tis ah' 'ell of ah way ta' wake ah' creature up, missy. How 'bout ye' quit smackin' 'im 'round now, aye?"If the cool tone of voice coming from behind her wasn't motivation enough, the tap of a stave against the back of her neck certainly got Glennoar's attention. Paws held out, she rose slowly and turned, coming face to face with a grey-whiskered hare, long in the tooth but steely-eyed and calm."Rook? Ye' alright der', mate?"The otter gurgled and tried to push himself up, still stunned. Kneeling beside him, the hare produced small glass vial filled with a colorless liquid. Uncorking it with his thumb, he waved it under Rook's nose a few times, still pointing the stave at Glennoar."Takes yer'self ah' wiff o' dis, mate."She couldn't see what was in the ampule, but whatever Rook's mustachioed companion gave him did the trick. A few deep breaths were all it took. With a yelp he was up, hopping about
in a circle and feverishly rubbing at his nose."Ginger root?! Merrick! You grass-heeled slime-scraper! You know I hate the smell of ginger root!"Merrick shot him a glare and turned his attention back to Glennoar, threatening her with the end of his stave. "Got ye' up off'a yer' back right quick, aye? Get yer'self ta'gether 'n start explaining' 'how dis' un knows yer' name..."~A damp chill had settled over the clearing by the time the trio had settled down. A small fire burned between them, culled from a bevy of sticks and leaves gathered at the forest's edge. Merrick and Rook sat on one side, Glennoar on the other; the hare was picking at his teeth with a long blade of grass and spitting into the flames. Every so often he'd glance over at Rook. The otter was still nursing his sore jaw and looking decidedly sullen. Glennoar offered him little in terms of an apology as she turned a single scone in her paws and pushed divots into its stale surface with her index finger. Nobody spoke. All three were doing their best to process the atrocity they'd converged upon.There were four dead: a female squirrel, a male mole, and two mice, a couple. Their throats had been slit and their bodies piled atop one another like refuse. This likely happened after the wagons had been circled and lit ablaze. Their clothes and fur were lightly scorched. Rook had been tasked with arranging the four respectfully, he being the strongest. He'd protested some but Merrick would hear none of it, giving the otter an unsympathetic earful. While the two went about their somber task, Glennoar wandered the border of the field and absentmindedly collected tinder, unable to bring herself to assist them. As Rook placed the bodies in a row, Merrick inspected each one judiciously. It was the squirrel who had fought the hardest. She was the only one with defensive wounds. It was also she who had been holding the jewelry that caught Glennoar's attention. Surreptitiously, the old hare had gathered it from the dirt and slipped into his pocket. Now, by the light of the fire, he held it aloft by its hoary chain where it dangled and danced, reflecting the flames."Do you think it belonged to her?" Rook asked, inching over for a closer look. Merrick shook his head, a discernible weariness in his voice."Nah' mate. She pulled dis' from tha' neck o' tha' beast that was slicin' 'er up. See? Tha' string 'as been snapped."The mental image of what Merrick was describing came uninvited to Glennoar's mind. She'd looked into the squirrel's face, seen herself reflected back in those glassy eyes made dark at the hand of a coward. What had those eyes seen before all became nothing? What agonies had been experienced? A mix of sadness and anger began welling up in her again, a fusion so potent that she felt as though she might explode like a cork out of a bottle. Sensing the black turn she was taking, Merrick passed the pendant off to
Rook and excused himself from the pair. As he wandered away with the firelight at his back, it was almost as if the hare were passing through a curtain; at once the night came, absorbing him so absolutely that even the sound of his steps seemed a lifetime away. The moon was gone. The clouds had returned. Rook and Glennoar were alone. Beyond the glow of the camp, they seemed as if stranded on an oasis in a vast, imperceptible void.A long period of silence passed between, punctuated occasionally the fire's muted crackle. Rook fed the flames a few more thin sticks and watched as they licked hungrily at the new fuel."Its been a long time, hasn't it?""A-aye..."Her voice trembled involuntarily when she spoke and she hugged herself hard, eyes turned down but not fixed on any one point. The shock of their encounter and just how close they'd come to mistakenly killing one another was wearing off, though slowly. She still felt thoroughly worn. The adrenaline rush and subsequent descent from that heightened state had been akin to stepping off a ledge. At one time in her life, exertion on that scale had been normal for her. That had been seasons ago though, and Glennoar's body hadn't been pushed in such a manner since their seafaring days together. As a consequence, her limbs ached and it almost hurt for her to breathe, much less converse. Rook, for all his merits, couldn't take a hint."I'm sorry for coming on like I did. It's been so long since we've seen one another, I didn't recognize you. That and your sudden preference for earth tones..."The mud and grass from the slope had accumulated across her front, covering her like a breastplate. The fur across her arms and legs was tufted and wild, speckled with drying dirt while her face was mottled by grime. Halfheartedly, she tried to brush away some of the mess. Sympathetic, Rook offered his flask. He'd washed the last of the hot root broth from it. It sloshed with rain water now, only about a quarter full."N'thanks. Ah'll find me a stream in the' morning. Should yer' hare be wandering away from the fire like that? We dun' know what's out there..."Rook tried to smile but the ache in his jaw made it more of a wince. "Don't worry about Merrick. He's gotten on in years, but he can still handle himself pretty well.""Sorry about the crack in yer' mouth." She rubbed the back of her neck and cast a miserable glance towards the fire. "Ah' thought ye' were going to kill me."The scarred otter bit his lower lip, embarrassed. "I could've, you know? All things considered, it could've been a lot worse. Please, think nothing of it. If you can't tell, I've been through worse." As if to make his point, Rook held his arms aloft, scars of varying length and severity on full display."Aye. Seems ye' have been since...since..." Glennoar was immediately struck by the reality of how many seasons had passed since their days
