Vengeance Quest
Note: Kaylen, Shadow de Vulpes, Brook, and Onestrype all belong to other people, all of which no longer roleplay on the ROC. I received permission from Kaylen, Brook, and Onestrype to use their characters in Vengeance Quest; I couldn't find Shadow's roleplayer. All characters are very likely changed from what they should be like, but as their roleplayers no longer roleplay them, I hope it doesn't matter much.
Chapter 6: Wanderers of Mossflower"Patrol… what fun…" Riala shook her head, leaping across branches to another tree. She moved without hurry, scarred paws beating a steady tattoo on the solid wood. Brook's words marched through her mind, keeping time with the drum of her paws.
Patrol duty is a regular job here. A network of scouts throughout Mossflower lets us know when somebeast enters the woods, who it is, what their intentions are, and we can take action before they do any harm. Even when you're not on duty, keep your eyes open for suspicious types.
It was good sense, a good system, but seasons! It was boring!
Besides that, it ought to help you learn your way about the woodlands. You might even chance upon one of the other Wanderers while you're patrolling. And… Brook had paused, a tiny smile playing about her face, you might find news of the wolverine while you're at it.
It was a candied chestnut held just out of reach, temptation and bait for the trap. Riala knew the mouse's words were meant to bring about willing cooperation, she knew she was being manipulated. She didn't care. The mere thought of the Longclaws was enough to send hate flaring up full force; the slim chance of finding news of her enemy was enough to send her, docile and uncomplaining, to patrol.
How deeply I am controlled, she thought, wry and not quite sarcastic. Even she was unsure whether she referred to this patrol or the hatred that drove her. And again, with a callousness that once would have shocked her… she didn't care.
Crack!
The sound echoed through the forest, startling the squirrel into the air, and she landed on a thicker branch with roce in paw, staring about wildly. Foolish, lost in thought, spinning amidst the clouds like some wool-headed abbeybeast… Idiot!
It wasn't her perch that made the sound of a tree splitting in two. Nor was it any vermin she could see or sense. Tufted ears flicked back and forth, her nose twitched at a stray breeze, and her eyes widened at the rank scent of mustelid.
Ferret? No, this is stronger… badger?
The breeze drifted, raised a tunnel of powdery snow, returned. Yes… definitely badger.
Cautious now, attention fixed firmly in the present and on her surroundings, she made her way to the source of the noise. It wasn't hard to find. She only needed to follow her nose and her ears, for more cracks soon followed the first.
It was a badger, huge and black, with a single white stripe running from nosetip to tail. He stood over a gigantic fallen tree, breaking off limb after limb with massive paws. It was the ease with which he tore apart branches almost as thick as his solidly muscular arms that caused Riala to stop and stare from her perch, fascinated.
The badger paused to shake snow from his coat and then stilled, rounded ears swiveling in the squirrel's direction, nose testing the wind. He rounded on her with surprising speed, jerking a double-headed axe from the snow as he turned. The axe turned slowly to a position for attack as his dark brown eyes probed the treetops.
"Might as well come out," he growled, a low rumble deep in his throat. "I can smell you, treebusher." His gaze traveled across the motionless squirrel to the next tree, stopped, returned to set on her. "And see you."
Wary but not too concerned that the badger was hostile, Riala dropped to the forest floor, not yet putting aside her throwing club. They stood there across the bark-littered ground, sharp gazes noting hard muscle and a fighter's coiled readiness for action. Silence sparkled with the snow, drawn tight with the tension in the air until the badger saw the wooden circle on the squirrel's cape and shattered the quiet with a word.
"Wanderer." It was a grunt of acknowledgement, perhaps a greeting. "You new?"
"Aye." Taut muscles loosened the slightest bit as Riala saw the symbol on the other's collar, an oaken circle striped with red.
"Thought so. I'm Onestrype Durando." With a curt nod, the badger returned to breaking up the fallen tree.
"Riala Goldentail," she said, watching him. "What are you doing?"
He broke another limb in two before replying, "Getting firewood." At her odd glance to the tree, he relented and let a few more carefully hoarded words break loose. "Tree's been here a while now. Nobeast else is using it."
"Oh." Something was odd about that explanation, about the badger's actions. "Why does one beast need so much wood?"
This time Onestrype actually stopped ripping apart the hapless tree to look at her, impatience kindling in dark brown eyes. "Most of us have dwellings in the woods. You should find one if you plan to spend much time here." He turned back to his growing pile of firewood. "Wood's hard to find this time of year. I'm stockpiling."
