A scattered group of beast's walked over the still fresh battlegrounds,
stepping over the corpses of vermin and woodlander alike, stooping to
gather up fallen arms and supplies. The group was mostly squirrels; all of
them cloaked tightly almost making it impossible to tell their species had
it not been for their bushy tails that stuck up behind them. A few otter's
and hares walked amongst the grave scene as well, alternating looks of
disgust at the carnage and excitement of finding new arms for free. The
stumbled through avoiding the dark red pools set into the ground until at
last they began their move off as a patrol swept through the area.
It was small patrol too; only about ten beasts marched in the precise movements of the long patrol, the perilous warriors standing proud amongst the dead. They explored the carnage with a sort of twisted curiosity at the scene at their feet. They checked through the piled corpses carefully checking for a pulse, any signs of life, occasionally they found one alive, but it turned out to be a false alarm as their resident healer checked the beast. The battlefield was far and wide, they had begun towards the noon, burying them or sending them down the nearby river as they went, and by the time they were almost done it was nearing the sunset.
At the far end of the field lay the bodies of two mice and an otter, each still holding their weapons, all dead and silent. However then there was the dull thud of a heart beat, a single one after a long rest, then another as slowly the organ began pumping in the otter's body, his wounds having been sealed with dried blood and his eyes suddenly flicked beneath the lids. All there was in the otter's mind was her face, not that of an otter nor any other beast, but that of one foreign to Redwall. With the face came the fear, the pain and the overwhelming sense of loss, the face screaming out in anguish as rain and tears flowed down her face.
His eyes flickered open to find himself staring blurry eyed into the lifeless eyes of a rat, as he lay quite still and quite dead, spear still in his paw. He couldn't move, he licked his eyes around, taking in what he could see over the lifeless corpse before him, he saw movement far off, his eyes too unfocused to make out anything, it was all disturbingly familiar and yet so obviously wrong. His only memories were those of the face crying out and then the small red trail snaking down into the sewers, he wondered if this was heaven or hell that he was in.
His body was numb and unfeeling, a sharp contrast from the mental anguish running around in his head as he thought he felt something roll out of his outstretched hand. He tried to sit up, but managed only to twist his body forward. It was enough though and he found himself staring at his own furry paw, lying on the ground clutching at the phantom spear, which lay inches from it. His long rudder-like tail flicked a bit, flopping over his legs and onto the spear, he tried moving it again with success.
"Look! One of the blighters is still kickin', wot." Came the loud voice over the field, and over ran several shapes, all of them blurred to his unfocused eyes, his chest rose and fell in struggled breathing.
"I'll say your right ol' chap. Where's Fleet thingy, wot?" Another said, presumably the leader of the troop in a much quieter voice with a tone of disbelief, the otter simply stared up, his breathing loud through his parched mouth.
"I'm right here you rotter." The healer, a young hare wife, to the one who had just called for her in fact, she bent down and poured part of a canteen into the otter's mouth after leaning him against nearby tree, carrying him carefully. The otter merely choked on the water coughing it up as it blocked off his air, the hare wife poured some more down his throat, holding his blood crusted muzzle shut, forcing him to swallow the water.
"Hold it down there ye great river whomper, know wot's good for ye." The healer held the otter like a babe as she cooed to him as if her own child, his eyes began flickering shut in her embrace. She glanced at the otter's wounds and dressed them hurriedly as she made her point clear. "Strange, this 'un should be long dead by now, by the looks of it."
"Such a strong beast deserves a second chance I suppose." One of the younger hares spoke his tone was not light, it was morbid as he glanced about the field. "Shame not more got one."
"We best get that'un back Salamandastron on the double m'gel." The leader told his wife, the healer, before addressing his troops as a whole. "All right check the rest of 'em and let's get any of 'em that are still kickin' back to Salamandastron chaps n' chapesses." They moved quickly and by the light of the moon they moved off the field bearing a mere three stretchers, an otter borne on each one. They had counted the dead before sending them off, regardless of species. In all over six hundred beasts had lost their lives in the carnage, a carnage with no discernable point to it for the patrol, they were however relieved that the vermin hadn't won the battle.
The made their way through the forest, all in silence for all their thoughts were still on the scarred earth at their back, their thoughts with the souls lost in battle. Each silently remembered friends and family lost in wars and on patrol's silently wishing them luck in the Dark Forest. They walked straight through, birds glaring at them form their perches; they had a respect for them, as did the roving thieves of Mossflower, hiding in the patrol's wake. On the stretchers the otter's were silent, thoughts upon the past as well, on the battle save for one of them, who by all accounts should have been dead.