together. A part of her still couldn't accept it, much less that kismet had set them on intersecting paths. Prior to today, she'd thought him dead."...Yeah, a long time ago. This is rough country now. Not very forgiving to the traveling sort.""Not that ye' were very pretty lookin' ta' begin with."He grinned. "I've only gotten prettier!"This remark cracked her sullen veneer and Glennoar couldn't help but chuckle. It reminded her wistfully of the sense of admiration she'd once felt for him, a rare precedent for her so prone to misgivings about others. Glennoar was never the type to take pride in her associations. With him though, she chalked it up to the mutual respect they'd shared. He was a member of the officer corps and a ship's captain - her captain - and carried himself in such a way that she felt he could be trusted (another lapse of her character). Despite that, they'd never really extended themselves beyond a quaint, almost comical professionalism. Rook always seemed at arm's length, never betraying the image of authority to the cadets under his command except for an occasional peek behind the veil when his cheekiness would get the better of him. Of that, age had changed his good humor very little. Gradually, the calm of night and his company began to reveal the seams in her melancholy, relaxing the otter into conversation."So what do ya' think 'appened here..?""Slavers possibly, though I've never heard of slavers venturing this far inland." Rook rubbed his chin and turned away from the fire, casting his eyes to the silhouette thrown by the still smoldering caravan. "They appear to have belonged to a traveling troupe. I've seen such wagons before. They belong to woodlanders living as nomads, moving with the seasons and entertaining as they go: strong beasts, acrobats, seers and the like, harmless creatures one and all. Some venture to Southsward in the winter and return with the sparrows. Others winter east of here at Redwall Abbey..."Glennoar broke in sounding intrigued, if slightly puzzled. She'd never heard the words spoken. "Redwall... Abbey?""Mhm. It's a great sandstone structure built as a haven in the middle of Mossflower, as red in color as the name would suggest.""...Ye've been there, 'ave ye?""I have. Where do you think Merrick came from?""Couldn't say. Ye' seem to have been with him fer' some time."Rook nodded and reclined in the grass, folding his arms behind his head. "About three seasons now. After Ruddler was shuttered, I became nomadic and spent a great deal of time on the southern coasts, searching for any remnants of my clan. I was hoping I'd find something remaining there, anything that could clue me in as to what became of them. I didn't find much..." The admission was stinging. He paused and took in a deep, resigned breath. Glennoar strained forward to see if he would continue speaking, which he did, though
the land known as Southsward wasn't mentioned again that night."... From there I started towards the east. I moved quite a bit, trading work and protection for shelter and food. I never did allow myself to linger too long in one place though, y'know? There were a few times I left in the dead of night, without a word to anybeast. I just never felt like I was home..."Glennoar was struck by how much his experience mirrored her own. What he described was a sentiment she could more than relate to; it had been almost her entire existence up to this point. Those feelings brought out the worst in her. To avoid having him elaborate further, she gently steered her friend off the subject by pressing for more information about the abbey, betraying her true interest in the place. Rook was momentarily nonplussed."Really? What would you like to know?""Anything 'ye can tell me."The grizzled otter rubbed his chin, his brow knitting into ridges. His experience with Redwall had been a fairly benign one, especially considering the abbey's rich, sometimes bloodied history; he'd arrived in early winter several seasons back and the good beasts of the abbey had welcomed him generously, allowing him the chance to make a home for himself within their walls. He'd stayed on through the spring and summer months, content to laze away the days before departing in the autumn with Merrick in tow. Beyond that farewell, he'd not given the place much thought until now. Visibly unsure of where to begin, he stammered for a moment and gave Glennoar a beseeching glance. She would not be discouraged."Aw c'mon, ye' have ta' remember something! Can't ye' even tell me what tha' place looked like?"Rook popped up, his eyes alight with sudden inspiration. "Looked like? Of course I can tell you what it looked like! I thought you wanted a story."Exasperated, Glennoar turned over and pitched a stick in his direction, which he caught deftly and used to stoke the fire before beginning to speak. She expected him to talk for a few minutes. Instead, Rook went on for the better part of an hour. He started at a snail's pace, piecing together his recollections about the outlying country as though he were constructing a puzzle that had been scattered across the floor. He described a long, winding path that eased through Mossflower and past the towering gates like a lazy serpent. From that road, the abbey's fabled bell tower was visible over the trees for some distance before the forest gave way to reveal high walled ramparts. The more he depicted, the easier it seemed to come to him. Settling back, Glennoar shut her eyes and absorbed the imagery like a sponge as the sound of his voice took her inside those walls. She could picture the lawns and the orchards, visualize herself standing at the foot of the abbey pond, its translucent blue surface mirror-like and unbroken even as a gentle breeze blew past. All around her, the sounds of
