A/N: AlexFalTon, I suppose you are right about him being the mystery vermin. He was the wild card of the Honest Bunch to begin with and there is much about him not yet revealed.
Abrahem, Yeah, the link to Grollo was really what I was looking for- might still use Guillame though... Glad you like Lily Prickla (the frog irony link just felt fitting). As for Fret and Hawthorn, his attraction isn't necessarily 'romantic' in so much as he probably doesn't understand what 'romance' and 'love' are. He thinks she's pretty, and the fact that he doesn't know her name just adds an infuriating level of mystery to it- I mean these guys were raised together (or at least, in close proximity and have the same friend group) and have almost no interactions.
Yes, I like that. It's more fitting for Sickletail to get it back (as yes, she is the warrior of the family) We shall see but a Dirk shall come into play sooner rather than later...
Most likely a typo (I've cut downdon them overothe years but they still haunt me) or autocorrect. Not sure what sentence that's in but I think it's a mix of Silvertongue and Thornflame- so I was talking about one of them methinks.
Regarding the audiobook, eh I guess I could do it. Maybe in a while. Though considering voices aren't often touched upon... What we think the characters sound like could be vastly different...
Mormont wasn't introduced before-paw and doesn't play much of a role. Mortimer is his great uncle (who we most likely shall never see). I feel it's lines like this that introduce all sorts of potential outcomes is the reason this story is so loooooong...
(Strangely wanting to make Snakeskin give his guests dance lessons now... Though I feel like that's a bit out of place XD And once more Threeclaw and he have been linked... Indirectly of course but... There are no accidents...)
Berserker88 and One-eye, Not to dispell suspense or anything but, wouldn't it be a step backwards if I a) randomly killed off Threeclaw while his whole character is still a mystery and b) repeatedly have the vermin make everything worse for them through the power of miscommunication? Not saying that's not gonna happen but I feel like I've over-used that trope a bit too much this story... Just a bit...
The cooking was going well, or at least Abbot Martin thought it was. The logistics of six beasts making an entire feast from scratch- in merely a few hours no less- had seemed daunting at first- yet progress was evident in the impressive pile of steaming dishes already laid on trays.
Constance was working furiously on no less than six preparations simultaneously. He had never seen her in battle, but there was something in the fury she used to chop up the vegetables, and the decisiveness of her stirring and the ruthlessness of her pot-pushing that brought the warrior out of her. Her parents had been right to name her after a badger after all…
The Foremole worked at a much slower pace. Being an inexperienced cook, and illiterate, he took his time listening to the instructions Roseheart read to him from behind a humongous recipe book half her height. He would then tweak his nose and follow said instructions… very… very… slowly… Nevertheless, progress was progress and the Foremole's two dishes were painstakingly crafted with love and adoration.
The same could not be said of Montague, who cranked up his cooking speeds in an attempt to remain ahead of Constance. He was a champion wordsmith and Abbot Martin knew that he could spend hundreds of hours mulling over a single phrase or line. He was a different kind of mouse in the kitchens, and had an impressive collection of partially-burned pastries, soups that smelled burnt and ingredients so black there was no telling what was what.
Bella, like the Foremole, was using a cookbook. And like Constance, was impressively multi-tasking. A pair of puddings were laid to cool as the badger stacked flower petal after flower petal onto a cake that put the once formidable dirty dish tower to shame.
Abbot Martin had, aside from breakfast, spent most of his morning at the pile. A part of him was bemused, he hadn't been on dish-duty since he was a dibbun. Another part of him was now all too aware why this was Bella's favoured form of punishment.
It did not help that his assistants (and especially Montague) kept adding to the pile. He was almost tempted to find somebeast else to do it, when the Foremole gave him the perfect excuse to leave.
"B'aint it zoon goner be time fur voittles?"
"I'm busy!" Snapped the Recorder, having neither heard nor understood what the mole had said.
"Ah yes." He wiped at his brow, for the kitchens were a sweltering jungle in all but name. "Y-yes. Did anyone prepare a salad or anything?"
