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Thread: The Runaway Galley Slaves (RP)

  1. #1
    Patroller Mulchior Lancer's Avatar
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    Post The Runaway Galley Slaves (RP)

    ((Figured there was room for two RPs to go on simultaneously. Feel free to jump in with two characters, a woodlander slave and pirate. I’ve left the basis for a captain pirate character, so if anyone wants to jump in as him (or her) feel free. If you want, you can type out how your character ended up on the ship and go to where the voyage begins.))


    Furlough Scalloway had seen better days. The young river otter had only a few seasons past dibbun age under his belt, and longed to leave his holt for adventure and see the world beyond his river. His father kept promising him he’d take him along with the other experienced otters for one of their excursions into Mossflower country, but time and time again, Furl would have to remain back with his mother, younger sister, and the other members of his holt.

    “I need a sharp eye keepin’ a look out for the holt,” his father said, winking to his son and rubbing the top of Furl’s head until it stood up like spikes. “Yer mom, sis, and the others need a strong lad to protect ‘em while we’re gone.”

    “But you promised I could come along one day!” protested Furl. “Why can’t I come now?” The elder otter placed the pike he held in his other paw in Ferl’s and gave him a firm pat on the back.

    “The day’ll come, ya just gotta be patient,” comforted his father, before turning and giving his mate and daughter one final kiss goodbye. Furl drooped his head and sat on the large rock behind him, still gripping the pike his father gave him.

    “That’s what ye said last time,” muttered the dejected otter.

    A few days later, Ferl and his sister Dellua wandered off from the holt in search of roots and berries to bring back to the holt. However, their task was soon forgotten as the two began playing a game of hide and seek. The river valley provided many adequate places to hide, and the game was a favorite pastime for the two.

    “Try to catch me!” giggled Dellua as she ran off to find her hiding place, her laughter echoing through the valley. Ferl sighed and shook his head with a smile on his face.

    “You better hide better than last time, or I’ll tickle you till your sides burst,” warned Ferl as he stood against a willow tree and began counting aloud. “One, two, threeee.”

    Not far from the two, a fox and weasel watched the two eagerly. A sly grin passed between the two, and the fox tip toed through the brush as soundless as the passing sun. The fox crept up behind the distracted otter and slowly rose up his wooden club high above his prey.

    “Forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty!” yelled Ferl, lifting his head up from his arm. “Ready or not, here I co-.”

    Before he could finish a cloud of stars burst in his eyes as he collapsed, senseless to the world around him.

    --

    Furl faded in and out of consciousness. For brief moments, he felt himself being dragged along tall grass, and then sand, only to fade back to unwelcome dreams. Occasionally, he heard bits of conversation slip through his pounding eardrums.

    “Couldn’t find th’ other one,” spat a voice.

    “Don’t matter, we gots one sturdy beast,” chuckled another. “Let’s ‘ope th’ others found enough fer a new crew.”

    Furl’s eyes rolled to the side of his sunken head as he again faded back to the realm of sleep.
    --

    Furl awoke with a splash of water to the face, drenching his brown shirt and long shorts. The otter shook his pounding head as he tried to shake off the desire to black out again. As he lifted his paws to wipe the filthy water from his face, to his horror he found them shackled to his seat. The chain length gave him little room to move, and he had to bend slightly for his paws to even touch his face. His legs fared even worse, only giving them a few inches of movement. A long oar was positioned in front of him, and he realized he was deep in the bowels of a slave ship. It was then that he noticed who had thrown the water in his face.

    “Wakey wakey me sleepin’ beauties,” snarled a monstrous rat. The rat wore a thick leather vest and pants, and in one paw held an old rotting bucket, and on the other a vicious looking tail with strands of leather tied at the tip. A helmet adorned the rat’s head, with many sharp spikes protruding from the metal base. The rat’s muzzle twisted to a ghastly smile, with his many yellowed fangs bearing at the otter. “Did ye have a nice doze? It’ll be th’ last one ya have fer a long long time.”

    Furl trembled in his seat, his chains rattling as he shook. He looked around him and saw other woodland beasts of varying age stuck in the same position. Some looked ragged and aged from seasons at sea, while others looked just as afraid as he did. The rat began pacing back and forth in the open aisle, staring at the new “recruits” of the ship.

