Disclaimer: I only own my characters and the places I made up. Virtually everything in this chapter;)
Thistle was almost hoarse from arguing. For seven sunrises she had bickered and fought with Grandma Hope. They had argued about everything, from the best foods to her outfit. Which her grandmother hated, of course. "That lavender doesn't go with your eyes," she had sniffed. "And that tunic? Uuurgh, it just doesn't suit you, m'dear!" That was the biggest row they'd had so far. That was also why the mousemaid wasn't talking, and neither was the mousewife. Intensely irate, they had both sworn not to speak to one another.
Of course, that lasted five minutes.
Thistle couldn't contain herself any longer. "Strawberries, strawberries..." she hummed, getting nasty glances from Hope.
The glance didn't last long, though, for there was a bigger thing to see.
The settlement wasn't big, by any means, but it seemed huge when you took all the beasts milling about 'round there. The leaves of trees dappled the houses and ground below, and the voices of beasts mingled with birdsong. The effect was far from melodious, the notorious Woodwind family was around. But to Thistle's large, dish shaped ears it was wonderful! Finally, a place that wasn't peaceful!
Hope smoothed her skirts, and spat on her paw, scrubbing her granddaughter's face.
"No grandotter o' mine'll be dirty when she meets the family!"
"Gerroff! Honestly, I'm clean, Gramma! Great Seasons, what are you trying to do, clean my face straight off? Oh, that'd be a fine thing, I couldn't see, or smell, or taste! How'd you like it if I did it to you, huh?"
Thistle's protests were what turned the attention to the two mice at the entrance of the settlement. Otters shook their heads, and hedgehogs sighed, and even the patriarch rolled his eyes as if pleading for deliverance. But the Woodwinds, ah, the Woodwinds rushed straight over to the two and pried Hope away.
"Honestly, Mother, the girl needs room!"
"Who is she, anyway, Hope?"
"Hmm, looks like Fuschia, a bit."
"No, she does not! I'm far prettier!"
"Ha! You, pretty?"
"Cut it out, you too, I'm prettier than her and Fuschia put together!"
And so on, and so on. The mice of the Woodwind family were more like shrews, argumentative and pushy. Thistle was right in the thick of it, yelling about how she was too pretty, and she'd rather never eat strawberries for the rest of her life than admit she wasn't.
Soon, not one single mouse was distinguishable from any other. It was a whirlwind of various shades of tan, as well as the astonishingly bright dresses of the females. The patriarch himself, an old, grizzled squirrel, had to but in. He grabbed the shoulder of the one called Fuschia and Thistle's paw to keep them from ripping each other to shreds.
"QUIIIIIEEEEEET!" Patriarch Firmbough shouted. The melee stopped that instant, and the squirrel glared around at them. "I know it's second nature for the Woodwinds to fight, but could you just SHUT UP for once?" Ashamedly, the mice looked at the grass, shuffling their feet. Satisfied his work was done, Firmbough patted Thistle on the head. She scowled, and he took a closer look. He had never seen a mousemaid of the Woodwind clan with purple eyes! There were the tales of Arys, the ancestor of the Woodwinds, and how she had those astonishing eyes. Firmbough arched a brow, and Thistle announced her presence.
"I'm thirteen seasons old, thank you, and I'd rather not be patted on the head like a Dibbun. My name is Thistle Willowsong Longfaith and I am Hope's granddaughter, unfortunately for me." Hope scowled at that, but the maid continued. "And furthermore, if any of you even dares to look at my eyes in wonder, I will find some way to slip oleander in their drink. Thank you!" She tossed her head rebelliously. Fuschia was the first to explode into laughter, and then the others followed suit.
"She's got spunk, allright!"
"Yessiree, Bob, she does!"
"Heh, what a mouth on that 'un!"
"A true Woodwind, she is!"
"FEAASST!" That remark came from a child half as high as Thistle. Of course, the gregarious clan immediately began bustling off to their houses to cook, Hope dragging Thistle to her house to get some decent clothing.
That left the Patriarch and all the other confused residents of the Northern South Glen to ponder what exactly had happened in the last ten minutes.
