I remember being upset with the plot of Pearls of Lutra, and more prominently, upset with the Character Martin the Second. His father, and father before him were both great, believable, and flawed characters, while MtS was dangling on the edge of the ideal warrior; something that upset me to no end for quite a while. Now, I haven't written much of anything in the past year and a half, so I'm probably going to be rusty... then again... my old stuff will probably be more derogatory than the new. If it's not, then I don't know what's happened in the past 1 & ½ years.
I do not own Redwall, and yes, this alters canon.
A Crescent moon hung over the misted treetops of Mossflower below which emanated casual flickers of light along a dusty path. The trees contrived colossal shadows over a lone figure traveling the road, a mouse, clad in black vesture with an exquisite looking sword sheathed and strapped to his back. A belt hung loosely around his waist like a lop-sided halo, and clipped to it was a small pouch that jingled with every step he took.
The mouse looked up and saw a cabin in the distance. Faint light seemed to radiate from it's windows to the adjacent trees.
'Must be an inn,' thought the mouse.
He slowly ambled up to it's door and knocked. The high pitched sound of a flute iterated from inside the cabin as a small slot in the door slid away, and a pair of black beady eyes took it's place. They studied the mouse for a moment before the beast sporting them spoke. "State your business, mouse."
The mouse spoke, strength casting from his voice as he did. "I'm a simple traveler seeking shelter and some hospitality. This is an inn, is it not?"
The beast behind the door grunted and the sound of the door unlocking could be heard. The door creaked as it opened, and the music inside became more prominent, being joined by a drum and rhythmic applause.
A short fox stepped from behind the door while pushing away some crudely carpentered wooden steps.
He opened to door to let out a very lively scene. On a platform near the middle of the inn, there was a band playing. There was a flutist, and a drumer as he had heard, but now he saw two twin squirrelmaidens, both garbed in matching yellow pinafores, dancing with rhythmic adherence to the music. Most of the audience, probably slightly drunk, were concentrated on this as they hooted in amusement. A single chandelier in the middle of the room gave light to the whole scene.
The fox held out his paw to shake paws with the mouse. "Names Lucaro, nice to meet you, Mr. um?"
The mouse returned his pawshake, smiling. "Martin, son of Mattimeo."
The fox shook his head. "Wouldn't act too friendly 'round here. Our type get trampled on."
Martin raised a brow. "Our type?"
"Oh, you know, those short of stature, weak in general," The fox looked behind Martin. "Nice sword."
"Thanks," Martin noticed the fox steal a furtive glance at his gold pouch, then thought worse of the fox, but sighed, realizing that he was being much too cynical of him. After all, did he not just warn him to watch his back here?
Martin sat down at the bar on the far end of the inn, away from the group of beasts playing in the front. A small candle illuminated the bar and it's bartender. He sighed and ordered a glass of cider from the bartender, a rough looking brown squirrel nearing the end of his seasons. Though his tail, streaked with gray, was quite bushy. He must have attracted many maidens in his prime. An authoritative air hung about the two as the squirrel held his head high.
The squirrel sat the glass of cider next to Martin and studied him, as the fox had done, but without the scrambling eyes, but instead of a more gentle type. "Don't see many of your type around here."
There it was again.
Martin sipped on the bottle. "My type?"
The squirrel took a bottle and began to clean it with a rag. "Oh you know, innocent. Just traveling through. Most of the beasts you see here are here daily. Sometimes for business, sometimes to get drunk, and sometimes to stay for a night."
Despite the squirrel's terse tone of voice, Martin felt comfortable with him. It probably was the gentleness in his eyes eliciting the feeling within him. The old are wise and knowledgeable, and Martin learned to trust them when he was young. His grandfather, Matthias, had taught him many life lessons in his youth. Even things his own father had over looked.
It's the little things that define the beast, Martin. Not the big. Sure, the big have an important part, but it's the little things that build the connecting bridges in between them. Being kind to a stranger, especially your peers, is a little thing. For later in life, he could be an Abbot!
Martin sighed and took another sip of the cider, then looked back up to the benevolent eyes of the stranger. "I am from Redwall, do you live here?"
The squirrel smirked. "Sometimes. Say, one of my grandchildren live in Redwall I think. I'm not too sure, since I have more than I can count twice over on all four paws!"