    “I’m Wharll Whiptail, slavemaster o' th' Bloodrine, terror of the seas, but ye’ll call me Master from here on, and ye better do what I’s say, unless ya want some new stripes on yer back,” barked Wharll to the oarslaves. “Cap’n Ironteeth likes a speedy ship, an’ if yer takin’ yer sweet time rowin’, th’ cap’ll bite out yer jugular wif steel fangs. Jus’ ask th’ vet’s.”

    Furl heard moans of fear and despair around him, and the otter gulped in terror. The lid at the front of the stairs leading up to the ship opened, and Wharll looked up a voice bellowed below.

    “The cap’n ordered ta ship off! Onto th’ northlands!”

    Wharll spun around and glared at the oarslaves.

    “Ya heard th’ beast! Paws on oars an’ row!” growled Wharll. With each beat in his voice the rat cracked his tail in the air with dreadful snaps. “Heave ho me buckos, throw yer backs into it!”

    The oarslave next to Furl began rowing before Furl could grab hold of it. Furl tried once or twice to grab the oar, which circled further from him, since he sat near the aisle. As Wharll’s tail cracked above his head, the desperate otter finally gripped hold of the illusive oar and began to row for his life.

    Furl wanted to explore the world, and unfortunately he got his wish, as a slave in the stinking belly of a pirate ship.
    “Aha! Today I shall become an author! And I will auth and auth and auth and make a squillion dollars, whoopee!”
    -Brian Jacques

    My Story Blog

  2. #2
    Dibbun Patchouli's Avatar
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    ((Joined this forum because I saw this thread... It took a while for my account to be activated though! So from what I understand, I can jump in as another slave or a corsair, or both?))

  3. #3
    Patroller Mulchior Lancer's Avatar
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    ((Hey Patchouli, first of all welcome to the forums! I'm glad to hear my story got you to sign up.

    Yes, you're more than welcome to join in as either a slave, corsair, or both. I'm not sure how many people will jump in, so I'm honestly not strict about how many characters you bring in. I plan on adding a few on both sides to flesh the story out, though Furl will be my main. This is the first RP I've run, so I'm learning as I go.))

    (Also, be warned, posts in here don't count towards your post count, so if you want that to go up, you'll need to join in the other threads.)
    “Aha! Today I shall become an author! And I will auth and auth and auth and make a squillion dollars, whoopee!”
    -Brian Jacques

    My Story Blog

  4. #4
    Dibbun Patchouli's Avatar
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    ((Thank you! I'm not particularly worried about post count, but I'll browse around later.

    As for the RP, am I correct in assuming that the captain will be a major part of the storyline? I think you should have control of major characters so the story will flow. For now, I'll just be a slave. I may add in a corsair later if you don't mind))


    "Requesting permission t'leave for vacation, sah!" The mountain hare saluted formally, the three medals on the chest of his military jacket jingling as he did so. He stood tall and straight, awaiting the badger lord's reply.

    Lord Hortrow ceased hammering, cast a fleeting glance at the hare, and continued about his business. "State your reason for leave, Colonel."

    "Well, sah. We've hit a time of relative peace and it's been quiet for some time, wot! As y'know, I come from the Northlands and have a family up there. 'Tis high time I visited them. Actually, a couple of seasons ago, one of my cousins - remember Fernwhirl?" The hare temporarily changed the subject, snorting at the memory of his relative. "Jolly blighter can chat until your ears fall off, and he'll still talk! Relentless chap, wot. Ahem, anyways. Fernwhirl came down south and I received news from him that I'd become an uncle soon! Since we've seen no action recently, I thought 'twould be the perfect time to take my leave, wot wot."

    Hortrow paused again. He raised a thoughtful paw to stroke his chin, back still to the hare. The long silence was on the verge of becoming uncomfortable when the badger finally nodded his great striped head, granting the hare his leave. "Be safe, Colonel."

    Soon, the hare had shed his military uniform, donning a simple homespun tunic and a brown cloak. His sabre was tucked into his belt that held up beige trousers, and tightly strapped on his back was a longbow and quiver of arrows. He waved goodbye to his fellow officers and the new recruits as he passed by them on the way out of the legendary mountain.