Quiet fellow, Riala thought as the taciturn badger moved down the tree to a lower branch. Suppose I ought to leave him alone.
Onestrype ignored her farewell, never turning from his task as the squirrel took to the treetops once more.
The white-caped ground rolled steadily past beneath her footpaws as Riala resumed her patrol. A drey. It was an odd thing to think about. The last time she'd lived in a drey was… she'd lost track of the seasons. She'd been a wanderer ever since her father died, making only temporary camps, sometimes staying a while at somebeast's dwelling, never at a drey of her own.
But it made sense… With no idea of how long she'd be staying in Mossflower, it was a bit silly to camp every day when a semi-permanent dwelling would work far better. Where, then, to make her drey? Not something she'd thought about much in her travels…
It had to be hidden, that was a must. In the trees if possible; not many save other squirrels could reach it then. Size didn't matter, only that it was well concealed. A wide-trunked tree, probably an oak, build it up… Now to find a good tree.
She paused in the middle of the tree she'd been running along and blinked. "Well, well…" Widespread branches, thick and gnarled and sturdy, stretched out almost horizontal to touch the pines and firs surrounding the massive oak. Brambles snarled the dense brush below, far from any trail. A rare smile quirked at the corners of Riala's mouth.
"Perfect."
Nameday!
The word rustled through the trees along a messenger breeze, whispered with gleeful anticipation. The new spring leaves came alive with the excited rumor passed from woodlander to woodlander, and the Abbey bells tolled out the news, inviting all to come.
Nameday! Nameday! they sang, ringing clear through Mossflower. Come and gather, celebrate, feast! Nameday! Nameday!
Riala heard the bells as she scurried about her drey, pressing new-dug ivy into dirt-filled trenches about the place, coaxing them up around poles and lattices. Tufted ears pricked into the wind, and her paws stilled on a spade-leafed tendril. Spring Nameday… perhaps I ought to go this time. She'd been either stuck in bed or unwilling to take part in such a huge gathering the past few Namedays. Still, if she was going to be staying here very long…
Well, it wasn't till tomorrow. Time enough to work on her drey some more.
Odd how much she enjoyed working on the place. There was a strange satisfaction in making something with her own paws, and she'd worked on the drey every chance she had. She'd woven branches together to make the walls and the roof, tried growing ivy to camouflage the dwelling, filled in the many chinks with moss. Riala hummed along with the ringing bells as she climbed a nearby branch and dropped through the opening in the drey's roof.
Her mostly finished forest-hued tunic lay on the cot. She made a distasteful face at the sight of the garment. "I hate sewing," the squirrel muttered, "but I'd better finish this before Nameday…"
A few stitches, a flip of the tunic to turn it right-side-out, and she shed her somewhat ragged and no-longer-white tunic, exchanging it for the green-brown-gray one. "Much better," she said, then paused as the bells rang out again. "It's been too long since I've visited Redwall… Why wait 'till tomorrow?"
The massive gates of Redwall stood wide open for the visitors from Mossflower Country and beyond. Constant activity grew in and around that entrance, voices yelling greetings and introductions and orders, laughter bubbling with pure elation at the meeting of old friends long unseen, exclamations at changes and compliments on guest-brought food.
Riala hung back from the commotion on the dusty path and at the gate, standing in the greengold shadowlight of spring leaves and sun at the edge of the forest. Rustling in the brush behind her caused her to whirl about, roce in paw, crouching as if to fight. Then Kaylen stepped into sight, and she relaxed.
"Hello."
The otter grinned as Riala returned the throwing club to her belt. "G'day, matey. Ye goin' ter th' Nameday feast t'morrow?"
"Aye." The squirrel glanced at the flow of visitors to Redwall and shrugged. "Was thinking about visiting the abbey before it started but… it looks busy now."
"Not too busy f'r anybeast," the otter said. "Nobeast'll protest yore comin' ter Redwall."
"I suppose…" Riala paused and looked at her otter friend, a thought occurring to her. "Why aren't you at Redwall?"
"Patrol," Kaylen explained. "Some of us Wanderers're patrollin' th' woods while th' gates're open, makin' sure no vermin types slip in."
"Oh." She frowned, gaze flicking to the gates again. "Am I supposed to be patrolling?"
