(A/N: Flynn Galedeep is © his roleplayer, Willow Sandshell, Aaron, Gerflay
Daruu, and just about every other character in this story is © me. Maron ©
paradox. Redwall is owned and © Brian Jaques. Duh.)
A tall, tawny-brown otter whistled softly through his teeth as he strolled calmly between the trees. The trees were thick, tall, and handsome, the leaves made the sunlight come down in patches that moved with the wind. Of course, he was alone, but he always carried his bow and had his dagger thrust between his leather belt and the thin, tan fabric of his tunic. Without them, he felt powerless; naked in a cruel, violent world. He kicked at the leaves with his booted foot, watching them dance about as the breeze picked them up and lazily turned them over. Yes, everything was at peace here…no vermin scum had shown tooth or claw on this island for over a year. The troupe would have grown fat and wasted if Aaron hadn't kept drilling them on a daily basis. Flynn stretched and yawned, letting his jaw drop.
The mottled trail continued to snake between the thick, strong trees. A bird began to sing somewhere, the song filling the sweet summer air with joy and peace. Flynn looked up, his hazel eyes taking in the spaces of blue sky against the green leaves. The scent of rose petals and apple blossoms from drifted on the warm breeze, and Flynn, slightly drunk on the air, began to doze off. He was still walking, but only in a half-conscious mind; drifting between reality and fantasy. He wished it could stay like this forever. The light patches on the ground before him were gradually getting bigger as he continued along: he was getting close. He rounded one partially huge tree, and was standing in the middle of a clearing. The soft grass came up past his knees, the tips tickling his thighs; one of the few parts of his body that wasn't covered. He heard the soft babbling of a small nearby stream, and started across the glen to where it ran. He knelt beside it, and splashed a handful of the cool, crystal waters on his face. He stood up, intoxicated by the unreality of it, stretched once more, and turned around.
The blow almost knocked him backwards. Flynn shook his head, the magic of the forest gone. There, in front of him, was a large, scrawny stoat. This took him by even more surprise than the punch had. In one fluid motion, he had grabbed his dagger, and buried it to the helm in the stoat's chest. He tugged it out, and the carcass fell to Flynn's feet. The vermin had a slight advantage; there was only one Flynn, and around twenty or so of them. They had camouflaged themselves well in the tall grass; the darker- furred had poured dust in their fur so they could not be seen from a distance.
Flynn looked around, panicking, as he frantically looked for any sign of escape. There was none. There was no point in smearing the stoat's blood on himself lay down, because the vermin knew he was there. And arrow landed at his feet and a javelin whistled past his ear. He grabbed his own bow, and several gray-feathered arrows had felled quite a few. He crouched down in the grass and tried to move away, but that was almost impossible. He knew he wasn't going to survive this as several blades and other weapons of various kinds barely missed their mark. He slowly closed his eyes, giving up. The bushes and grass rustled some more, and several vermin of all breeds stepped into the clearing. An especially fat fox stepped into the rapidly shrinking circle, and barked orders to his army.
"He's skilled in archery, I can tell." Flynn glanced at the bodies that he had killed, and for once, cursed the day he first loosed an arrow.
"Take him back to camp."
**************************************************************************** **************
The sun had set, and crickets were chirping long before they reached the river. The fox had bound his paws roughly, cutting into flesh and searing fur. He had also tied a rope around his neck, so he could not escape. The vermin then lined up along the bank, and chanted: "Come, Garuu. Come."
There was the sound of running water, and as if by magic, a boat, more like a raft, was in front of them. Steering the raft was an old rat, who Flynn figured was Garuu. He poled the boat towards the shore, and they pushed Flynn inside. There was a loud crack as his head hit the floor of the boat, and everyone laughed. All but Garuu, who remained silent, and Flynn, who lay down from exhaustion and pain. The last thing he saw before he blacked out was the fox leaning over his face, with the full, cruel moon behind him.
**************************************************************************** ***************
When he awoke, his cheek was throbbing with pain, and there was dried blood on his paws and neck, and he could feel blood on his lip slowly ooze out from the fresh gash on his lip. He had no idea how long he had been unconscious, but it was obviously a long time, for all the vermin were sleeping, most of them were snoring loudly. But Garuu was still guiding the little boat onward, upstream, never ending, never pausing, always watching Flynn with one, white eye, the other on the river ahead. "That eye must be magic" Flynn thought, for although the only things tied were his paws, it like he was bound to the floor with chains. The otter stared into that one, piercing white eye, trying to match that gaze, but, alas, he could not. It never blinked, and it had a chilling resemblance of the moon. He shuddered, and looked at Garuu again. This time, though, he couldn't keep his eyes open. He tried to stay awake, but the steady pattern of the wooden pole urging the boat upstream combined with the gentle lulling of the river's current slowly pulled him into the depths of a dreamless sleep.
**************************************************************************** ***************
"Wake up." Flynn woke up with a start. The fox was kicking him, bruising his arm. "Now, stand up!" He stood up with some difficulty, as his feet ached from the day before, and he was stiff from sleeping on the floor, and blood was caked on his arm and face. "Move it!" The fox was speaking to everyone in general, but Flynn did not want to be beaten again. He jumped off of the boat and landed on shore, causing it to rock. Flynn stumbled, but regained his balance, and looked back at the boat, which had disappeared. The party started to move forward again, but they didn't go far. They soon rounded a bend, and the lush forest suddenly turned into a flat, dead prairie. Nothing was in sight, except a large, black cliff. But, as they came closer, Flynn realized with a shock that it was not a cliff. It was a massive castle, looming over the gray nothingness. The fox saw his startled expression and sneered in his face:
"Welcome to Camp Blackmoon."
