2
The glaring sun was shrinking still behind the mountains to their backs as the two ran on. Skeen had been correct in saying that the warmth skyrocketed the further north they went. The nearly uneventful journey began with the fisher dying of heat and cursing the sun, and ended with him attempting to curse the same sun for not appearing through intense shivering.
This new cold was making Essol shiver. He had been alongside the whole time, and Orileth ignored him. Now he was angry. "What is with you?" he shrieked. "Can you not see the fucking badger in front of you? I shouldn't be that hard to spot!"
Orileth turned towards the figment. "Go away, damn you."
The shrew Skeen jumped. "Who the blazes you talking to?" Skeen couldn't see Essol. Would never see Essol. The badger was air, oxygen, empty matter to Skeen.
...And everyone else. Except Orileth.
The sun had long been vanquished by darkness' deadly snares. The moon was permitted to shine only enough light to barely make out the faint rudimentary bright colors in the night. The cold forest had festooned herself in a veil of obscurity and shoes of snow. Orileth turned to Skeen. "These bugs... they're everywhere."
Skeen nodded behind an obscure glance and returned to walking, unknown of the secret.
The impish badger continued to harass Orileth, always traveling right behind him. "'Thine spirit divine', they used to say. Stupid riverling, pay attention to me. Go ahead and fucking announce your condition!" With every profanity tremors shook through the badger's body, as if the very word brought pain to him yet he attempted to wear it off. Orileth turned towards the creature and aimed a kick at the beast. He knew that it would do no physical damage to the specter, but Essol didn't realize this. He quaked with fear each time he was threatened "physically". Despite his race's normally brutish, intimidating appearance, this one was scrawny, short and underdeveloped. And not much of a walker. He would continuously shout needlessly when supposedly being slain by the sun's rays or similar problems countless times each day, and yet always managed to keep up with Orileth to prolong his complaints.
"Vermin!" squeaked the cowardly badger over his shoulder as he tore off through the dense forest, away from his assailant, but certain to reappear sometime else. Orileth returned to the hike, shrugging at Skeen, who was watching him questioningly.
Martin had been a noble creature. One who bled openly, who suffered patently from his losses. The virtuous surface of him he warmed daily in the sun, to prepare for life's joys. There was so much more of these than sadness and regret in his founded Redwall.
But there had been another side to this contentment. A murky side which reflected his need of preoccupation, which typically consisted of much beastslaughter. A side that had awakened ever since his eyes lay upon his father's sword and that bloodthirsty glint grew in the back of those eyeballs began to develop.
Martin's father, Luke, had been fairly strict in containing his sword from his son. But temptation overcame all warning signs in Martin's head. Once he had deliberately stolen the sword while Luke was on a foraging trip. Less than ten minutes later, he was rewarded harshly, and Luke began to take further precautions against capture of his most prized possession. The father began to lack faith in his child, however it was restored over time, and the incident forgotten. But there had been something else lurking in the battle light within young Martin's eyes when he finally began to wield the blade expertly. Luke had dismissed the look as unimportant; he assured himself that he must have also looked this way when the sword was given to him.
But Badrang, the lord of Marshank, who had become quite acquainted with the mouse before, destroyed the blade. Badrang lay dead before many seasons' time after their second meeting.
He had searched for bigger and better things before long. His tagalong friends witnessed the partially evil radiance in Martin's eyes when he had fought alongside them, and yet failed to properly recognize it. Easy explanations were plentiful. Before long he had visited Salamandastron, the mountain fortress of the badger lords, and Lord Brocktree had forged his second sword, this one far more durable and destructive than his father's. The light of the eyes, both righteous and vicious, was borne by Martin again, and to a higher extent than ever before. He soon wreaked vengeful torrent upon Tsarmina the wildcat's forces as the near-demonic, terrifying warrior with shadowed eyes.
After many of his adventures, Martin finally wore out his bloody spirit for the interim. He resigned to Redwall, his new kingdom, and gave up his sword for total peace.
Or so the records say.
Nobeast returning from a Martin-free feast would notice the graceful pawmarks upon an unused sword. Nobeast would ever think to examine the sword of Martin to closely, for their wellbeing.
One beast, a young ottermaid, was the only one who witnessed the brutal practices that Martin would carry out during certain events, and the innocent vowed to herself never to tell a soul. She was lost in the Redwall records forever, all of her contained thoughts unable to be inscribed into traditional parchment upon her death.