"Nay, it's shipshape. Only takes a fewbeasts."
The squirrel nodded. "Who's on patrol?"
"Onestrype, Kathryn, Selan, Tamlin, Bravestripe, meself…" Kaylen shrugged. "Not a huge group, ye see. But enow."
"You'll be coming tomorrow?"
"Aye, wouldn't miss a Redwall feast f'r anythin'!" She grinned, white teeth flashing bright in the sable face. "Be there t'morrow. Ye go 'ave fun, hear?"
She smiled despite herself. "Aye, matey."
The otter snorted at the mimicry of her marine accent and gave Riala a small push in the direction of the abbey. "Get goin'!"
The next day's feast was mind-boggling. Feasters of every size and shape and species filled the Great Hall to its maximum. Otter acrobats, hedgehog magicians, and hare jesters all conspired to make the abbey a cacophony of sound and whirling color. Trays and dishes, platters and bowls filled the air with an overwhelming orchestra of tantalizing scents, and many of the feasters made a game of trying to guess the contents.
"That must be deeper'n'ever pie – it's large enough!"
"'Otroot soup, matey. C'n smell it from 'ere!"
"I say, lids an' such can't fool a bally hare, wot! That'll be leek'n'gravy pastries, doncherknow, an' those 'ave t'be cinnamon oatcakes!"
"Get you'm paws offer et, you'm walkin' stomach. Oi baked et moiself. T'ain't oatcakes et all, zurr."
"First Redwall feast, brushtail?"
Riala blinked at the quiet voice and turned to see the nightblack form of Shadow de Vulpes. "That it is, fox," she said, voice even and cool. "How did you get into the abbey?"
Slit green eyes narrowed at the implication. "Same way as you."
A hare two seats from Riala waved his already laden fork to the empty spot next to the squirrel. "Hi Shadow, 'ere's a place! Join in, wot?"
"I don't know…" She looked to Riala as she spoke, her gaze level and somewhat accusing. "I'm not sure if I'm welcome."
"Nobeast'll complain if you sit," Riala said with a shrug, averting her gaze.
The vixen watched the squirrel's tense form with still-narrowed gaze, then took a seat. She glanced at the hare's fork and a faint smile touched her angular face. "Tsk, tsk, Taris. Snitching food already?"
"Snitching?" he exclaimed, ears standing up straight, quivering with indignation. "Bad form, ol' gel, accusin' a chap of stealin'! Jolly bad form!"
"What do you call that, then?" Shadow asked, nodding to the overloaded fork.
Taris eyed the morsel for a moment before shoving it into his mouth. "Call wot?" he asked past a full mouth, waving the empty fork under the fox's nose.
Riala watched the banter with mingled confusion and surprise. A hare and a fox, joking about at a Redwall Nameday feast table… who would have thought it?
Abbess Rosemary stood at the table's head, and silence dropped on the hall like a thick blanket. "Today is the first day of the Spring of Early Blooms," the ancient albino mouse announced. "Let us thank the seasons for this rich bounty."
"Squirrels, otters, hedgehogs,
mice,
Moles with fur like sable,
Gathered in good spirits all,
Round this festive table.
Sit we down to eat and drink.
Friends, before we do, lets think.
Fruit of forest, field and banks,
To the springtime we give thanks."
With a clatter of plates and utensils, Redwallers and guests alike fell to the feast, chatting about food and events. Riala took a pastry and a slice of deeper'n'ever pie and tasted them, blinking at the rich flavor. "S'good," she murmured past a mouthful of beets and potatoes.
"Aye, but ye've 'ad nothin' yet, matey!" Kaylen ladeled soup into the squirrel's bowl, then filled her own bowl as she sat down on the opposite side of the table. "Otter specialty. Best stuff on th' table." She grinned over at Shadow as she spooned the soup into her mouth with relish. "'Allo, de Vulpes!"
Shadow nodded to the other Wanderer and watched Riala expectantly, mouth twitching as if to hold back laughter. The squirrel looked from otter to fox and back again, then at the reddish soup, suspicious. She shrugged, threw caution to the wind, downed a spoonful of the thick liquid…
…and dove immediately for the cherry cordial, gulping it down frantically. When the tears brought forth by the fiery concoction finally subsided enough to see clearly, Riala tried choking words past her burning tongue. "What is this stuff?"