    ----

    The hare rowed, muscles bulging against the weight of the oar. With every movement, the long cuts on his upper arms and bare back excreted a fresh line of blood, though never enough to openly drip. Ever since his partner passed from exhaustion, the slavemaster Wharll had paid extra attention to him, resulting in more scars and fresh wounds, and an increasing hatred for the vermin.

    Sighing, he adjusted the short scarf to avoid having it bloodstained while ignoring the stings from his multiple wounds. The faded blue fabric, belonging to his mother, was the only memento he had left of his home and family; the camp had been ransacked by vermin during his absence. Shortly after discovering the tragedy, he found himself chained in the bottom of a corsair ship.

    The vacant spot next to him received its next victim - a young, inexperienced otter. Poor chap, he was barely an adult.

    The hare kept silent as Wharll made the same introduction every time the crew received a new slave. He only heaved a weary sigh amongst the whining around him, but when the Northlands were mentioned, the chains were the only obstacle keeping him from slaying Wharll on the spot and he had to grind his teeth together to prevent himself from spewing hateful insults.

    As the order to begin rowing was issued, he found the slave next to him rowing too fast, becoming out of sync with the others.

    "Whoa there, m'lad," the hare growled silently out of the corner of his mouth. "Continue like that and you'll soon die, wot. You're using too much strength and rowing too fast. Watch the others and try to copy their rhythm." He pulled the oar in a little, countering the otter's furious attempt at rowing as fast as he can.

    "What's your name? And how'd you come about to becoming stuck here, wot?"

  5. #5
    Patroller Mulchior Lancer's Avatar
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    ((Good point about taking control of the Captain. I didn’t want to hog all of the major characters, but that does make sense. I’ll take care of controlling the captain. Don’t worry about jumping in with a corsair at the moment. Maybe whenever the inevitable escape happens.

    And I’m glad you added a Long Patrol hare, I was going to add one in for story purposes, so you took care of that for me. ))

    Furl heard a quiet voice speak up beside him. The young otter hadn’t even thought to look beside his rowing partner the whole time he had been at his seat, due to the shock of his situation and the frightening presence of the oarmaster. Furl turned his head and observed the oarslave beside him. It was a male hare, an apparent veteran of the galley crew. The hare looked different from the other assorted beasts around them. While the other veterans looked hopeless, almost machinelike in their actions, this one still had a burning spirit inside of him. What was it that he said? Slow down? He felt the hare fight against his pushing, easily overcoming the weaker otter’s rapid movements.

    Furl glanced around him and saw the oarslaves rowing in rhythm to the beat of the drum behind them. Taking the hint, Furl began matching the pace of the oar beside them in a steady circular motion out of his own volition.

    “Thanks fer the warnin’ ma—,” began the otter before his voice caught in his throat.

    He had seen hares before. His holt had welcomed a few in for a meal and rest that were on patrol from some legendary mountain fortress down the coastline. Furl admired their humorous attitudes and ferocious appetites. Yet it was at this moment that he fully caught the extent of the hare’s injuries, the deep wounds that bled on his back, and the stained blue scarf around his neck. A shutter racked through Furl’s bones like a chill in deep winter. Would he end up just like him, bloodied and scarred?

    The resounding crack of Wharll’s tail echoed through the ship’s belly as an unseen beast cried out in pain, which snapped the otter out of his daze and back to rowing. Furl was thankful the hare told him to slow his rowing speed; his arms were starting to burn from repeated exertion.

    Furl glanced beside the hare again once the coast was clear, hearing the question presented to him. Thinking of home, the otter felt a twinge of homesickness in his heart, but brushed it aside to answer the question.

    “I-I’m Furlough Scalloway of Holt Sandybar,” whispered Furl through gritted teeth as he completed another row. “I was out gatherin’ food with my sis when some beast musta conked a club over me head. Next thing I knew, I’m here, rowin’ fer my life.” The otter took another quick look around him before continuing with a heavy sigh. “At least I don’t see my sister here, not that I’ll ever see her or my holt again.”

    The otter grunted as he continued another cycle with the oar. His chains rattled with every exhausting churn of the wooden oar. A tear dropped from the otter’s eye down his cheek, but he ignored it and continued his work.