"Um…" Went Constance, temporarily lifting her eyes.
"Burr aye, 'fraid not zurr."
"No matter… no matter. This should do." He then began piling fresh lettuce onto a platter. "Something light. And fresh. And- and-" Abbot Martin sighed. He was getting far too old for all of this…
Those that attended lunch that day were a mix of shocked and traumatized by the fare. Never, in all of it's history, had fresh, whole lettuce been served at the abbey. But there was a first for anything and noone dared complain to the Abbot's face (though many did behind his back).
The old mouse was fuming by the time he got back to the kitchens. The steam billowing from his ears made him greatly resemble one of Constance's steaming sauces.
"You should have seen Friar Gord's face just now! Half the abbey is convinced I can't cook to save my life and the other half thinks I've gone mad. AND I AM MOST CERTAINLY NOT MAD!"
"Iffen 'ee spoiken zo zurr." The Foremole replied, staring intently at the little bubbles forming in the water.
"Yes. You are just as sane as the rest of us!" Montague declared, slamming a completely burnt pie upon the table with strength a battering ram would envy.
The old mouse sighed and found himself temple-rubbing. Honestly his paws were practically glued to his forehead at this point. "Honestly, I'm not sure how high a praise that is."
"Oi'm poirfuctly sane!" Said the Foremole, grinning widely. A stray piece of boiling water shot out of the pot and caught him square on the nose. The 'perfectly sane' mole promptly fell backwards with a yelp and hit the floor hard.
"Oi know 'ee are papa." Said Roseheart, flicking the book until she came across a recipe of interest that justified boiling the water.
"They're starvin' us." Said Fang, glaring at the door. The old mouse had a habit of coming at roughly the same time every day- but according to her current calculations Abbot Martin, self-proclaimed Allfather of Redwall, was three hundred years late already. Vulpuz was the only reason she and her siblings were still alive. They were too young to go to Hellgates. But they couldn't do much growing, could they, if they didn't have any vittles? Which meant they were immortal. But what was the point of living forever if she couldn't eat. She was hungry for food! Not power!
"I wanna be Bow t'day!"
"Ye were Bow yesterday!"
"But ye were Fang yesterday! An' I don't wanna be Jewel!"
"Me neither! Now lemme be Bow! And t'morrow ye can be Fang!"
"Ye can't trick me! I ain't Greyclaw! I'll be Jewel f'rever if I let ye be Bow now!"
"I can be Jewel!" Declared Cheese, trying the necklace on himself and very much liking the weight around his neck. He looked like a legendary corsair now! All he needed were a set of tattoos, Sharpfur's dirk and Gulash's size. Then he'd rule the seas and skies and even Vulpuz would fear him!
"Ye can't be Jewel Cheese 'coz yer Cheese!" Both weasels snapped simultaneously. Pointing tiny half-formed claws at one another they declared in unison. "She's Jewel!"
"Finally!" Exclaimed Fang as Abbot Martin came in, armed with hastily-shredded lettuce. "We were starvin' abbotmouse! Be quicker next time!"
"Abbotmouse! Abbotmouse! I'm Jewel!" Declared Cheese, pointing at his chest and the jewel that hung between his knees.
"And I wanna be Bow!" Snapped the other two, one paw still firmly clamped over each side of the accessory.
Despite the fact that he was near the point of collapse, Abbot Martin smiled, and held his paw out to the two. "Alright, you can both be Bow. As long as I can tell you apart-"
"Her nose is bigger!" Said one.
"No! Hers is look! She stretches it out!"
"I do not!"
The two devolved into more rapid bickering- the sort Abbot Martin knew to stay uninvolved with, lest they decide he was a more important problem to be solved.
"What kind of tattoos should I get?"
The old mouse put a paw to his chest- how had the little weasel gotten so close so quickly? "T-t-tattoos?"
"For when I'm a pirate! All I need is te be big an' strong an' then I'll be the greatest corsair ever!" The little weasel threw his paws into the air and Abbot Martin had to adjust his spectacles. Cheese had been the best-behaved of all the weasels, his sudden desire to be a glorified cut-throat was worrying to say the least.
