• • •

Days passed, and somehow, Liz found herself in the midst of a kitchen melee. Delicacies were cooking everywhere, beasts were dashing to check on every sort of pie and cake she could ever imagine, concoctions were being stirred, and batter and cream covered Dibbuns were everywhere. She never would have expected that the Abbey kitchens before such a huge feast would be so crazy—yet another instance from the stories that she had encountered.

Seawisp expertly steered the squirrelmaid between beasts. She was pointing out foods as she went, as if she were a tour guide. "...There is the ever wonderful Mossflower Wedge and over there is the delectiable Lemon 'n Butter Trout and here is the mole's famous Deeper 'n Ever Pie and smell this, Skipper's famed recipe of Hotroot Soup and oh...we ought to hurry back out before Friar can..."

"Seawisp! Elizabeth!" a voice boomed, and a pudgy hedgehog, Friar Truffm rapidly mixing a bowl of pudding, appeared from behind a Three Layered Abbey Redcurrant Cake. "Nice to see you beautiful maids have decided to come down to the kitchens. Busy?"

Seawisp struggled for an excuse. "You see, Skipper...um...needs help with fishing..."

"Ah, that slippery waterdog can catch a whole basket of fishies himself. You, slippery ottermaid, can help Jyp over there with flipping those epic blueberry flans on the skillet. I'm worried that mole will drown in the batter and we'll be havin' blueberry mole instead." The Friar's deep laugh drowned out all other sounds in the kitchen, which was quite a feat. Liz edged away from the coming chore, hoping the hedgehog hadn't noticed her presence, but Seawisp caught hold of her bushy tail.

"No abandoning a trapped matey," Seawisp growled good-naturedly. "Liz would like to help too."

Friar Truff eyed Liz suspiciously. "Not sure about letting Greenhorns into my kitchens..."

"If Horner can be allowed in here to sample, I'm sure you can find a task for Elizabeth." Seawisp grinned.

"GET AWAY FROM THAT APPLE PIE OR I'M GETTING SOME HARE EAR OVEN PADS!" Friar Truff boomed, causing Horner to skitter away with nary a "wot, wot" in reaction. "Liz, you retrieve the meadowcream where it's cooling in the wine cellar, and make sure the Dibbuns don't get the chance to dive into it."

The hare, Horner, poked his head back into the kitchens. "I could help 'er, wot, wot."

"Horner, you'd quaff it all with one lick! OUT OF MY KITCHENS. You too Liz—hurry up, scones are out of the fire any moment, and I want the cream on before they cool."

Liz felt a little lost and befuddled as she dashed to complete the task. The corridors of redstone felt a bit disorienting as she jogged down them, taking the stairs on all four paws for speed, until she realized she had made a wrong turn and sprinted back up. The books had not made the Abbey layout simple, and she wished she hadn't been so distracted when Seawisp gave her the tour. All she knew was that you could get almost anywhere from the Great Hall, and she didn't even know where that was at the moment.

She hit a door, literally, and rubbed her smarting nose. She noted the door was familiar, and as she opened it, she was relieved to smell the sweet wafts of fermenting drinks, a large bowl sitting near. As she reached for it, she was interrupted by a hiccup from within the gloom of the cellar, and the Cellarhog came into sight, rolling a large barrel towards the bowl. "Hullo, missy. Coming to visit ol' Quaffy and sample a bit of October Ale?"

Displaying a bit of squirrel agility, Liz leapt in and moved the bowl out of the path of the barrel. "Quite sorry, I'm on a mission, but I shall stop by later." She flashed a smile at the somewhat intoxicated hedgehog as she exited the room and made her way toward the kitchen.

How much time had passed?

In her quest to finish the Friar's order, she had never even noted the obvious surreal nature of all this. The feeling had faded more and more with her time here, until it felt a natural thing. Was that bad?

Absorbed with this thought, and with a very cream-filled wooden bowl in her paws, the squirrel standing around the corner took her by surprise when she ran into him. The bowl went flying into an epic arch that completed when it landed, upended, upon the squirrel's head. There was a long moment, as Liz looked in shock at the beast she had just creamed.

He slowly took the bowl off his head and blinked past the white confectionery, licking his lips. "Mmm...sweet cream that I can only assume is a gift from the Dark Forest," and noticing Liz, "presented from what I can only assume to be a heavenly spirit of unprecedented beauty, if not grace."

Blushing beneath her fur, Liz said, "Oh, so sorry, I..."

The squirrel took a beret off his head, revealing his fluffy red ears, and squeezed the creamy headpiece. "No, thank you. I haven't had as sweet a greeting on return to Redwall from anybeast until you. I must say, I think I would have remembered such a pretty maw. Treeskip is my name, and what may yours be?"

"Liz. Elizabeth. Yes, Liz," the squirrel maid fumbled; she saw something in his eyes past the cream. And his smile! "How will I bring the cream to the kitchens?" She regretted saying that—it sounded awkward and stupid. He would think her dim. For some reason, she desperately wanted him to think well of her. Why? What was driving her to that ambition?