activity both on the grounds and inside the abbey itself culminated into a pleasant chatter of indistinct voices, laughter, and the pattering of paws. The scene changed rapidly and she was at once whisked away through bowels of the building to a seat in the abbey's Great Hall. Before her eyes stretched a column of banquet tables, each one as long as a shrew's raft and as wide across as the punt poles used to steer it. The air around her was awash in good smells that wafted in through a wide door that opened into bustling kitchen, some so vibrant that her mouth began to water.From the raucous feasts, Rook turned his attention to Cavern Hole, gesturing wide with his arms as he invoked the cozy retreat hidden beneath the hall; highlighted by a massive fireplace that crackled cheerily during the coldest winter nights, Rook admitted to spending much of his time in that place, its warmth a comfort to him. She too felt strangely calmed in that moment, though this was not all due to Rook's recollection of Cavern Hole. Between descriptions of bountiful name days and warm nights by a secluded fire, he'd briefly recounted his admiration for a tapestry that hung inside the main entrance to Great Hall. It was the first thing to greet visitors walking through the sturdy double doors and depicted the first hero of Redwall, a mouse in shimmering armor with a sword of unparalleled purity. Rook didn't reflect on that part too much. Bashfully, he admitted to having forgotten the mouse's name. In spite of this, Glennoar found herself transported back to that place in her mind, constructing a likeness so pristine that she could swear she'd been there before. The tables were gone now. Sconces that blazed on the walls were also missing, their absence casting shadows that only seem to magnify the room's immensity. She began to walk forward, each step seeming to stretch the distance between her and the effigy on the wall as the room became a cavernous, yawning abyss. Light was emanating from within the tapestry. It was thin and hazy, like sunlight might appear through a bank of gossamer fog. The whole vision was fluid and dreamlike but authentic enough that she reached out to stroke the material as she approached. To her amazement, she felt its texture across her fingers. Suddenly, the gentle touch of an invisible hand fell to her shoulder. She started to turn but paused; her heart already knew who it belonged to. A voice spoke to her, sounding as if carried by the wind. "Do not be afraid." It said. "Steel your heart against what will come, but do not be afraid...""I will not be afraid." She repeated. "I will not be afraid... Martin.""Wot' ain't ye' going ta' be 'fraid of, miss?" The question jerked Glennoar back from her reverie with a startled cry, the scene before her evaporating like steam off a kettle. Almost reflexively, she went for her trident but found it missing. Spinning to her feet, she was met by Merrick's
grinning face, so close the blade of grass that poked from under his mustachioed whiskers tickled her on the nose. He held her weapon in one clenched paw and guffawed."Bah! T'aint going ta' tell me ah' caught ye' nappin', are ye' miss? Also, 'tis ah' good idea not ta' leave dis layin' whar' it kin be snuck away from ye'."He passed by with a snicker, pushing the weapon into her paws as he crossed over to where Rook was and took up a seat beside him once more. "Ah'n fer' the record, ye' ain't nevah' been able ta' tell ah' decent yarn, planktail."Rook offered his friend a sheepish grin and Merrick returned a smirk before settling down and pulling his cap over his eyes."What did you find out there? Anything?"Merrick yawned and rolled to his side, away from the impatient otter. "Git yer'self ta' bed, mate. Ah'll tell ya' in tha' mornin'. Ah'm bushed." Rook inched over to try and protest but Merrick shooed him away as one might a late summer fly. In no time at all, the hare was snoring soundly."Does 'e always do that?" Glennoar asked."Every night like clockwork. He's right though. We should turn in. I have a feeling we're going to need all the rest we can get come tomorrow.""Aye. Don't ya' think one 'o us should keep watch?"Rook chuckled, nodding in the direction of Merrick's prone form. "No need. He may sleep easy but there isn't a beast alive that can sneak up on him."Despite reservations about such an arrangement, Glennoar nodded; even without the prospect of being ambushed, sleep was a luxury she was rarely able to afford. This night was no exception. Curled around her weapon, she watched the fire dwindle to a few failing embers and thought hard about what had occurred: Both Rook and Merrick had heard her speak the name Martin, hadn't they? They must have. She couldn't imagine they'd not heard it from where they stood, yet neither saw fit to question why she spoke the name of a long dead warrior as though answering a command. Rook she could excuse; for all his finer points, her friend was terribly aloof. Merrick however was sharp as a pike. If he'd noticed, the hare certainly didn't let it show, not based on the interplay of sleep sounds between him and his accomplice. It wasn't until the sky began its rosy pink turn towards morning that Glennoar finally drifted off into a restless slumber, unaware of the eyes that watched them from the branch of a nearby maple, regarding the three with a curious, albeit fearful light.