"Why do you want to be a pirate?" The old mouse asked slowly, aware that this might be a touchy subject.
"Because it's fun! I can be swingin' on ropes!" Grabbing hold of the Abbot's ears he proceeded to swing on them. "An' fightin' an' plunderin'! I can have all the vittles I can eat an' even Ublaz'll be jealous." Releasing his grip on the rodent's ears the weasel scrambled onto his knees so that abbot and dibbun were nose to nose. Speaking in a deep, commanding voice Cheese stared intently into Martin's eyes, his own narrowed in concentration. "Look... Into... My eyes!"
Smiling despite himself, the abbot lifted the weasel (for the sake of his old knees who found no comfort on the ground without the weasel's added weight) and placed him next to his sisters, all of whom were now determinedly chewing lettuce.
"If you want to swing on ropes I could let you ring the abbey bells. If food is what you want you'll find that the kitchens here are nearly always full of them. Perhaps instead of fighting and plundering yourself, you could become Recorder and write of such adventures and more. It is important to dream, little Cheese, but do not tie yourself up to one. You are young and the time to dream is now. I should think you'd want to be more than just a pirate."
Cheesienibbles mulled this over as he chewed thoughtfully at the meager dinner. "Yer right abbotmouse. Bein' a pirate's borin'!" He raised both paws into the air. "I'll be a piratical recorder who rings bells all day an' is always hungry but also super-strong!"
A part of him wanted to facepalm, but the old abbot went with the other side of him and smiled fondly as he made the energetic pup sit down.
"When I was your age I wanted to be Abbey Warrior. Of course, there hadn't been any battles to fight back in my youth. But I would always read the histories." He sighed wistfully. "I dreamed that one day, perhaps, Martin the Warrior would drop a riddle my way. But alas, the day never came and I went from novice, to assistant recorder, to recorder, to abbot. But never warrior."
"Ye'd have made a great warrior." Bow sniggered.
"Aye." Agreed Fang. "Ye'd have won us the battle in seconds."
The old mouse chuckled. "Well I don't think I was ever that good-"
"That's the point. One sling te the head and we'd have beat ye. Ye'd have won us the battle!"
So much for progress…
"No he wouldn't! The abbotmouse'd obviously wear a helmet!"
"Would not!"
"Would too!"
"Cheese, there ain't no helmet that would've fit on them ears."
"Aye! He'd have to fold them over his eyes and would run into a tree!"
"More like a rapier!"
"Tree!"
"Rapier!"
The argument came to an end when Jewel burped, and shoved over the now-empty tray. "Doesn't matter does it? The abbotmouse'd be dead anyways. And then nobeast would bring us food."
"And then we'd live for ever!" Fang shuddered, hugging her tail for comfort.
Abbot Martin picked up the tray and rose to his feet, ready to go back to preparing the feast.
"Can ye read us a story?" Asked Cheese, just as he opened the door.
The story… he'd forgotten about that too… "Well… I suppose…" He sighed. There was no way he could fit in a story. Not when the feast was due any minute… "Another time."
The weasel failed to disguise his disappointment and the abbot felt compelled to offer an explanation.
"Today is a very important day. I- I- if I could I would of course read you a story, but with the feast so soon and-"
"Feast?" Cried Fang. "Ye never told us about no feast!"
"Will there be music an' dancin'?"
"How about some proper vittles?"
"Well… there ought to be music I suppose. But I'm not sure about dancing and such and-"
The weasels breathed a collective sigh of relief.
"Good. Dancin's so difficult!"
"Too difficult!"
"But music's good. Especially when Pa plays."
"What about vittles?"
"Well of course there will be food!" Martin failed to surpress a chuckle. "What's a feast without food?"
"Can I come?" Cheese asked at first. He tried to add a 'please' but it was drowned out under the sound of his sister's similar questions.
