A/N: Yeah, as fun as educating Sharpfur was, them leaving is really going to crank up the pacing and is therefore a necessity.

Abrahem, He was always pretty smart (and because he knows the outside world better than the sheltered abbey youth, he's the first to figure out that something's up with her. I think compassion is the greatest improvement in him. The way he comforts the old hedgehog and the notes plan. Etc

Yeah, shouldn't be too difficult. After all there are many possibilities.

A nice idea, but it's kind of my headcannon that all vermin bottle up their emotions in order to not seem 'weak', which is why Greyclaw being so sensitive was also kind of a clue that there was more to him. Fret also kind of does this, but before this all happened he's never been around other vermin so he doesn't behave exactly like most of them (he's black AND white and that's a bad pun XD)

That wasn't really what I was going for but in one story plan (not a spoiler since this one's really, really, really long abandoned, he'd have ended up Recorder… but he was also all grown up there so yeah) Though I like the idea… might even do it… And it's really fitting seeing as he is the closest to his father in appearance (both are the 'little ones' of their respective litters, and I know there are the babies, but pretty much all of them will probably end up taller than Sharpfur at some point… depending on how much time passes of course)

This is also a rather important note, but the events of this chapter takes place a few days after the events of the previous one. You'll see why that's important in a bit.

I don't know *where* I've earned this kill-crazy reputation (okay… there was that one time… and that other time… and that other… and yeah) but Sharpfur should be safe... For the time being...

Also deadglim… is that the best you can do? Come on, *threaten* me. I get deathstars every Tuesday.

Lord Demon, It wasn't bad. And I've written dark enough stuff for it to not make me uncomfortable per say, but it did strike me as rather different from this story tonally. I usually write a lot of magical stuff in my stories, but I also wanted Black and White to be a little distinct from my Kung Fu Panda works. See with Smothered In Pumpkin, I kind of have room to play with because the magical aspects of that are left to interpretation, like you don't know if it's 'real'. (But an Amazon Badger is kind of… not really Redwallian… or at least I can't imagine that in the context of Redwall)

And the fact that he is a vermin raised by woodlanders, yet is brave, honest and quiet kind of defeats the purpose. Fret ends up as the mean, snappy (and insecure) ferret that he is, because he is a vermin raised by woodlanders. My take on vermin is that they naturally have heightened survival instincts which, when coupled with their usual lifestyle, creates the standard vermin (it's also why the vast majority are cowards). When coupled with prejudiced (subconsciously on most fronts, yes, but prejudice is prejudice, whether or not it's 'in-the-right' is another debate) woodlanders you get creatures like Veil (rude, rash, but not wholly 'bad') and Fret (who winds up better than the one he's based on because Constance is by far a better mother than Byrony, who does back him up, but also corrects him when he's wrong and also because he's younger).

This story is mostly about that prejudice and (maybe, eventually) overcoming it. With a bit of adventure and my plethora of characters (and two seasons of travelling!) on the side.

Plus, he seems like an interesting character in his own right. And one issue with interesting characters and cameos is that, while possible, would it really do the character justice, or would it just end up being filler?

The issue is that it would either sidetrack the story (introducing characters isn't hard, but introducing a character with an entire plot worthy of his own story this late into Black and White is kind of… I don't know, out of left field?) Or be irrelevant (if I end up not touching upon him later on… then what's the point?)

I *could* if you're interested, have him mentioned in dialogue.

Eg, "Some bally stoat bigger than a badger going on about lizards and maidens, wot. Not pretty to hear sah! Uglier to repeat sah!" (Just an example)

I could also perhaps use a version of him in Smothered in Pumpkin, but I'm also a bit hesitant in bringing wolves into the mix. My take on the world is that wolves and dogs and all sorts of other animals exist, just not in the land of Redwall (other continents for example) And because anthropomorphism isn't the same here as it is in other places (birds, mammals and reptiles and fish are all intelligent, but have their own distinct lifestyles and behaviour. Which also means that a mammal eating a bird isn't cannibalism but a mammal eating a mammal is) and are affected by natural instincts… but all that for later. I don't want to get too ahead of myself.