Martin chuckled heartily. His guesses weren't half bad after all. "Aye, big family?"
"Oh yes; come here to get away from them. I believe that the particular grandchild is named... um... Iracus, or something. His mom was a flying squirrel, you know, with the arm to leg flaps," The squirrel twirled his paw in the air and Martin nodded. "And his father was a son of mine."
"A flying squirrel? I only know of one at Redwall... Icarus. Is that who you're thinking of?"
"Ah, he's the one. Loved his mom, she's my son's wife, well, she was anyway." The squirrel frowned and deep creases formed on his forehead.
Martin's whiskers drooped and his eyes seemed to glaze over as he looked at his reflection in the stillness of the cider. "Ah, yes. Was. She was one of the beasts who..."
"No need to say anymore, yes she was. These are trying times friend. Say, why have you left Redwall?"
"To find someone."
The old squirrel grinned and a shimmer of light sparked in his eyes. "For love? I did that once... found a few more than I bargained for!"
Martin's reflection had become grave. Dual shadows slid maliciously down his eyes. "Perhaps it was love once, though not of the intimate type. Now it's different."
The squirrel turned his back to Martin and poured another bottle of cider, the liquid flowing, it's appearance like sweet glittering nectar as it cascaded from the bottle to the glass. "I'm confused. Enlighten me, please."
As Martin was about to speak again, howling emanated throughout the room, followed by a loud pounding. The music ceased as everybeast in the room spun around to where the sound had originated to find that the fox that had been guarding the door was sprawled out on the ground, with his paws holding his head. In the doorway itself stood a large brown furred stoat who was cloaked in blue corsair's vesture. He held up a large scythe as he scanned the room.
"The name is Orion the Deathtiller," The stoat's face remained passive as eyes continued to rake the room over. "And I've come here for the reward on The Incubus's head. I know he's here, in this little inn, so which one of you beasts will confess?"
The whole inn sat flabbergasted and static. Beasts began to glance around the room, looking toward each other for help laden with countenances of despair and confusion.
The stoat smirked. "Okay then, will it help to say that I've the whole inn surrounded by three score beasts, ready and willing to kill anyone I order dead? The fifty-thousand gold reward on his head seems a good enough reason to kill everybeast, but I'll give you a chance first."
A hare immediately stood up. "You're bluffing, sah!"
The stoat crossed his arms and cleared his throat. He looked skyward. "Joking haha! Give 'em the warning shot!"
Suddenly, the breaking of glass could be heard, and an arrow cut through the air to land with a resolute thump near the hare's ears. The hare stood in shock. The stoat laugh seemed to echo throughout the room.
"As I said, out of those windows stands three score beast ready to kill on my command. Now that we've got that settled, let's get back to business." The stoat paced around the room, observing everybeast carefully. "They say that The Incubus strikes terror into the hearts of everybeast he meets. The ones he shows mercy to are subtly tortured for the rest of their lives in their nightmares."
The old squirrel piped up. "I see no beast that matches your description. The only beast striking terror is you!"
The stoat looked the squirrel over. "Hmm, I'm not one to massacre for fun like The Incubus; I'd rather for profit."
The stoat suddenly flicked his arm, and a lustrous object flew like a blur through the air. Martin thrust his paw out and caught the object in mid flight: A dagger with a handle shaped like a halo.
Orion's passive face quickly became distorted and transfixed. He seemed to trip over thin air and landed on his bottom. "That's impossible! H-h-how did you do that?"
Martin's eyes never wavered as they subtly bore into the Stoat's conscience. Orion stood up, legs wobbling uncontrollably, and beckoned again. "How did you do that?"
Martin's trance suddenly disappeared as he put on a quizzical face and looked at the knife in his paw. "Luck, seems like it. I figured that a cut paw would be much better than a dead squirrel." He winked.
Orion regained his compose and grunted. "Well, The Incubus isn't here then, damn."
Martin nodded. "Take your men and leave peacefully, there's no need for fighting. It'll just cause pandemonium."
Orion ruffled his headfur. "Ah, hell's gates, should have never trusted the bird. Dammit." He took one last look at Martin, then turned to leave.
Right as Orion opened the door, Martin shot one last question, "Orion, who is this bird and why is he so far down south in the summer?"