As the moon stood high above the shores of Salamandastron the found their way into the mountain stronghold with all three still alive and dreaming. One of them, a young male, dreamt of hot root soup, one , a young ottermaid, dreamt of nothing at all in her fading hours, while the third, now cleaned, was found to also be quite young, dreamt of far away places, happier times and the face. In the silence of the mountain's infirmary a single tear flowed down the otter's cheek in the memory of her face, twisted in horror, crying out for him as his last drops flowed over the cold, unfeeling asphalt
It was small patrol too; only about ten beasts marched in the precise movements of the long patrol, the perilous warriors standing proud amongst the dead. They explored the carnage with a sort of twisted curiosity at the scene at their feet. They checked through the piled corpses carefully checking for a pulse, any signs of life, occasionally they found one alive, but it turned out to be a false alarm as their resident healer checked the beast. The battlefield was far and wide, they had begun towards the noon, burying them or sending them down the nearby river as they went, and by the time they were almost done it was nearing the sunset.
At the far end of the field lay the bodies of two mice and an otter, each still holding their weapons, all dead and silent. However then there was the dull thud of a heart beat, a single one after a long rest, then another as slowly the organ began pumping in the otter's body, his wounds having been sealed with dried blood and his eyes suddenly flicked beneath the lids. All there was in the otter's mind was her face, not that of an otter nor any other beast, but that of one foreign to Redwall. With the face came the fear, the pain and the overwhelming sense of loss, the face screaming out in anguish as rain and tears flowed down her face.
His eyes flickered open to find himself staring blurry eyed into the lifeless eyes of a rat, as he lay quite still and quite dead, spear still in his paw. He couldn't move, he licked his eyes around, taking in what he could see over the lifeless corpse before him, he saw movement far off, his eyes too unfocused to make out anything, it was all disturbingly familiar and yet so obviously wrong. His only memories were those of the face crying out and then the small red trail snaking down into the sewers, he wondered if this was heaven or hell that he was in.
His body was numb and unfeeling, a sharp contrast from the mental anguish running around in his head as he thought he felt something roll out of his outstretched hand. He tried to sit up, but managed only to twist his body forward. It was enough though and he found himself staring at his own furry paw, lying on the ground clutching at the phantom spear, which lay inches from it. His long rudder-like tail flicked a bit, flopping over his legs and onto the spear, he tried moving it again with success.
"Look! One of the blighters is still kickin', wot." Came the loud voice over the field, and over ran several shapes, all of them blurred to his unfocused eyes, his chest rose and fell in struggled breathing.
"I'll say your right ol' chap. Where's Fleet thingy, wot?" Another said, presumably the leader of the troop in a much quieter voice with a tone of disbelief, the otter simply stared up, his breathing loud through his parched mouth.
"I'm right here you rotter." The healer, a young hare wife, to the one who had just called for her in fact, she bent down and poured part of a canteen into the otter's mouth after leaning him against nearby tree, carrying him carefully. The otter merely choked on the water coughing it up as it blocked off his air, the hare wife poured some more down his throat, holding his blood crusted muzzle shut, forcing him to swallow the water.
"Hold it down there ye great river whomper, know wot's good for ye." The healer held the otter like a babe as she cooed to him as if her own child, his eyes began flickering shut in her embrace. She glanced at the otter's wounds and dressed them hurriedly as she made her point clear. "Strange, this 'un should be long dead by now, by the looks of it."
"Such a strong beast deserves a second chance I suppose." One of the younger hares spoke his tone was not light, it was morbid as he glanced about the field. "Shame not more got one."
"We best get that'un back Salamandastron on the double m'gel." The leader told his wife, the healer, before addressing his troops as a whole. "All right check the rest of 'em and let's get any of 'em that are still kickin' back to Salamandastron chaps n' chapesses." They moved quickly and by the light of the moon they moved off the field bearing a mere three stretchers, an otter borne on each one. They had counted the dead before sending them off, regardless of species. In all over six hundred beasts had lost their lives in the carnage, a carnage with no discernable point to it for the patrol, they were however relieved that the vermin hadn't won the battle.
The made their way through the forest, all in silence for all their thoughts were still on the scarred earth at their back, their thoughts with the souls lost in battle. Each silently remembered friends and family lost in wars and on patrol's silently wishing them luck in the Dark Forest. They walked straight through, birds glaring at them form their perches; they had a respect for them, as did the roving thieves of Mossflower, hiding in the patrol's wake. On the stretchers the otter's were silent, thoughts upon the past as well, on the battle save for one of them, who by all accounts should have been dead.
As the moon stood high above the shores of Salamandastron the found their way into the mountain stronghold with all three still alive and dreaming. One of them, a young male, dreamt of hot root soup, one , a young ottermaid, dreamt of nothing at all in her fading hours, while the third, now cleaned, was found to also be quite young, dreamt of far away places, happier times and the face. In the silence of the mountain's infirmary a single tear flowed down the otter's cheek in the memory of her face, twisted in horror, crying out for him as his last drops flowed over the cold, unfeeling asphalt