Also, if you ever want to pick up a keyboard yourself… your writing's not bad- but when he's describing what the savages do I think you can cut out the 'most of their slaves are women part', unless that's an important plot point, because it does kind of make you look like 'steryeotypical fanfiction author'. And while there is a niche for that, you don't want to be a part of 'that crowd'.

Either describe everything in more detail (I want GOOOORE!) or be deliberately vague so that the audience can come to their own horrific conclusions.

So turn it more into something like 'A hundred vermin warlords have been overthrown by their slaves. Those who are taken by savages don't get that privilege. They beg for death when I find them… if they still have tongues to beg with…'

Also, regarding character- building, if Savage Slayer has PTSD (implied I think) he's not likely to talk about it. So a more effective way of showing this is to perhaps, have another character hear him say 'please kill me' while he's muttering in his sleep or have him confide in a character he's grown close to over the course of the story.

Just some advice for if/when you (or anyone else) decides to write him. So I don't think he can have a direct cameo here (at least not without cutting him down to nothing), but he can be mentioned (not too hard really) or he can appear in the Halloween special… coming the Halloween after I finish this story!

Okay, now we head back to…

"En garde mon copain!"

This was Threeclaw for 'I am about to lunge so quickly that my warning will be completely useless and I'll hit you anyways'. Of course, Matiya put up his token resistance, raised his stick, which Threeclaw's darted past before neatly landing between two of his ribs.

The squirrel lost balance, completely winded by the sudden attack, and landed squarely in a puddle of mud.

"You are becoming better." Threeclaw declared, stabbing his own stick into the soft ground so that he could use both paws to pull the dazed squirrel to his feetpaws.

This was either a genuine compliment or sarcasm. It was hard to tell with the stoat's accent.

"Yeah, nearly got your ear once." Matiya's paw traveled to where the wood had struck and winced at the twinges of pain.

"Another bruise?" Asked the albino. He spoke with a small frown but there was a mocking kind of laughter in his eyes.

"Like I'm not used to them." The squirrel retorted. And indeed he was used to them, sporting quite the collection himself. A small one on his left cheek, three divided along his sides, and, he suspected but didn't want to ask, a rather large one at the base of his tail.

"Perhaps we should be spending more time walking?" Threeclaw suggested, now beginning to twirl his rapier. "What would the abbeybeasts be thinking if they saw-" He jabbed quickly forwards, and halted the blade a milimetre away from his cheek. "That. And that one. And that one. And that other one." Now he began to spin around and point at all the bruises along the squirrel until, with a final poke of the squirrel's tail he finished. "And that one. Why! They'd be thinking I was beating you!"

"Well you were. But I hit you back."

The stoat gave a particularly smug grin. "And where, exactly, a vous tappe moi?"

"Here!" Matiya spun suddenly, and caught the unprepared stoat firmly in the stomach.

Threeclaw fell over, the blow having successfully knocked the wind out of him. By the time he had recovered, however, he was laughing.

"Tres bien mi amigo. Very unexpected." He rubbed at where the stick had struck. "But I am not remembering hitting you so hard."

Matiya helped the stoat to his feetpaws. "Well, desperate times, desperate needs. Should we restart?"

The stoat shook his head. "We've been hitting and kicking all morning. And we still have a river to find."

How they had not yet found the river was anyone's guess. Yet it had remained ever ellusive. The fact that they changed direction every day or two probably wasn't doing the pair any favours.

"And while we are walking." The stoat declared, sheathing the rapier. "You can tell me what is it you learned at the abbey." Here Threeclaw failed to surpress a snigger. "C'est obviously pas the art of war, but mayhaps it'll be funny."

"Well…" Matiya begun. He started a lot of sentences with 'well' these days. For one, it sounded a lot smarter than 'uhhhhh', which is what he wanted to say every time Threeclaw expressed curiosity in abbey life. From the cooking, to the history, to his friends… if the stoat was paying him any mind he probably knew a lot about Matiya. Far more than the squirrel knew about his own companion. But still, he saw no harm in telling the stoat. After all, he wasn't paying attention. "Well, sometimes we help out in the kitchen. We learn how to make pies and cakes and stuff. Sometimes somebeast takes us swimming. But mostly it's history. Abbot Martin likes to read the old books. The stuff our predecessors used to do."