"The little eye in the sky is named Hides-his-Beak," Orion shot up a paw into the air, then twisted his head around back to face Martin. "Said he's here for migration from the north, but I know that's a lie as well. If you ever find him alive, do me a favor, wring his neck for wasting my time, that is if I don't see him first." With that, Orion slammed the door shut.
It didn't take long for the music to start up again, but Martin could tell that the dancers seemed to dance with a little less enthusiasm, perhaps even a little more skittish. He asked the squirrel for another glass of cider, and almost instantly another glass slid down the bar into his welcoming paws.
The squirrel addressed Martin, voice quavering slightly, but controlled. "That's the third time this season something like this has happened. Though, this is the first time I've almost met my death. But business must continue, and I must continue to serve."
"You're wrong," Martin set the knife down on the table. "Based on the projection of the knife, if it would have kept going, it would have passed you by nearly two paws lengths to your right. It was thrown as an intent to scare, not as an intent to kill. I couldn't find that in him."
"What do you mean?"
Martin leaned back in his seat and seemed to study the ceiling of the bar. "There's a lot you can see in a beast through their eyes, after all, is it not a window to the soul? Instead of a murderer's eyes, I saw that of a beast knee deep in poverty, though not to suggest he was, they just looked sad... dark. Also, I could tell he had only a few with him, an archer, pikesbeast, and swordsbeast from their silhouettes in the windows. Eh, actually, I didn't see the archer until he fired that arrow."
The bartender closed his eyes in silent repose. "You have a strange way of settling things stranger."
Martin laughed softly. "There was no real danger here. After all, nearly everybeast in this inn is armed. The dancers have daggers tucked in their dresses, the band all have swords, except the drummer, he has an ax in his breeches. Everybeast in the audience has something or another, including their cutlery. So everybeast here is armed, except you." Martin pointed at the squirrel.
The squirrel was speechless and he looked to be struggling to find something to say. "You're an observant one."
Martin sighed and shook his head. "I have to be, for what I've been through these past few seasons."
"What exactly have you been through?"
Martin hesitated, once again looking deep into his cider. "Enough to change a beast, that's all I'll say."
"I understand. Do you intend to stay for the night? Room's on the house."
"No thanks, I'm an outdoor person, ya know?" Martin finished the glass of cider and stood up. "Do you serve breakfast here?"
The squirrel winked. "For you, free."
Martin held up both paws and set them on the table. "Okay then, I'll be back in the morning, and thank you friend."
"No, thank you."
With that, Martin strode right out into the night. He picked an open area outside the inn and laid down to rest. He breathed in the night air, feeling a sense of complete relaxation overwhelm him underneath the night sky, laden with it's stars which drew out intricate constellations. He scanned them, picking out familiar ones.
Ah, the fox. Hmm, looks like The Steed is shining bright tonight. Oh, and there's The Warrior, grandfather's favorite. He told me once that only legends are etched into the stars. I wonder if Martin the Warrior is anywhere to be found.
Suddenly, his daydreaming ceased when he heard the sound of rusting bushes. Sensing danger, he jumped straight up and gripped his sword handle, ready to unsheathe it at any moment. "Who goes there, friend or foe?"
For a moment a heavy silence hung in the air, until a slight breeze of cold air sauntered its way past Martin, causing his whiskers to sway in accordance with the wind. It was then the stranger spoke, " We've finally found you, Martin the Incubus! Prepare for your death!"
Something bright flew from the bushes toward Martin, who instinctively dodged it and let it fall onto the ground. It was a little small round sphere with a small fuse attached to it.
Once again the voice sounded. "It's over Incubus!"
As Martin's attention was quickly diverted to the voice's origin, but not a moment later another sound was heard.
Wssssssss.
By the time Martin had turned back to the object, it was too late. A cloud of smoke held him in it's unforgiving embrace, weakening him with every passing moment, causing his limbs to give away. He quickly collapsed to the ground, coughing and sputtering. Finally, his body went limp and fell in a heap on the ground. Just as his vision began to fade, he saw the legs of a stoat appear from the bushes.
The Stoat, with a strange mask on, leaned over Martin, making eye contact with him. His voice seemed to echo through Martin's head. "We'll let Redwall decide what to do with him. Tie him up and gag him, we don't want him to be heard when he wakes. After all, how often does a gang of travelers keep a mouse captive for a good cause?"
And as a great whooping and hooting filled the air, Martin blacked out.
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