User blog:ScottyBlue/Little Flower: A Redwall Story

Disclaimer
Special thanks to Meeka for her advice, which inspired this story; the credit for the leading female character goes entirely to her and I beg her indulgence for the minor changes I have made.

Before We Begin
This is a new fanfiction story (I hesitate to say short story because I tend to be longwinded, though I will try to fit it all on one page if possible) that I plan to work on once Gingiverian is finished. It is a companion story to Gingiverian so I would recommend reading that one first, though I will try my best not to make doing so completely necessary. I will probably not be updating this until I finish Gingiverian but to give you a taste of what is to come I am going ahead and posting this Prologue. Please comment and let me know if you think this will be a good story. God Bless! :)

--Scotty Bluefleck O Sword of Truth! Fly swift and sure, that Evil die and Good endure! 03:00, October 23, 2011 (UTC)

=Little Flower: A Redwall Story=

Prologue
Without a doubt, the best place to be with friends on a windy, clear, winter night is around a fire. There is something hypnotic, almost magical about watching the flames flicker, sending patterns of gold light about the company assembled; something that causes creatures almost unconsciously to relax, to forget disputes and squabbles,and to reminisce about days past and fond memories. Few travelers on this earth would have declined an offer to gather in good company about a fine blaze, listen to the peaceful crackling, sing songs, and swap stories; on such a cold night as this, it would seem almost against nature to continue on ones journey when such enjoyment could be attained.

Stiff winds and rapidly freezing seaspray on the decks and rigging had forced the crew of the good ship Reckless to come to this same conclusion. As he had sailed the area before, the Captain knew there was a large, empty seaside cave nearby; he ordered his crew to drop anchor and put ashore, bringing firewood and food supplies from the galley with them. Within a very short time, a large bonfire was blazing merrily away, with the majority of the chilled and sniffling crew huddled close together about it. Smaller fires had been lit in the back of the cave for cooking and warming drinks, and were being attended to by a few female beasts; the rest settled down to thaw by the bonfire, soon filling the cave with raucous singing and laughter.

As the gold and yellow lights began to cast their spell of languor, and the noise died down to a happy, relaxed murmur, some beasts began to drop off to sleep. The youngest members of the crew, however, were still in a state of excitement, and made it clear they were not about to drop off to sleep any time soon. When it became apparent that no more songs or jokes were forthcoming from the adult beasts, one very determined shrewbabe raised a chant among the toddlers and young ones. "We wanna story! We wanna story! We wanna story!"

They trailed off when a big ottermum named Starburst frowned disapprovingly at them, but gave a hearty cheer when she demanded of the lazing beasts about her, "Well? Ain't ye lazybums got ears? The babes wanna story!"

As it seemed everybeast agreed that a story would be the best way to end the evening, but nobeast agreed on who should tell it, Starburst inquired of the babes. "Who do ye want to tell the story?"

There was no hesitation; the little ones clamored noisily and unanimously, "Cap'n Vac! Cap'n Vac!"

Vaccar Swiftship, Captain of the Reckless as well as official steersbeast, stood and bowed amidst a torrent of applause from his crew. The Reckless was inhabited almost entirely by seafaring, adventure-seeking otters, with one or two small families of like-minded shrews; Vaccar, however, was an exception to this rule. He was, in fact, a very big weasel, though by personality he could have just as well been a particularly peaceful otter. Unlike the vast majority of his kind, Vaccar was a gentle and caring beast, and could by no means be classified with other weasels as a "vermin". Besides his unsurpassed skill as a sailor of ships, he had quite a reputation for getting along famously with little ones; thus, he was very frequently called upon to entertain his young friends, a task he enjoyed even more than they did. He pulled up a stone and sat upon it, rubbing his paws together. "Well, liddle mateys, which story do we want tonight, eh?"

The shrewbabe who had started the clamor thought about this for a moment. "Tella story 'bout you!"