More than half a century later, a newborn mouse cried his first. He was completely pitch-black, from ear to tail. His parents believed him destined to become Redwall's new warrior. But signs of disobedience and grudge clouded his otherwise angelic tendencies, and he fiercely competed with his fellow youngsters to prove his skills overall superior to others. He constantly indicated weaknesses and deficits in others, whilst running his own circles around them, sometimes literally, exploiting the others' underperformances with ferocious intensity. If proven to have a shortfall of his own, he would sulk; also he to mocked his "better" relentlessly with insults that were extremely difficult to comeback. After his parents passed away, and the mouse was nearly an adult, he went into a deep state of mourning. Some theories claimed that the black mouse intentionally poisoned his only blood relations and used his bereavement as a cover-up, but many were unwilling to believe that such treachery could exist in this peaceful environment.
A full three days after his parents' deaths, the mouse departed into Mossflower Woods, away from the friendliness and hospitality of Redwall. If this were not already a shocker for the inhabitants of the stone abbey, he also took Martin's sword, whose owner was long deceased. It is said that in this period of time the mouse ran away with a fox associate, whom he met occasionally by the edge of the woods, and began to train with the sword and an array of other weapons, which he never would have been given access to had he stayed in Redwall. Many long seasons passed, and after the mouse was satisfied with his experience, he ruthlessly butchered his vermin friend and made once again for Redwall.
The recognition was immediate; it was difficult to find black mice, and only two, including the current one, had ever been inside Redwall Abbey. The sword of Martin had been gone long; much of the populace of Redwall had given up on finding it once more. But the mouse had concealed the sword well, and none even questioned him about it as he walked through the gates, familiar faces smothering him and his back weighted with a slightly vertically pointed sack.
Then, ten days after his return, the murders started. They began when an elder hare had bafflingly vanished. Two days into the disappearance and they discovered his mutilated body at the bottom of the pond, his body weighted by rocks. The body had been nearly completely devoured by fish. The second body, that of a mole, was found hanging off the side of the abbey walltop, completely skinned, and with a flagpole speared through a flap of flesh on his back. He waved to and fro in the wind. The victims piled up, and there was barely enough time for the abbeydwellers to realize that the black-furred mouse was the death-dealer; by the time they had, all of the remaining occupants of the abbey were lured and locked inside of Cavern Hole and watching the place burn. Redwall suffered its final loss that day. It seemed as though this mouse of black had been on the receiving end of the walk-in spirit of the shadowed half of the first great champion of the abbey. Into the flames he roared his self-donned alias, swinging his new sword on high...
He called himself the Ultimatum.
The glaring sun was shrinking still behind the mountains to their backs as the two ran on. Skeen had been correct in saying that the warmth skyrocketed the further north they went. The nearly uneventful journey began with the fisher dying of heat and cursing the sun, and ended with him attempting to curse the same sun for not appearing through intense shivering.
This new cold was making Essol shiver. He had been alongside the whole time, and Orileth ignored him. Now he was angry. "What is with you?" he shrieked. "Can you not see the fucking badger in front of you? I shouldn't be that hard to spot!"
Orileth turned towards the figment. "Go away, damn you."
The shrew Skeen jumped. "Who the blazes you talking to?" Skeen couldn't see Essol. Would never see Essol. The badger was air, oxygen, empty matter to Skeen.
...And everyone else. Except Orileth.
The sun had long been vanquished by darkness' deadly snares. The moon was permitted to shine only enough light to barely make out the faint rudimentary bright colors in the night. The cold forest had festooned herself in a veil of obscurity and shoes of snow. Orileth turned to Skeen. "These bugs... they're everywhere."
Skeen nodded behind an obscure glance and returned to walking, unknown of the secret.
The impish badger continued to harass Orileth, always traveling right behind him. "'Thine spirit divine', they used to say. Stupid riverling, pay attention to me. Go ahead and fucking announce your condition!" With every profanity tremors shook through the badger's body, as if the very word brought pain to him yet he attempted to wear it off. Orileth turned towards the creature and aimed a kick at the beast. He knew that it would do no physical damage to the specter, but Essol didn't realize this. He quaked with fear each time he was threatened "physically". Despite his race's normally brutish, intimidating appearance, this one was scrawny, short and underdeveloped. And not much of a walker. He would continuously shout needlessly when supposedly being slain by the sun's rays or similar problems countless times each day, and yet always managed to keep up with Orileth to prolong his complaints.
"Vermin!" squeaked the cowardly badger over his shoulder as he tore off through the dense forest, away from his assailant, but certain to reappear sometime else. Orileth returned to the hike, shrugging at Skeen, who was watching him questioningly.
Martin had been a noble creature. One who bled openly, who suffered patently from his losses. The virtuous surface of him he warmed daily in the sun, to prepare for life's joys. There was so much more of these than sadness and regret in his founded Redwall.