"And what is it they did?" He did not sound particularly interested and was tossing and catching the rapier as if it were a simple stone, and not a pointed piece of flesh-piercing metal.

"Well." Matiya said again. "They ate. And there was usually some kind of riddle left behind by Martin the Warrior to solve. And fighting. Lots of that." The fighting was what Matiya remembered best, the only times he'd ever paid attention in class. He knew every warrior, every weapon, every duel and every grisly death. He had even tried to recreate them with his peers. Fret had never been particularly fond of it, and Grollo did not like the bruising, but Momchillo- despite considerably less skill- had been keen on it. The two had ran up and down the stairs and walls and kitchens, around the pond, along the grounds, across the orchard. Sticks clacking, faces laughing. If he had a nut for every time they had crashed into somebeast, the abbey could eat nutfarl for the next three seasons. A part of him now wondered if he'd see Momchillo again- but he surpressed that thought. Of course he would! Momchillo was back at the abbey now, playing with Grollo and teasing Hawthorn and… and missing him no doubt.

"Fighting." Threeclaw repeated, uncomfortable with the squirrel's sudden silence. "I heard that you abbeybeasts have a magic sword. Every vermin what touches it turns to ashes. Is it, as they say south of here, a fab-elle?"

"It never turned Fret to ashes." Matiya pointed out. "And he had to polish that thing once a week." The squirrel had never understood how that could possibly be a punishment, but Fret had hated it. Of course, polishing a sword that never got dirty was in and of itself a conundrum.

"Frettie wasn't exactly big on being vermin though."

"Well… I don't know." Matiya scratched the back of his neck.

Threeclaw shook his head in disappointment. "I would be thinking that you beasts call vermin vermin because they are being bad."

"Well we do. Vermin keep trying to conquer the abbey."

"Vermin or warlords?"

"Are they mutually exclusive?" This whole conversation was treading towards previously unknown paths, much like the creatures having it.

"Vous comprenez pas. You misunderstand. Is every creature what is trying to break your red walls, a vermin?"

"Well…" Now he was moving into dangerous territory. He did not want to offend Threeclaw, but at the same time felt the need to be honest. "Redwall was never besieged by mice." The young squirrel hoped and intended that to be the end of the discussion, but once more Threeclaw pressed on.

"But mice have besieged castles of their own."

"Yeah, but not for glory."

The stoat spun round and began to walk backwards. "And I was thinking freeing slaves was glorious."

"It is, but we never freed slaves for glory. We did it because it's the right thing to do."

"Exactement. But I am pointing at something else. Not every verminous creature that broke your abbey walls did it because it was doing la right thing to do."

It took Matiya several seconds to fully comprehend the statement. "Cluny the Scourge forced some vermin to join his horde." That was the only one he remembered, but he was sure there were more. "Is that what happened to you?" He asked abruptly, so suddenly had his question arisen, that the stoat- taken completely by surprise, fell over. "Were you forced to join the Honest Bunch?"

Threeclaw shook his head. "Squirrels are always jumping. Malheuresement you have landed on the wrong conclusion." Threeclaw got to his feet and spun around and that was the end of the conversation.

In silence now, the two tramped through the fresh greens of Spring, which was now in full bloom. This made foraging for food much easier, as an abundance of berry bushes provided enough nourishment for both, however, rainclouds were a rare sight and without any melting snow or icicles to suck on, hydration was proving far more difficult than it had been over winter. The only time it was in abundance, was when morning dew-drops dripped from the overhanging leaves.

Yet Spring had also come with more dangers. Winter meant that the world was asleep, blanketed in snow, they had been the only living things for miles around. Now, however, life was their constant companions. With blooming flowers came swarms of bees and hives filled and dripping with honey. Birds darted from branch to branch, singing their strange avian songs. For the most part, feathered creatures stayed away from those with fur, but on occasion an overly curious magpie would have to be chased off by a few well-placed prods of a rapier.