Shadow no longer attempted to hold back peals of laughter, but Kaylen merely continued shoveling down soup with clear enjoyment. "'Otroot soup. Nothin' 'otter fer an otter! Needs more 'otroot though." She scooped up a bowl of red powder and shook it liberally into her soup. Riala watched aghast, a sympathetic burning flaring up on her tongue as the otter swallowed more hotroot soup. "Aye, that's about right. Oh, 'allo Oney."
Onestrype nodded in return greeting, sinking into a spare seat and piling his plate high with all manner of fare. To Riala's surprise, he also filled a large bowl with hotroot soup and downed it with as much relish as Kaylen.
The otter noticed Riala's expression and chuckled. "Don't worry yeself o'er it, bushbrush," she said. "Many's a beast that can't eat 'otroot. Takes an otter'r a badger'r th' like."
"Tell that to the mouse," Shadow said, nodding to a slight young mouse drinking the spicy concoction straight out of his bowl.
"Good job there, matey!" Kaylen called to the youngling.
He grinned at the otter and refilled his bowl. "I'm gonna be as big as ye, waterdog!" he proclaimed.
"What, ye're sayin' I'm fat?"
Riala chuckled despite herself. The otter was solidly built, hard muscle through and through, not an ounce of fat on her—but she was certainly not small. Otters rarely were. "He's saying you're bigger than he is."
"Aye, I should 'ope so!" Kaylen winked at the mouse. "'E's a twig! More 'otroot f'r ye, shipmate. T'will put muscle on those bones o' yores."
Riala took a bite of her pastry as the banter flew thick and fast. Here in Redwall, among good friends and good food and good cheer, all thought of Nightdeath and battle faded beyond the sandstone walls that blocked off more than just vermin. Time blurred by, talk remained on inconsequentialities, and trials were forgotten for the remainder of the feast.
Mission by mission, day by day, Riala settled into Wanderer life. She gained rank steadily, from Scout to Traveler to Tracker. Spring waned to summer with rising temperatures and longer days. Rarely did the squirrel have to battle though. Many missions dealt with finding runaway dibbuns, or investigating odd happenings, or patrolling an area of Mossflower. Small jobs, dull and tedious. She began itching for action, and one day in late spring a slip of paper came to break the monotony.
"Another lost dibbun?" the squirrel asked, taking the mission explanation from Shadow. Time and association had worn the racial barrier between them to rubble, and she'd begun to see the vixen as a friend.
The fox shook her head. "Don't think so. Where'd you find that one, anyway?"
"Locked himself in the food pantry, the little glutton." She chuckled at the memory. "Got himself sick with candied chestnuts." The seal broke with the flick of a claw and she scanned the words briefly.
Mission: A small group of slavers has been seen near the North Path up by the ruins of St. Ninian's. Free the slaves and bring them to Redwall.
A feral grin etched its way across Riala's scarred visage. "Slaver group," she said. "Finally some action!"
"Need some help?"
Riala glanced through the paper again. "Nay, 'tis only a small group." She checked her dagger and roce, then nodded farewell to Shadow. "Thanks—I'll see you soon." With that, she scurried up a nearby tree and headed north.
She found the slavers almost by accident. It seemed they knew of the Wanderers and were attempting silence. Only movement, the flicker of light on linked steel, the stench of mustelid on a shifting wind, alerted the squirrel to the vermin below.
Chain clinked and a youngling whimpered. The hiss of a whip provoked a scream, quickly muffled, and a curse. "Oy, scum-fer-brains, wot kinda idiot are yew?" The reprimand was issued in a harsh whisper followed by a solid slap that rang through the woods. "Ya wanna bring alla woodies in th' forest down on our 'eads? Keep 'em quiet! No whips, else I'll use th' things on yew if we get outta 'ere!"
Riala crept down the tree to a lower branch, peering through the leaves for a better view. Three slavers that she could see, maybe a fourth at the end of the ten-slave chain. A stoat, a rat, a weasel. The slaves were all woodlanders, most young, all worn and blank eyed, all with whip-scarred backs.
Her jaw tightened at the sight. Just the three of them… no difficulty. Her roce slid from the belt into her calloused paw and she threw. The heavy stick crashed into the weasel's head, then a tug on the long cord sent it flying back into her paw.
"Wha…" The rat gaped at the fallen slaver, shocked. "Grulig!"