"Ah, I guess you will have to bring me, since it seems to have taken residence in my fur." He held his tail with a certain confidence, and yet it twitched...as if nervous.

Like her own was doing.

"Friar told me not to let Dibbuns dive into the cream, but he never said anything about the cream diving upon somebeast...or upon handsome squirrels either."

• • •

Mark awoke from the embrace of a deep, comfortable sleep. Groggily, he rose from his sleeping position; it was a way of laying all tucked up, his tail over his nose, which seemed to add a bit of warmth and security. Mark had grown to like the position and was beginning to find the odd value of a tail. He blinked, and he saw two sets of eyes shining in the dim moonlight, the shadows of trees above. Strange, he was outside the tent. He tried to say something, and a strong paw jammed his jaw shut, and then something resembling a muzzle was placed over it.

Mark tried to move, only to be held down; the blanket was pulled up to restrain his limbs. Finally a hood was placed over his head, and he was greeted by pitch black and utter confusion. It all happened so fast, Mark didn't even have time to think; there were only brief moments of confusion, and not even the time to panic properly. The beasts knew what they were doing, and they were silent in doing it.

What were they going to do to him? He couldn't even growl through the muzzle to show his contempt, or whimper to show his fear. His instincts scoffed at the latter of the two choices. That wasn't even an option.

Still, his imagination feared the worst and conjured the possibilities, even though he couldn't bring himself to be scared of them. His breath was hot, collecting within his hood, smelling of a songbird, a meadowlark, tangy but too stringy to be anything to write home about. Now if it had been woodpigeon…

Where were these thoughts coming from?

For all he knew they were dragging him to be branded or maimed, to see if he would float with a rock tied on his footpaw, or if he would bounce if dropped from a tall tree, or if he would cook over a spit properly. Who knew what intrigued the vermin mind? When Mark considered his own thoughts, he figured he didn't want to know.

The hood was slipped off. In the flicker of a campfire behind them, Blookill and a pine marten with one ear—Perks, Mark had heard him called—stood in front of Mark. Menacing weapons of torture, which Mark couldn't place the names of, were in their paws.

"Do you promise, from the blood of your liver, that you will not tell any unworthy soul of what you witness here tonight, on punishment of having your tongue pulled out through your ear?" Perks said, as if reciting some ancient decree.

"Mmrrmm."

"You might have to take off the muzzle," someone out of Mark's sight suggested.

"It's a yes or no question. He could just nod," Perks countered.

Mark sighed, unsure what this would entail, and nodded.

"Now off with the muzzle."

Blookill obliged. "We never get enough use out of this thing, and it's so fun to use. I should make a drinking game with this..."

"Not the time Blookill," a familiar voice cut in, and Mark saw Thorn sitting next to him. "Let's just get to the tales. Seb, you're first."

A ragged rat with a battle-ax strapped on his back arose, clearing his throat. "I shall tell you the Tale of the Screaming Eels, a tale from the Far Southern Shores..."

Under the moonlight, around a flickering campfire, some distance away from the camp, the few dozen beasts settled down to listen. The only sound present was Seb's methodical voice, spinning a tale.

Mark could scarcely believe what he was hearing.

"We started this a few seasons ago, a gathering of some beasts from the horde to share tales, both from old lore and created on the spot—and some even from personal experience." Thorn whispered the explanation, most likely noticing Mark's befuddled expression. "Seb's a library of ol' sea tales." The grizzled rat was getting into the motions of the tale, acting out the waves of the storm he was describing.

"Never would have guessed..."

"Grew up thinking hordebeasts had rocks fer brains and our only entertainment was pain?"

"No. Never. That's not what..."

"Nevermind. Mark, you are learning."

Her paw snuck up under his shirt and up his back, scratching him; not for pain, but in a soft massaging way, oddly comfortable. He edged closer to Thorn, unsure, his instincts and his mind telling him the same. She used his real name...

"Thorn, I..."

Seb completed, sitting down after acting out the part of a stoat gurgling in death as an eel disemboweled him. All eyes moved to Mark.

"Flinch, since you are a new member to our horde, it's only right that you go next."

"I'm not really good at telling—"

"There's a good helping of woodpigeon for the beast with the best story tonight."

Mark's stomach grumbled with the thought of the unsatisfying songbird, and his imagination spun with sudden inspiration. Thinking back to a Redwall fanfiction he had written in middle school, he began, "There was once weasel of black, a demon, that escaped from the fiery grips of Hellgates, whose cry could plague the soul with never ending pain..."

• • •

The sun falling over the horizon set the redstone wall ablaze, the rose hue cast in the essence of gold. The aftermath of the Nameday feast spread over the orchard, from the still messy tables to the remnants of succulent food. Most Abbeybeasts had wandered inside to Cavern Hole to avoid the evening coolness, yet a few bided their time seated in the bright beauty of the orchard, which was still in a spring bloom. Sweet smells of flowers and food flowed into Liz's senses, and she almost wanted to hold her breath forever to savor the sensation.