Spring had always been his favourite season. In Redwall it would mean finally being allowed out to play after a winter of biting cold winds, warm fires and stuffy classrooms. It meant longer days, fresh fruit and enough strawberry fizz to fill a lake. It meant that Abbot Martin would let them play in the sun more often than not and that their chores were minimised to the point of non-existence.

It also meant that it would soon be his nameday. How many seasons was he now? He raised a paw to count with, and promptly bumped into Threeclaw's back. The stoat's ears were swivelling left and right.

"What's wrong?"

"Shhhhh! Listen mi amigo."

Matiya grew still, his ears stiff. Then he heard it. The sound of rushing water.

A grin spread itself wide across Threeclaw's face, and Matiya soon found himself competing with him.

Wide-eyed, the pair advanced, until they reached the edge of the trees and a thin bank revealed itself to them.

"YES!" Matiya shouted, so loud that the nearby birds flew off suddenly with many an indigant squawk. The squirrel raced forwards into the river, the water was bitterly cold, but real! He raced back to the bank with another whoop of joy. Then he fell over, and rolling onto his back, laughed as hard as his lungs would allow.

Home, they were so close to home.

Remembering how thirsty he was, he made his way to the river and drank mouthfuls of the clear, fresh water.

There was a splashing to his side and Matiya turned round to see Threeclaw dragging what looked like a hairy ball of spikes, but what anyone who knew Grollo would know was a hedgehog.

Upon reaching dry land the ball began to uncurl, revealing a very pale old hedgehog. Her spectacles were askew and her apron in tatters, but otherwise she was only shaken.

"Woodlander!" Said Threeclaw, waving him over. "C'est ta grandmere!"

The squirrel wasn't sure what that meant, but came over.

Instinctively, the old hedgehog began to curl in on herself and emitted a whimper.

"Hey, hey, hey. It's okay. We're not going to hurt you." Matiya put on his most friendly smile. Threeclaw on the other paw, had grown disinterested and was cleaning around his claws with the point of his rapier.

"I- my name is Matiya." He stretched out a paw. "And I come from Redwall Abbey." He was made aware, rather brutally now in the presence of this stranger, that he needed a wash. Mud, dust, dirt, sweat- he was covered in so many layers of filth that it was a wonder his fur was still red.

She stopped whimpering abruptly, and hastily adjusted her spectacles.

"Redwall you say?"

"Yes. And er- this is Threeclaw." The stoat neatly waved his three-clawed paw. "He's from er- he's my sword… fighting… tutor."

"Threeclaw." The hedgehog repeated, as if she'd heard it before.

The stoat, with all the air and grace of one raised a gentlebeast, bowed, his paw flourishing in front of him before he neatly folded it behind his back. "Enchante madmoiselle."

"You, but of course." The hedgehog sat up abruptly. "I have heard much of both of you."

"You have?" Asked Matiya, then it occurred to him that he was still being looked for. No doubt somebeast had asked for him.

"Both of us?"

"Yes! Threeclaw! Sharpfur mentioned you."

"Sharpfur?" The pair asked incredulously. What had the little weasel been doing with this old creature?

"He's alive?" The stoat had a look of surprise that clashed viciously with the pride on his face. On the one paw Sharpfur was an undersized runt, though Threeclaw had taught him how to use a knife effectively, his survival had been unexpected. Especially considering he had been above deck at the time of the attack.

"Yes. And Grollo and Hawthorn."

A part of Matiya was relieved. His friends were alive. Another part of him, however was shocked. It was this side that spoke. "They're not back yet?" But it had been weeks! The poor friar! And the Badgermum, Hawthorn had always been her favourite.

Here the hedgehog stirred guiltily. "W-well. I-it's- I was scared!" She cried, her eyes beginning to tear up. "It wasn't safe! And Sharpfur had a burned back and, and Redwall's so far and I've never been- I've never left the island before and I thought it was best if- if they were safe and-" She was clutching her knees now and rocking to and fro along the ground.

Threeclaw neatly wiped away her tears with the point of his rapier.

"Shhhhh, relax. Breathe. Taking deep breaths now." Now he began to inhale and exhale and the hedgehog followed his lead until she was reduced to sniffles.