The stoat stared about, trying to figure out what killed his fellow slaver. The roce tumbled his way this time but he heard the rustle as it crashed through the leaves and ducked. Riala cursed, leapt to the ground, slinging her dagger as she landed. It buried itself to the hilt in the stoat's chest. He looked at it, at her, then fell with a rattling gasp.
A tumbling roll ended with dagger and roce returned to calloused paws. The squirrel whirled to face the astonished rat only to catch a whip across her face, fire slashing from ear to chin. "Ye'll die naow, rat," she snarled, ignoring the blood dripping past her eyes.
Fear touched his ungroomed face but he shook out his whip and stood firm. The lash hissed and Riala struck out her arm. It curled about like a vine strangling a tree. She tensed, yanked, and the whip flew from the rat's paws. A shake of her arm and it rattled free. Riala's roce arm drew back…
"Look out!"
A cry from one of the slaves, a flash of triumph on the rat's face. She hit the earth, rolled, and an arrow thudded into the ground. When she returned to her footpaws, gathered her bearings, the rat stood with retrieved whip in paw. A ferret archer waited at the treeline, an arrow fixed on the squirrel's throat. Brush rustled and out stepped a stoat, a long saber gleaming in one paw.
"Who'll die t'day, brushtail?" The rat smirked, tapping his whip on his thigh. "Yew… or me?"
"Ye, I believe," Riala said, and dove. An arrow whistled overhead, the stoat ran forward, but they were all too late… her dagger sliced past the flailing lash and slashed across the rat's chest. He fell back, she dove again, the bow twanged…
"Hold!"
The shout froze all motion, turned every gaze to the slender black fox that held a slim knife to a young slave's pale neck. "Don't yew move, treejumper, or this brushtail dies." The little squirrelmaid stared straight ahead, unblinking, unafraid. Her expression held only resigned acquiescence.
Riala gaped at the sight of Shadow de Vulpes with a dagger to a youngling's throat. Can't trust vermin… Her old adage, nearly discarded in the past season, rang through her mind. Was I wrong to trust Shadow?
"'Ey, thanks vixen!" the rat said with a rasping laugh, holding one arm to the too-shallow gash across his chest. He advanced on the motionless squirrel as the stoat sheathed his blade and the ferret stowed her bow. Riala took a step back, gaze flicking to Shadow. The knife tightened on the squirrelmaid's throat, the vixen's eyes hardened to emerald.
"Stay right there, brushtail," she hissed. "Less yew don't care what 'appens ter this mangypaws."
I don't care… She almost said it, would have been mostly truthful in the telling until she met the squirrelmaid's gaze. Emptiness reigned in those brownblack eyes, the shadows of a soul near death, a darkness that mirrored the void in Riala's own eyes. She stilled, kept her silence, locked by empathy to the nightoak gaze, unable to look away as all three slavers advanced.
Motion flickered, sunlight flashed on steel, and the ferret archer fell with a gurgling cry, a dagger in her throat. It broke the strange connection, gold-brown gaze following the gleam of the blade to its destination, confusion flicking shadow over the scarred face. Riala stared from ferret to fox, bewildered as the twin to the killing dagger appeared in Shadow's paw. It too sliced through the air, digging its lifehungry length into the swordstoat's ribs.
The squirrel didn't wait to weigh Shadow's actions in her mind. She whirled on the rat, hurling her roce into his skull. Already stunned by the surprise whirlwind of steel, he didn't see the sturdy throwing club until it caved in his head. A yank of the cord returned the stick to her paw, and she turned to face Shadow de Vulpes.
They regarded each other over fallen bodies and huddled slaves. Silence stretched tense between squirrel and fox, words unspoken littering the air. Riala spoke first.
"I didn't need any help."
The triangular head tilted slightly, questioning. "Really. With an arrow aimed at your heart and a swordsbeast and whiprat on either side."
A shrug. "Not a very good archer. Shot at me twice, missed both times."
"She would have hit you eventually."
"Would she?"
Shadow grimaced. "I'm no seer, but you looked like you needed help."
"What if I'd killed you? I thought for sure you were vermin." Riala stared down at the wet gleam of blood on the dagger in her paw, remembering the betrayal she'd felt. Even now it lingered, distrust a shadow nibbling at the fringes of her mind.
"It would have meant killing the squirrelmaid."
The squirrel looked away to the woods, unable to meet the young slave's gaze again. "I might have tried to kill you anyway," she said, voice quiet. "Maybe I'd have killed you before you could kill the youngling."