    “How ‘bout you, wot’s yer name?” asked Furl. “How long ‘ave yew been here?”

    --

    Captain Ironteeth stood watch over the bow of the Bloodrine as the shore soon slipped beyond the rough waves of the sea, back bent and resting on his propped knee as he leered over the azure horizon. The stout and scarred pine martin wore a crimson coat that drooped down to his knees, brass buttons adorning the sides of the coat. One couldn’t tell if the red was the original color of the fabric, or from the bloodstains of previously felled foes. Underneath the coat, he wore a simple dirty white shirt, and black pants, with old worn boots that had long lost their luster. Wrapped around the captain’s neck was a straggly rope necklace, with a single tooth acting as its pendant.

    He had seen many battles in his lifetime, and almost always came out the victor. However, his one loss stuck with him like a splinter embedded deep under his skin. Once he had been known as Captain Scrimm, terror of the high seas. He attempted to storm a great mountain fortress, one that shot blazing fire in the night sky. He lost a great number of his vermin crew to the defending beasts— a badger the size of a whale, and his fearless fighting hares. He had been beaten within an inch of his life, his cutlass snapped in two by the badger’s brutal weapon. To add insult to injury, the badger then smashed the weapon straight into his muzzle, removing his teeth as if they had been made of ice.

    After his remaining crew saved him from certain death, the ship had sailed away in hasty retreat. After a long, grueling recovery, the pine martin fashioned himself metal dentures, ones in the shape of a shark. Now there was a fearsome monster he admired, a true killer of the deep. He forged his new steel teeth with two rows of deadly fangs, perfect for tearing out chunks of flesh from his stunned enemies. The captain kept one of his broken incisors and made it into a necklace, a constant reminder of the pain inflicted upon him.

    Now only one word beat in Captain Ironteeth’s brain over and over like the drumbeats pounding below deck. Boom. Revenge. Boom. Revenge. Boom. Revenge. He would meet that badger again one day in battle, rowed by the very beasts the foolish stripedog wished to protect. Oh, he couldn’t wait to see the stunned look on the badger’s face as he realized a portion of his neck had been chewed off, as death mist clouded over his fading eyes.

    But first, there was business to be taken care of. Captain Ironteeth had heard of legends of a grey fox in the Northern lands, a forger of weapons of death. Legends circled that the fox had dug deep into the earth for new material until uncovering some ore outside of hellgates. The fox heated and hammered the material into a dreadful trident, one that supposedly could snap any weapon in two. The pine martin would need it if he planned to embarrass the badger in battle, shattering the weapon that broke his teeth long ago.

    The sea wind rippled through Captain Ironteeth’s fur and coat as he tapped his footpaw on the railing. While the weather would’ve been perfect to hoist the sails for faster travel, he had oarslaves to break in. Why give them a moment of respite when they needed to learn the ways of their new life? The pine martin hissed a chuckle through his metal fangs.

    “Full speed ahead me buckos,” he ordered. “We have a ways ta go before reachin’ th’ Northlands.”

    The cold and unforgiving northlands, where the captain’s prize awaited him, and then back to the mountain. All for revenge. Revenge. That badger would feel the razor death clamp of the pine landshark upon his neck. The good captain would see to that. Just the thought made him grin, exposing his metal fangs to the sun.
    “Aha! Today I shall become an author! And I will auth and auth and auth and make a squillion dollars, whoopee!”
    -Brian Jacques

    My Story Blog

  6. #6
    Dibbun Patchouli's Avatar
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    ((No problem! The person with the story should be in control of major story characters. Do you mind if my character has a personal feud with Wharll though? After reading your post, it would make sense for Patchouli to have fought the crew before, being from the Long Patrol. Basically, he beat Wharll during the invasion, but after he was captured, Wharll took his personal weapons from Salamandastron and made sure to torment him.

    I've always wanted to have a Long Patrol hare character... I'm happy he fits!))

    The otter seemed to finally notice the rhythm of the ship, falling in beat with the rest of the oarslaves.

    As the otter voiced a hasty thanks, breaking off midway, the burly hare turned to look at what had bothered the new arrival. The otter's wide stare traced to the hare's shredded back. "Don't worry too much now, it looks worse than it actually is, wot." A rising pity rose in the hare's chest, and he laid a comforting paw on the shivering otter's, never stopping the rowing motion with his other paw.