"Where are they now?" Matiya felt compelled to ask after a few minutes of awkward sniffling. He regretted his curiosity when the old hedgepig exploded into more loud sobbing.

Threeclaw gave him a mock-disgusted look which the squirrel responded to with a disgruntled one, before both attempted to calm down their new companion.

When she had recovered, she managed to answer. "They left. Took the boat and left. They said they were going to Redwall but… but it's not safe and-and-"

"Shhhhhh. It's alright. I connait Sharpfur. He can be looking after himself."

"Yeah." Matiya agreed. "Who knows? Mayhaps they're already at Redwall by now."

The old hedgehog sniffled. "B-but all alone an-and- they left in the dead of n-night and I didn't see any boats. Supposing they hit a r-rock-"

"Hawthorn can swim." Matiya said fiercely, refusing to believe for a second that any ill-fate could have befallen his friends… and their weasel companion he supposed. And he had thought he and Threeclaw were an unlikely pair!

"B-b-bu-"

"By the time we get to Redwall." Matiya declared, helping her to her feet. "They'll be stuffing themselves silly on more vittles than you can count." He dusted off her apron and took her shaking paw in his own, far more confident one.

"Speaking of the grand, red abbey. You don't happen to be knowing the way there, do you?" Threeclaw asked casually, as if he himself had a general idea but was otherwise uncertain.

"Oh, um, I think I do. There should be a path a little further upriver and that should take us up to their front gates. B-but I- I've never been there."

Threeclaw took her other paw in his whole one, his three remaining fingers twirling the rapier.

"I'm sure finding it will not be being too difficult."

"And so, Lutra's famous pearls were lost amongst the waves. Never again would the desire to possess them ensnare another creature's mind and soul. And the good beasts of Redwall returned to the abbey. The end." With an aching back and a pair of very sore buttocks after what felt like hours of sitting on the hard floor, Abbot Martin closed the book.

"It's over." Cheese sounded stricken. After many days of pleading with his sisters they had finally relented and allowed the old mouse to read to them.

"Thank Vulpuz." His sisters declared in unison. One removed the paws from around her ears.

"B-b-but what about Tansy?"

"What a stupid name." Snapped the oldest one. A clever trick had allowed Abbot Martin to tell the sisters apart now. He had conveniently 'dropped' a bow and a necklace one breakfast, and now he knew the weasels as Bow, Jewel and Fang. For the most part they hadn't complained about the names, although there had been a great deal of swapping and arguing at first.

"Tansy." Abbot Martin explained slowly. "Was in due course of time given the post of Abbess. Of course, some recordings say it was immediately upon Abbot Durral's return but such writings rarely have a credible source."

"Stupid abbotmouse, course ye can't eat a book."

"Credible. Not edible my child."

"I'm not yer child mouse!"

"I never said- oh no you misunderstood. Ahem, as Abbot of Redwall I am, technically speaking, the father of all creatures within this abbey."

The young weasels looked disgusted suddenly, and tried to get away from him.

"So how did ye give birth to a mole?"

The old mouse had to adjust his spectacles. "I-I- I beg your pardon?"

"If yer everybeast's daddy that means that mole what we stole's yer daughter. But yer a mouse."

"Oh, no! No, no, no. It's just a title. A formality. It's just a, er- a slip of the tongue. I'm not truly everybeast's father. Just- er, referred to as such."

"So ye didn't mate with a mole?"

"Of-of course not." The mouse replied, rather flustered.

Collectively, the weasels breathed a sigh of relief.

Remembering his other duties, the old mouse took his leave of them. And although they still threatened to rip him to pieces, and sometimes attempted to, he did not doubt that they were growing fond of him. Even if that fondness lay… very deep down.

He had called a meeting, the first since the children had been taken. Life in Redwall had to go on. And so, the seasons had to be duly named. Winter had gone unnamed due to circumstances beyond their control, but he could no longer ignore his duties. Spring was here and that too, had to be named.

He came into the Great Hall, expecting the whole abbey to be present, but instead found only a few faces. His successor to the post of Recorder, a bespectacled mouse now pacing furiously. Constance who looked as glum as ever. The Foremole and his daughter. And Bella.