The big weasel's paw was twice the size of the shrewbabe's head; however, Vaccar lifted the little one with as soft a touch as a dove's wing and sat him upon his lap, shaking his head smilingly. "No, no, matey, I told ye afore ye don't wanna hear me own life story. 'Ow bout the "Ghost of the White Weasel"?"

The babes were indignant; one little ottermaid piped shrilly. "We heard dat 'fore a'ready a t'ousing times!"

Vaccar made several more suggestions, but they too were flatly turned down. Starburst decided to speak out again. "Come on, Cap'n, why won't you ever tell 'em your story? Some of us oldbeasts wouldn't mind hearin' it, too."

From about the bonfire came murmurs of assent; the weasel sighed heavily. "Well, I ain't never told it afore an' I ain't so sure how t'begin. Besides, it's really sad an' really scary in parts."

The shrewbabe gave the weasel an affectionate hug. "It gotta happy end, tho, don' it?"

The smile reappeared on the weasel's face as he returned the hug. "'Course it does, liddle matey. Tell ye wot, I'll get good an' started, an' if it's too bad an' scary ye let me know an' I'll stop meself. Deal?"

The last part of the sentence was almost drowned by the little one's cheering; eagerly, they flung themselves to the mossy cave floor, gazing up at the storyteller with rapt attention. Quaffing the beaker of warm cider a kindly shrewmum had given him, Vaccar took a deep breath and began his tale, his voice becoming more grammatical and less sailorish as he progressed.

"Now, this story ain't all about jus' me, cause there ain't no fun in that an' you lot'd get bored. It's about many beasts; some of 'em you know and some you don't. It's about lots o' villains, terrible villains so horrible they beggar description; but it's also about goodbeasts, and how one act of kindness can turn into somethin' momentous that would last a lifetime. Imagine back many seasons, little ones, on a cold winter night much like this, long ago. Imagine a cold shore in the tall cliffs far south of here, covered in little painted tents and filled with weasels, much like myself, only in some ways vastly different....."

Chapter 1
He was considered the most dangerous beast in the South. Pitiless, emotionless, ruthless, and savage, he had built such a reputation for slaughter that there were beasts of the opinion it was certain death to even speak his name aloud. Others believed he was not even so much a beast as a force of nature, who could not be beaten by any mortal agency. Even the tribe he ruled, with their reputation for cold brutality, quivered in the presence of Redfang, Master of Destruction!

The albino weasel was neither young nor old, full of muscle and sinew, with long black claws and blood red eyes capable of no emotion save cold dissaproval. Both his upper canines were unusually long, and protruded past his chin even when his mouth was closed; as he had the barbaric habit of eating all his meat raw and uncooked, his muzzle and teeth were constantly stained the horrible dark rusty color which gave him his name. Like all of his exclusively weasel horde, known simply as "The Destruction", he wore fine and intricately designed clothes sewn from otherbeasts hides. It was also the custom of a Destroyer to tattoo red swirls and symbols on his paws, adding a new one for each beast slain to symbolize the blood now on their heads; Redfang's tattoos currently spread from claw to shoulder, and he had recently started on his footpaws by necessity.

Redfang had need of no weapon, as his formidible canine teeth and long claws were weapons enough; however, he always carried a long and fireblackened sword, which he never cleaned, as a symbol of office. He ruled solely by strength and savagery; none dared oppose him now, as the few that had tried now adorned his cape. His latest exploit successfully accomplished had further proved to his crew his might, and firmly as an awesome power in the Southlands.

There had once been another weasel with the title of "most dangerous beast in the South"; a beserk female, insane from many headwounds recieved in the past. Her name was Skrugg, and she dwelt in a desolate desert plateau far inland, where she would hide in the sand and leap out to attack any creature who tresspassed in her territory. Her inflamed brain took positive delight in the torture and agony of otherbeasts, and her mangy, disheveled appearance, bloodshot yellow eyes, and mad laughter were said to be able to kill a creature on their own, no extra weapons needed. One unlucky Destroyer had, some time ago, made the mistake of voicing the opinion that even Redfang wouldn't dare to venture into Skrugg's territory. The warlord had overheard; after a rather horrible execution of the one who had spoken, which will not be dwelt on here, Redfang had ordered the entire horde to leave their homes on the southern coast and march inland. The Destruction had assumed their famed and feared leader would seek out and slay Skrugg, as was his usual method of campaign; however, he had astounded them all by wooing her, wedding her, and taking her back to the coast with him, within the space of a single season! Redfang had, with a cunning and suprising move, proved once more that he was a force to be reckoned with; he could keep a reputed mad she-demon in check, and actually take her as a wife! Truly he was a power unlike that the world had ever before seen; truly, he was the Most Dangerous Beast in the South!