"Ahem, yes, well…" Now he regretted ever mentioning a feast. On the one paw it was not fair to banish anybeast when there was a feast at play, on the other it was risky to bring the weasels along. The general sentiment towards vermin in general was not exactly positive- less so now that it was clear that Fret was to blame for all the missing children. Their presence might add salt to an already open wound. Furthermore he wasn't sure whether they could be trusted with cutlery. "I- er- I-"
"We'll be good!" Fang insisted. "Ye'd think we were squirrel pups!"
"I-"
Their eyes expanded, till they seemed to absorb their whole heads.
"Please?"
"I-I shall think about it!"
And with that Abbot Martin left.
Bella was dripping in sweat. It looked like she'd taken a dip in the abbey pond with her clothes on (in other words, ridiculous) but the Badgermum had always considered appearances trivial. They were all deadbeasts in the end after all.
Despite her strong views on appearance, Bella was determined to make this the greatest cake in Redwall's history! A work of art already, she just needed a final touch to her snowflake. Gently squeezing the icing bottle in her shaking paws a miniscule amount of the frosting began to cover the cake.
"I need your help!" Abbot Martin declared loudly, entering swiftly from the door that lead to the cellars. Bella panicked and squeezed too hard and her pristine little snowflake was ruined.
It was lucky for Martin that she did not possess the bloodwrath.
"Should I or should I not," Abbot Martin began , oblivious to how narrowly he'd avoided death. "Allow the weasels to join the festivities?"
There was an awkward silence.
Constance shrugged nonchalantly. He'd been expecting her to have a stronger opinion, having raised Fret and all she was the most experienced with vermin, yet all she did was mumble something along the lines of 'you're the abbot' and turned back to her work. The old mouse did not press for answers, no matter how much he wanted them.
"Well… any other-"
"I think it's a horrible idea." Montague snapped, oblivious to the fact that the butter he was frying was almost nonexistent by now. "Letting vermin into this abbey is what started this whole mess. You won't solve it by parading around the fact that none of us have learned from our mistakes."
"Insensitive as usual." Bella chided. "You always were a blunt child."
"Honesty is of great-"
"Foremole? Roseheart?"
Roseheart, who had never been fond of Fret, inclined her head towards the Recorder, signalling agreement. And although the Foremole had no more fondness for vermin than his daughter, he felt obliged to at least profess a counter argument.
"Frettie wozn't too bad when 'ee woz a dibbun."
"Humph. I disagree. As we all know, many of us immediately jumped to the correct conclusion in regards to Fret. Even you father abbot, know full well that there were many reservations with letting that boy in. But of course someone-"
"Someone what?" Constance whirled round, her own cooking forgotten.
"Someone ignored what everybeast told them. That Fret would only break their heart and that no good could come of him. By all means, raise the weasels. Love them. Let them into the feasts. But sooner or later we'll find ourselves in the same situation! Mormont's dibbuns gone and not a weasel in sight!"
There was an awkward silence, broken by Abbot Martin. "Forgive me Montague but I believe you are mistaken."
The Recorder opened his mouth to argue- but was immediately interrupted by the abbot.
"We had misgivings in regards to Fret, that much is true. But until this winter he never stepped particularly far out of line. I for one don't believe we have a clear picture of all that has passed since then. Roseheart did not see everything. Where, for example, and when, did Fret have the opportunity to meet these vermin he was so acquainted with? He left the abbey once in all his time here. I would not write him off as a mistake just yet. Regarding the weasels I value your opinions, but on the whole I must override you. As Constance put it, I'm the abbot. They are most likely orphans, and have not left that cellar in weeks. We at Redwall are nothing if not hospitable to any and all creatures-"
"Of good heart." Constance finished for him, a far-away look on her face.
"Yes. The likeliness of vermin having a good heart-"
"Montague, your pan is burning! Please see to it." Adjusting his spectacles the abbot marched off towards the cellars. He had a lot of work to do. It would be best if he could wash the weasels- or at least perfume the girls for he highly doubted they would agree with soap. Dibbuns rarely did after all. And then he would have to find habits for them. The clock was ticking and soon the feast would be upon them- but he wasn't abbot for nothing after all…