A/N: I know it's been a while since I updated, I wonder if any of the few people who once followed this fic are still around. If so, sorry I disappeared? But here, at long last, is Chapter 4, and though it rambles a good bit and doesn't really go anywhere, Chapter 5 will be up within 48 hours...and it actually contains plot! Anyway, happy reviewi...er, I mean, reading.

Ashdark yawned and stretched, blinking sleep from his gray eyes and restoring movement to stiff paws. He looked around the cave curiously. He had only remembered the place from days long past, when he had fled to anyplace he could when the expectations his parents placed on the rebellious young warrior became too much, when their arguments over his future wounded his ears and dragged him from slumber. This cave had always been his favorite hideaway...quiet, dark, private, and, with the help of a cloak and a small fire, surprisingly warm and comfortable. It was well hidden and sheltered by the fragrant stand of pines just outside the entrance. And the proximity of the trees on the northern fringe of Mossflower Wood and a small stream that flowed from the River Moss made food and firewood easy to come by. Yes, he had been right to bring Runnalon here. It was safe...

Ash's eyes strayed to a snug corner consumed by semi-darkness. The stone was worn smooth by the frequent presence of a young back, and the ceiling was blackened by the soot of fires long since extinguished. Out of the stone seemed to fade the image of a small otter with dark, sable fur, huddled into a ball with his head buried in his paws, his little back shaking as he fought back tears of loneliness and fear. How lost he had been then. When had Runnalon found him? Ashdark closed his eyes and shook his head. Enough. The dibbun seeking solace had become a scout seeking battle, but the drive to wander when trouble struck had never left Ash. Suddenly the cave seemed much to small; the once secure walls were closing in. He turned instinctively toward the watery wintry sunlight that trickled in through the distant entrance. Food. That was it. Runnalon would be hungry when he awoke. Food and water would do his injured friend good, and Ashdark needed the air. Ash eyed Runn's prone form warily. His breathing was shallow and uneven, but he appeared to be sleeping deeply.

Ashdark scrubbed a paw in the long-abandoned pile of charcoal in the corner until his paw was completely blackened. Finding a slab of pale-colored stone on the cave floor, he scrawled a hasty message: "Gone for suppliz." Beneath, he drew an arrow pointing east, the direction he would take, and a messy sketch of the setting sun, indicating when he would return. He thwacked his paw decisively on the floor, signing the note with its dark print. He wanted his wounded companion to have no doubts of his whereabouts or intentions should Runn regain consciousness in his absence.

Ashdark straightened his posture purposefully and strode out of the cave into the snow, slinging his bow and quiver over one shoulder as he went. Raising a paw to his eyes to shield himself from the glare of the morning son, he wondered if maybe it would have been wiser to wait until nightfall. Unlike Runnalon, the archer didn't exactly blend in. It wasn't that he felt threatened; Ash was far too aware of his own abilities for that. But he wanted to keep a low profile. No sense bringing an ambush down on the cave while Runn was sick, he thought to himself. So he ducked and weaved behind the evergreens, taking care not to be seen by anybeast as he threaded his way to the small stream adjacent to the cave.

Ash sighed in contentment at the sound of running water. Humming softly to himself, he set about whittling a temporary fishing rod from a thin pine bough, stringing and baiting it with twine, a hook, and dried shrimp from his belt pouch. He ventured out onto the ice of the partially frozen rivulet and dropped his line into a small, becalmed hole in the ice. He propped the branch against his footpaws and sat down cautiously, nocking an arrow to his bow and glancing over his shoulder to ensure his solitude. But he soon felt his vigilance sliding away into a vague, impersonal unease as he drank in the crisp winter air, laden with the heavy, dark scent of pine. Ash dangled on eof his footpaws in the rapidly flowing streamwater, but soon fell to shivering; he was essentially a creature of southern Mossflower in summer and had never understood the energy that Runn seemed to draw from cavorting about the frozen landscape. He drew his legs up to his chest and huddled into a tight crouch. His thoughts wandered back to his companion from the Northlands.

He winced slightly in recollection of the guilt that had besieged him the night before. He frowned. Why had he been so miserable? After all, would Runnalon be lying snug and warm in a hidden cave awaiting victuals and treatment if not for Ashdark's quick thinking and brave action? But then, Ash muttered to himself, he wouldn't need treatment in the first place if I'd acted sooner. He kicked irately at some loose snow on the bank; so much for relaxation, he thought bitterly. Why do I still feel guilty? He fidgeted restlessly. Ash was a creature of action; he could hardly stand to sit still and argue with himself when there was no resolution in sight. What to do?

"I'll just have to make it up to him, that's all," he said aloud, and sprang up. Even if he hadn't been the one to prevent Runnalon's injury, he could at least be the one to prevent the other from suffering any during his recovery by making sure he was never wanting for food, water, warmth, shelter, or company. That much, Ashdark thought, I can do.

His stomach growled. He shrugged one shoulder and figured food was as good a goal as any. He glanced over at his fishing line, which hadn't moved. Not wanting to be idle, he left his fishing equipment behind and strode jauntily off into the trees, slashing low-hanging boughs from the pines and stowing them in his nearly empty quiver for firewood as he went. It wasn't long before he realized that his foraging was going to be of no avail; greens weren't exactly flourishing in the middle of winter. Ash made a face at the silent evergreens; unless they wanted to eat pine needles, he needed a better plan. He knew that he was miles from Camp Willow, Redwall, or any other civilized outpost that could provide him with supplies, and whatever he could catch from the river wouldn't be enough. He racked his memory to try and recall what, if any, friendly living creatures they had encountered since leaving home. All he could think of was the mob of the great serpent's scruffy gray followers. "It's not as if those blighters'd help me," he growled quietly. Unless...

Ashdark's mind worked rapidly. There had to have been at least threescore of the strange beasts that had attacked Runn, and that was probably only a combination of a few routine patrol groups that had been summoned to dispatch the intruder. There had to be more under the serpent's command. "Probly 'undreds of the buggers," Ash breathed, his eyes widening slightly at the thought. He regained composure rapidly. "So much the better for me. An army marches on its stomach, ey? An army that big has to have loads o'vittles stashed away someplace." He bared his teeth into a slightly maniacal grin as he turned to face the direction from which he and Runn had fled earlier. "An' it ain't fair for those fuzzy little villains to be stuffing their ugly mugs when a couple of otter warriors is 'ungry," he laughed to himself. He set off into the gathering sunlight.