The feeling of paws stroking her head as she lay in Treeskip's lap was part of this sensation. She couldn't help letting the bliss show on her face for the other squirrel to see. He had arrived from a tenure outside of the Abbey walls just a few days ago, and after the meadowcream incident, they had been inseparable. Liz couldn't explain how it was possible to feel this way. This was not right, and yet nothing in her actually told her that. She only wished to look into his light chestnut eyes for hours.

Through this ecstasy she could vaguely hear Abbot Malarkey, a vole, in a discussion with the Badger Mother Tulip.

"...haven't heard anything yet. Skipper said it was nothing to worry about. Still, to take most of his holt into Mossflower during Nameday festivities is unusual. I'm just not certain."

"Abbot, you worry—that is your duty: to sacrifice bliss for wariness so that the rest of our Abbey remains in peace. In this case, I'm sure Skipper knows what he's doing. It's probably just a small vermin band that has wandered too close to the Abbey."

"Skipper didn't eat a thing. If there were no 'big worries,' I doubt that waterdog wouldn't tuck as least as much as a troupe of hares."

"That's an exaggeration—have you seen how much a troupe of hares can eat?" As Tulip gave a deep laugh, Liz lost track of the conversation. Treeskip tugged at her ears playfully and Liz giggled. She couldn't deny this bliss and yet...

"Liz, why does you frown so suddenly?"

She didn't realize a frown had cracked her blissful expression. There was no point in hiding it from Treeskip; he seemed to have sixth sense about that sort of thing.

"It is no matter. I just remembered an old friend."

"Wasn't a squirrel more handsome than me, was it?"

Liz knew he was joking but she couldn't bring herself to smile. "No, not a squirrel...just a friend...Mark."

To say his name aloud made memories flutter back to her head, and a renewed sense of guilt and confusion. She didn't want that. She refused to take it.

"Treeskip, let's go inside...I'm not feeling well..."

Mark.

The name echoed in her mind as Treeskip led her towards the Gatehouse.

Mark.

Where was he?

• • •

Liz.

Mark rubbed the water through his fur, pondering if the coldness would wake him from this delusion. It had to be a delusion, no matter how real it felt. Doubts had formed in his mind, though he had little time to reflect on them between drills, practicing with Thorn, and currently, a series of meetings with the fox warlord.

He stared at his rippled reflection in the river, at his dark, brown-furred face, his white underjaw, his sharp carnivore teeth. It was strange how he had gotten so used to his appearance. Mark licked his paw and brought it across his forehead, to flatten the tufts of sticking-up fur.

Thorn had been right. The fox warlord was eyeing him at all times, watching his every move, ready to react to any misstep, to respond to any ill placed word, as if he were looking for an excuse, any excuse, to torture him to the tip of his weasel tail.

Mark did his best to take this in stride, but he had enough trouble avoiding bullies in the real world and didn't think this charade could last much longer.

A stoat tapped on his shoulder, telling him to report to Velaren right away. Mark went to the tent, sat down, and barely listened as the fox displayed his 'mastery' of rhetoric.

"You should be proud of yourself, Flinch. I think you are developing into a capable, bloodthirsty, ruthless hordebeast."

This compliment fell cruel and hollow on Mark's ears, and he could sense the bite in every word, words that took up most of the one-sided conversation. Even the fox's smile was fake-looking.

The fox pulled the many-furred cloak from behind his desk and buried his snout in it, taking a snorting whiff of its smells. Mark watched this indifferently, noting that Velaren was definitely obsessed with that grisly cloak. He studied his claws, wondered at their sharpness, as he waited for the fox to speak again.

Something was draped over his shoulders, and Velaren was speaking into his ear. "Of all the furs of my conquered enemies, it is interesting that my dashing cloak does not contain a weasel skin."

"Mmm." Mark cringed at the horrible smell the...thing was giving off.

The fox rubbed Mark's furry head and continued, "I sense something about you Flinch, a certain something different about the way you act, as if you are capable of great good..." Velaren slipped an arm around Mark and brought them cheek to cheek. The fox's other paw waved across to a map behind the desk, inky marks all over it, and a label that said Redwall in its center. "...And also capable of great evil."

Normally, Mark would be disheartened by this presentation, but he had grown to rely on his instinctual emotions, rather than his human ones, under the training of Thorn. He only felt slightly awkward with Velaren so near. Still, he couldn't figure what this fox was thinking. Maybe he was regressing into madness, as warlords had a habit of doing in this universe.

"I don't think you are what you appear," the fox said, "but I have the feeling that you are going to be quite an asset to our horde."

There was a buzz in Mark's mind. It took a few moments to realize it, and another to place it. It was a surging rage coming over his instincts, but a controlled rage that could wait to be released.

"Maybe I will..."

• • •

Author's Note: Heh. I think the dialogue needs work in areas. It's a work in progress for me as a writer. Thanks for reading and all those who have reviewed.The advice is very useful. The downhill part is coming soon...