Again the questioning look, probing deep. "And maybe not."
Silence. Riala ran one scarred paw along the dagger's reddened length, cleaning off the blood, staining her paws with midnight fire. "That's what scares me." A tentative whisper, barely audible.
Shadowed gold-brown eyes met summer green. She couldn't read the myriad emotions in the vixen's gaze, wasn't sure she wanted to. The fox looked away first, to the huddled slaves, took a deep breath. "We'd better bring them to Redwall."
Riala nodded slowly, glancing at the young squirrelmaid who stared about as if seeing things for the first time. "Aye… let's go."
To watch the freed slaves enter Redwall was to watch a rebirth. Light sparked, flickered, caught in shadowed eyes; hunched backs straightened; drooping ears pricked with interest. The abbeybeasts fussed over each freed slave, bathed them, clothed them, fed them. Freedom was a healing draught first sipped tentatively, as if afraid it would be snatched away, then gulped down with relish and awe and celebration.
The young squirrelmaid apparently decided she had some sort of life debt to Riala. She latched onto the older squirrel, a ginger-red shadow that followed Riala's every move, nightoak eyes wide and shining with hero worship. It was hard to ignore. Riala tried just that for nearly an hour until she turned and almost collided with the youngling.
"Would you please stop that!" she said, half shouting, exasperation pushing volume into her rough voice.
The squirrelmaid cringed, cowered, backed against the wall. A flicker of fear drew the shadows back into her gaze, a darkness that was slow to fade. Riala relented before the reversion to save mannerisms. "No… don't do that. I didn't mean it." Her voice did not lend itself well to softness but she tried. The tensed starved limbs relaxed minutely but the dark brown eyes still held caution, uncertainty. Riala bent down to the youngling's level, surprisingly not much lower than her own height—she was older than she appeared. "What is your name?"
Hesitation, a long glance at the ground. "I was… The slavers called me Scumbrush, ma'am. 'Cos me tail were so dirty'n all."
"Scumbrush?" Riala stared, shocked. After a bath and new clothes, the young squirrelmaid (she refused to think of her as … that degrading name) was actually quite pretty, her fur a fiery ginger red, her throat purest white.
The squirrelmaid swallowed, gaze fixed on her white-tipped paws. "Yes'm."
Silence, her mind empty of words. She forced out a question, determined to find another name. "What was your name before the slavers?"
"Dunno, ma'am. Been a slave long's I c'n 'member."
It's not as if you haven't seen lives like this before, she scolded herself, angry at the horror she felt at the youngling's story. Another part of her argued that this was different… but how? No answer came from that silent voice, and she tried again. "What—what do you want to be called?"
The squirrelmaid lifted her head at last, and now there was a determined set to her chin, a spark of fire in the nightoak eyes. "Malaya, ma'am. One of t'others tol' me it means freedom. An' that's what I be. Free. I won't e'er go back t'bein' a slave." Passion gave her voice volume and emphasis; truth and conviction shone in her gaze. "I'll die first."
Riala nodded slowly, the squirrelmaid's unbroken spirit striking a chord within her. "Malaya, then. A much nicer name than Scumbrush, and I think it fits you far better." She smiled, placed a calloused paw on the bony shoulders. "Will you stay at Redwall?"
Uncertainty gave her pause as she stared at the sunrise walls, took in the smell of food and the sound of laughter, but her gaze returned to Riala and her voice held unerring decision. "No, ma'am. I wants t'join th' Wanderers."
"Really?" Odd that she should be surprised, but she was. "Why?"
"'Cos then I c'n help others get free. An' I c'n help keep creatures stayin' free."
How she values her freedom… but she has been a slave so long that it must be more precious than life, now. "Aren't you a bit young for the Wanderers?"
"Uh-uh." She shook her head decisively. "I's not a child, ma'am. I wants to be a Wanderer like you. C'n I stay with you?"
That unexpected question startled a laugh from the squirrel. She couldn't refuse; somehow she'd accepted Malaya as her shadow already, even welcomed her. "Aye, you may. But Malaya… my name's Riala, not ma'am."
Elation lit up Malaya's face and she smiled from ear to ear, belatedly remembering to answer. "Yes'm—er, yes, Riala!"
Another laugh bubbled up from her throat and she gave the young squirrelmaid a slight push towards the dinner table. "Go eat first," she said with a grin. "You could use some meat on those bones. Maybe some hotroot soup will do you some good."