A tall, tawny-brown otter whistled softly through his teeth as he strolled calmly between the trees. The trees were thick, tall, and handsome, the leaves made the sunlight come down in patches that moved with the wind. Of course, he was alone, but he always carried his bow and had his dagger thrust between his leather belt and the thin, tan fabric of his tunic. Without them, he felt powerless; naked in a cruel, violent world. He kicked at the leaves with his booted foot, watching them dance about as the breeze picked them up and lazily turned them over. Yes, everything was at peace here…no vermin scum had shown tooth or claw on this island for over a year. The troupe would have grown fat and wasted if Aaron hadn't kept drilling them on a daily basis. Flynn stretched and yawned, letting his jaw drop.
The mottled trail continued to snake between the thick, strong trees. A bird began to sing somewhere, the song filling the sweet summer air with joy and peace. Flynn looked up, his hazel eyes taking in the spaces of blue sky against the green leaves. The scent of rose petals and apple blossoms from drifted on the warm breeze, and Flynn, slightly drunk on the air, began to doze off. He was still walking, but only in a half-conscious mind; drifting between reality and fantasy. He wished it could stay like this forever. The light patches on the ground before him were gradually getting bigger as he continued along: he was getting close. He rounded one partially huge tree, and was standing in the middle of a clearing. The soft grass came up past his knees, the tips tickling his thighs; one of the few parts of his body that wasn't covered. He heard the soft babbling of a small nearby stream, and started across the glen to where it ran. He knelt beside it, and splashed a handful of the cool, crystal waters on his face. He stood up, intoxicated by the unreality of it, stretched once more, and turned around.
The blow almost knocked him backwards. Flynn shook his head, the magic of the forest gone. There, in front of him, was a large, scrawny stoat. This took him by even more surprise than the punch had. In one fluid motion, he had grabbed his dagger, and buried it to the helm in the stoat's chest. He tugged it out, and the carcass fell to Flynn's feet. The vermin had a slight advantage; there was only one Flynn, and around twenty or so of them. They had camouflaged themselves well in the tall grass; the darker- furred had poured dust in their fur so they could not be seen from a distance.
Flynn looked around, panicking, as he frantically looked for any sign of escape. There was none. There was no point in smearing the stoat's blood on himself lay down, because the vermin knew he was there. And arrow landed at his feet and a javelin whistled past his ear. He grabbed his own bow, and several gray-feathered arrows had felled quite a few. He crouched down in the grass and tried to move away, but that was almost impossible. He knew he wasn't going to survive this as several blades and other weapons of various kinds barely missed their mark. He slowly closed his eyes, giving up. The bushes and grass rustled some more, and several vermin of all breeds stepped into the clearing. An especially fat fox stepped into the rapidly shrinking circle, and barked orders to his army.
"He's skilled in archery, I can tell." Flynn glanced at the bodies that he had killed, and for once, cursed the day he first loosed an arrow.
"Take him back to camp."
**************************************************************************** **************
The sun had set, and crickets were chirping long before they reached the river. The fox had bound his paws roughly, cutting into flesh and searing fur. He had also tied a rope around his neck, so he could not escape. The vermin then lined up along the bank, and chanted: "Come, Garuu. Come."
There was the sound of running water, and as if by magic, a boat, more like a raft, was in front of them. Steering the raft was an old rat, who Flynn figured was Garuu. He poled the boat towards the shore, and they pushed Flynn inside. There was a loud crack as his head hit the floor of the boat, and everyone laughed. All but Garuu, who remained silent, and Flynn, who lay down from exhaustion and pain. The last thing he saw before he blacked out was the fox leaning over his face, with the full, cruel moon behind him.
**************************************************************************** ***************
When he awoke, his cheek was throbbing with pain, and there was dried blood on his paws and neck, and he could feel blood on his lip slowly ooze out from the fresh gash on his lip. He had no idea how long he had been unconscious, but it was obviously a long time, for all the vermin were sleeping, most of them were snoring loudly. But Garuu was still guiding the little boat onward, upstream, never ending, never pausing, always watching Flynn with one, white eye, the other on the river ahead. "That eye must be magic" Flynn thought, for although the only things tied were his paws, it like he was bound to the floor with chains. The otter stared into that one, piercing white eye, trying to match that gaze, but, alas, he could not. It never blinked, and it had a chilling resemblance of the moon. He shuddered, and looked at Garuu again. This time, though, he couldn't keep his eyes open. He tried to stay awake, but the steady pattern of the wooden pole urging the boat upstream combined with the gentle lulling of the river's current slowly pulled him into the depths of a dreamless sleep.
**************************************************************************** ***************
"Wake up." Flynn woke up with a start. The fox was kicking him, bruising his arm. "Now, stand up!" He stood up with some difficulty, as his feet ached from the day before, and he was stiff from sleeping on the floor, and blood was caked on his arm and face. "Move it!" The fox was speaking to everyone in general, but Flynn did not want to be beaten again. He jumped off of the boat and landed on shore, causing it to rock. Flynn stumbled, but regained his balance, and looked back at the boat, which had disappeared. The party started to move forward again, but they didn't go far. They soon rounded a bend, and the lush forest suddenly turned into a flat, dead prairie. Nothing was in sight, except a large, black cliff. But, as they came closer, Flynn realized with a shock that it was not a cliff. It was a massive castle, looming over the gray nothingness. The fox saw his startled expression and sneered in his face:
"Welcome to Camp Blackmoon."