"I-I- said tell everyone." The old mouse was shocked. For one of his summons to be so blatantly ignored...

"I did." The badger replied. "Rosebrush's busy. Mormont's looking after his wife. Apparently she's with child. That might brighten up the place." She did not sound particularly hopeful of this prediction. "Blind Agatha is ill. The Friar's cooking porridge. Again."

Abbot Martin clutched at his ears. "Onion porridge… what on earth has gotten into him?"

"He is convinced his son is dead." The Recorder answered impatiently. "Besides, nobeast has to do any actual work for that filth. The state of the abbey is quite frankly disastrous. Orchard's filled with fruit but not a soul's willing to pick them. Dust everywhere. Itchy bedclothes. I already proposed to you-"

"That I force everybeast to just move on. I am aware of that." The mouse rubbed at his forehead. "But as I said before grief is a wound that requires time to heal."

The Recorder harrumphed. "Everybeast's had quite a lot of time."

"Moibe iff'en 'ee 'ad a mizzin' dowter zurr, 'ee'd be a gruit bit more understandin'."

"Or maybe I'd be as lucky as you." The mouse replied, continuing to pace frustratedly.

"Shut up." Constance snapped at him. The subject of missing children was especially unforgiving on her, and the Recorder wisely paced in silence, lest he find himself on the recieving end of all her pent-up rage.

Abbot Martin cleared his throat before beginning. "Well if nobeast else will come we can start with the winter. What shall we name it?"

The Recorder was the first to give any suggestions. "The Winter of Snowy Sorrows. Or perhaps, the Winter of the Tear-Filled Snows."

"Burr aye, doin't be goin' tur dramatik."

"I'm not being dramatic!" The Recorder snapped. "Merely conveying the truth. We've had lots of snows and even more sorrows. Snowy sorrows."

"Perhaps it is a bit much. Any other ideas anyone?"

"Winter of the…" Bella frowned in thought, her face going a shade of purple underneath her black and white fur. "Disappearing Snowflakes." She replied with a sudden sniffle.

The abbot brought his paw to it's familiar spot on his temples.

"I have one." Said Constance very quietly.

"Alright." The old abbot braced himself for the inevitable impact of whatever she had to say.

"Well… it's not a name but... I- I thought we should make a feast."

"A what?" The Recorder sounded stricken. "You can't be serious. What could we possibly have to celebrate?"

"Mormont's baby for one. Spring for another." Constance answered, rather coldly. "I just thought it might help everybeast move on. This all started at a feast after all."

There was a long pause, broken by Roseheart.

"B'ain't a bad idea zurr. Oi'm thunking it could wurk."

The Foremole patted his daughter's head. "Clever goirl. Courzz it'll wurk. Everybeast been missing a gud feaist."

Abbot Martin thought this through for a second, and suddenly inspiration rushed through him. "That is a brilliant idea! Closure, yes, that is exactly what everybeast needs. And a feast. Yes, that has always been the solution, hasn't it?" Well… clearly nobeast had ever thought of a better idea, but if all the previous recorders were to be believed then it near-always worked. "It should be a surprise that- that way we can properly address the issue. And- and… we're going to need the kitchens."

Footnote: The conversation between Threeclaw and Matiya (always autocorrected to Mariya for some reason) will be more significant later on. You shall see. Eventually.

In hindsight I should have put this in 'All Rebellions Start In the Kitchens' too, if only for the convenient title. Credit is due where it's due- the season naming I'm not sure if it's in Redwall but Sebias of Redwall made a funny joke in connection to it in his own Redwallian epic which in turn inspired the Winter of Disappearing Snowflakes.

Okay dear readers, I have a job for you now. There are several side characters that we shall be seeing more of in the coming chapters yet I've never been too good with names. None of these guys will have character arcs per say, but instead of constantly referring to the Friar as Grollo's dad, I thought we could give him a name. So he needs one, so does the hogwife (Grollo's mum), and so does the Recorder I suppose. And the kindly hedgepig. So I need four names. And am lazy.