Several seasons had passed since this event, and the Destruction was once more encamped in their coastal territories. Redfang sat outside his tent, his cloak flapping in the breeze as he stared flatly at the ebbing sea. Behind him, his tribe argued and squabbled; the warlord payed them no heed. It was only natural, when there were no goodbeasts or rival gangs to terrorize, that the violent beasts would begin fighting amongst themselves, each trying to prove that, aside from the cheiftain, he was the best and strongest Destroyer. This was such an everyday occurance that Redfang didn't even bother to watch the fights anymore; anybeast who might be badly wounded, or lose his life, wasn't a good enough fighter anyway and was therefore expendable in his opinion.

A very fat and very old female rat emerged from Redfang's tent and threw herself prostrate at his feet. The white weasel remained immovable, focused on the horizon, not even deigning to look at her. His voice was harsh rasp, due to a terrible throat wound he had once recieved in his younger seasons. "Get up, ye useless lump, and spit it out, whatever it is."

Thringle the Healer was the only rat in the horde; she was not an official Destroyer, but had been taken captive from her own tribe because Redfang had thought one knowledgeable in herb lore might come in useful around his bloodthirsty band. She rose laboriously, touching her wrinkled ear in salute, showing the shackles and chains that held her forepaws close together. "Master, the babe has been born, and if you don't act quickly, I believe Skrugg might slay it."

Redfang's cold, unnerving glare bored into her. "It it male or female?"

Thringle gulped. "Male, sire."

In a swirl of cloaks and furs, Redfang leapt up and entered his tent. Two other female weasels had bound his mad wife to a tent pole, but she had still managed to inflict rather bad wounds upon them. One of them, nursing a bitten footpaw, held the newborn babe. "Lord, your son..."

The midwife got no further, as Skrugg made a lunge and she was forced to leap back. The mad weasel was shrieking and spitting saliva through clenched teeth. "Kill it! Kill it!"

Redfang took the infant and held it aloft; nodding in approval of what he saw, he dismissed the healers, who were only too glad to flee Skrugg's prescence. Redfang's scarlet eyes bored into his wife's; he began chanting hypnotically. "No kill, not now. Easy, easy."

Slowly, reluctantly, Skrugg quieted down. Redfang continued his chant as he drew his sword and cut her bonds. She half leapt up, as if to attack; however, she soon subsided to her husband's wishes. Redfang handed the babe back to her. "If you wish to continue to live, you will not slay my son. Is that clear?" As it obviously was not, he returned to the sporadic language mode she best understood. "No kill my son. You die if kill my son."

She was suddenly like a little babe herself, grinning sheepishly at him. "No kill yore son. I be good."

Redfang beckoned a cowering Thringle to his side. "You, help her to nurse the babe until he is old enough to fend for himself, then do not interfere. Let her treat him how she pleases, short of killing him. Whether he will succeed me as Warlord I do not know, but if he is to be a Destroyer he must learn the ways of violence and death as early as possible."

Thringle bowed. "Your word is my command, Master."

Redfang gave a snort of contempt. "I know that already, you driveling idiot. Get out of my sight and take your useless flowery phrases elsewhere."

As Thringle led Skrugg back to her own tent, the Warlord shrugged, grabbing a raw fish from his food supply and crunching into it. The tribe had too many females - nearly four times as many as males - so a new addition would be useful. However, he would not devote himself to rearing a son; after today, his paws were washed of the matter forever.

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