But there had been another side to this contentment. A murky side which reflected his need of preoccupation, which typically consisted of much beastslaughter. A side that had awakened ever since his eyes lay upon his father's sword and that bloodthirsty glint grew in the back of those eyeballs began to develop.
Martin's father, Luke, had been fairly strict in containing his sword from his son. But temptation overcame all warning signs in Martin's head. Once he had deliberately stolen the sword while Luke was on a foraging trip. Less than ten minutes later, he was rewarded harshly, and Luke began to take further precautions against capture of his most prized possession. The father began to lack faith in his child, however it was restored over time, and the incident forgotten. But there had been something else lurking in the battle light within young Martin's eyes when he finally began to wield the blade expertly. Luke had dismissed the look as unimportant; he assured himself that he must have also looked this way when the sword was given to him.
But Badrang, the lord of Marshank, who had become quite acquainted with the mouse before, destroyed the blade. Badrang lay dead before many seasons' time after their second meeting.
He had searched for bigger and better things before long. His tagalong friends witnessed the partially evil radiance in Martin's eyes when he had fought alongside them, and yet failed to properly recognize it. Easy explanations were plentiful. Before long he had visited Salamandastron, the mountain fortress of the badger lords, and Lord Brocktree had forged his second sword, this one far more durable and destructive than his father's. The light of the eyes, both righteous and vicious, was borne by Martin again, and to a higher extent than ever before. He soon wreaked vengeful torrent upon Tsarmina the wildcat's forces as the near-demonic, terrifying warrior with shadowed eyes.
After many of his adventures, Martin finally wore out his bloody spirit for the interim. He resigned to Redwall, his new kingdom, and gave up his sword for total peace.
Or so the records say.
Nobeast returning from a Martin-free feast would notice the graceful pawmarks upon an unused sword. Nobeast would ever think to examine the sword of Martin to closely, for their wellbeing.
One beast, a young ottermaid, was the only one who witnessed the brutal practices that Martin would carry out during certain events, and the innocent vowed to herself never to tell a soul. She was lost in the Redwall records forever, all of her contained thoughts unable to be inscribed into traditional parchment upon her death.
More than half a century later, a newborn mouse cried his first. He was completely pitch-black, from ear to tail. His parents believed him destined to become Redwall's new warrior. But signs of disobedience and grudge clouded his otherwise angelic tendencies, and he fiercely competed with his fellow youngsters to prove his skills overall superior to others. He constantly indicated weaknesses and deficits in others, whilst running his own circles around them, sometimes literally, exploiting the others' underperformances with ferocious intensity. If proven to have a shortfall of his own, he would sulk; also he to mocked his "better" relentlessly with insults that were extremely difficult to comeback. After his parents passed away, and the mouse was nearly an adult, he went into a deep state of mourning. Some theories claimed that the black mouse intentionally poisoned his only blood relations and used his bereavement as a cover-up, but many were unwilling to believe that such treachery could exist in this peaceful environment.
A full three days after his parents' deaths, the mouse departed into Mossflower Woods, away from the friendliness and hospitality of Redwall. If this were not already a shocker for the inhabitants of the stone abbey, he also took Martin's sword, whose owner was long deceased. It is said that in this period of time the mouse ran away with a fox associate, whom he met occasionally by the edge of the woods, and began to train with the sword and an array of other weapons, which he never would have been given access to had he stayed in Redwall. Many long seasons passed, and after the mouse was satisfied with his experience, he ruthlessly butchered his vermin friend and made once again for Redwall.
The recognition was immediate; it was difficult to find black mice, and only two, including the current one, had ever been inside Redwall Abbey. The sword of Martin had been gone long; much of the populace of Redwall had given up on finding it once more. But the mouse had concealed the sword well, and none even questioned him about it as he walked through the gates, familiar faces smothering him and his back weighted with a slightly vertically pointed sack.
Then, ten days after his return, the murders started. They began when an elder hare had bafflingly vanished. Two days into the disappearance and they discovered his mutilated body at the bottom of the pond, his body weighted by rocks. The body had been nearly completely devoured by fish. The second body, that of a mole, was found hanging off the side of the abbey walltop, completely skinned, and with a flagpole speared through a flap of flesh on his back. He waved to and fro in the wind. The victims piled up, and there was barely enough time for the abbeydwellers to realize that the black-furred mouse was the death-dealer; by the time they had, all of the remaining occupants of the abbey were lured and locked inside of Cavern Hole and watching the place burn. Redwall suffered its final loss that day. It seemed as though this mouse of black had been on the receiving end of the walk-in spirit of the shadowed half of the first great champion of the abbey. Into the flames he roared his self-donned alias, swinging his new sword on high...
He called himself the Ultimatum.