    The hare gently squeezed the otter's paw, having noticed Furlough's sorrowful tear. He raged silently at the filthy vermin; all they were capable of were death, destruction, and slavery, bringing misfortune wherever they visited.

    He then brought his paw back to the oar, resuming the rowing with both arms. "Name's Patchouli Mitchburr Dequence, at y'service, sah," he whispered, saluting as his chains would allow "I've been here a few seasons. Since... Two... Three summers ago, wot?"

    "Yous two there!" An irritated bark came from Wharll as he swaggered over to the pair. "Less talkin'! Lemme see ya work those paws 'arder!" His tail cracked across Patchouli's back. Patchouli winced, and threw a spiteful glance at the rat. Wharll gloated in the security the that chains binding Patchouli provided him, walking away with a satisfied laugh.

    Making sure the slavemaster was out of earshot this time, Patchouli leaned in close to Furl, fire burning in his eyes as he stared holes into the rat's back. "Used to be in the Long Patrol, dontcha know. Gave that rat a personal beatin' the last time the vermin tried to invade our coasts - jolly idiotic move, wot. Now he's settling the score with me; you'll notice 'im giving me more 'special attention'." A dry, humourless laugh escaped Patchouli's lips that were twisting upwards in a vengeful smile. "That rat is a dead one when I'm free of these chains, wot. The same goes for all of the vermin on this ship.

    For now, let me give you some advice for staying alive. Don't talk back. Don't rebel against them. The surest bet you've got for staying alive is to keep your head down and remain inconspicuous, wot. You've the misfortune to sit with me, but I'll try my best to leave you out of my quarrel with Wharll. Remain alive, and I will help you escape this wretched place to see your family again." An emptiness filled him as he remembered his own camp, deserted with the exception of a few rotting corpses upon his arrival. He sincerely hoped the young otter would be able to return to his family.

    Furlough was the youngest to arrive on the ship, and that seemed to spark a dying flame inside Patchouli. The hare had long since envisioned escape, but the wishful thought deflated each time he faced the impossibility of the task. That is, until the youngster was robbed of his freedom. A beast with a whole life left ahead of him had become chained to the bottom of the despicable ship. He bit his lip until it bled, resolutely vowing to destroy the vermin.

    Patchouli noticed the weight of the oar increasing. Rather, it hadn't increased but the young otter was obviously tiring from the labourous task. "It's alright if you rest when you're tired, wot. Leave the rowing t'me. You needn't push yourself too hard."

  7. #7
    Patroller Mulchior Lancer's Avatar
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    ((Feel free to use Wharll as you wish in your sections. I had some of the vermin’s motivations brewing in my mind for some time, and your character would certainly fit having faced them before. Both Patchouli’s weapons and Furl’s pike have been stowed away for future use. Likewise, if you see the need to add a minor character among the slaves for dialogue/the adventure, go for it as well.))


    Furl jumped from the bench at the sound of slavemaster Wharll’s tail snapping against Patchouli’s back; or at least the few inches the chains allowed. Wharll eyed the otter as the rat laughed, twirled his tail, giving an audible whirl as it cut through the air. Furlough gave Patchouli a sympathetic look. He felt terrible for staring at the hare’s wounds beforehand. While part of it was out of dreading what could happen to him; it bothered him that beasts would treat each other this way.

    The hare spoke again of his Long Patrol days, the name finally ringing a bell in his mind. That was what the hares that stopped by his clan’s holt called themselves. Behind Patchouli’s eyes burned the embers of just anger, and Furl didn’t want to be on the receiving end of the hare’s wrath when he’d hopefully get his chance at retribution. Still, the knowledge that he was in the company of a Long Patrol member gave the downcast otter a kindling of hope igniting deep within the chambers of his soul.

    “Nice to meet yew, mate,” replied Furl with a friendly nod as he rowed.

    Patchouli leaned in close and spoke low, barely audible above the droning thumps of the drumbeat, and began explaining the laws of the land, or ship in this case. Furl soaked the information in like a sponge. He had to; his young life depended on quickly adapting to the life of a galley slave. Keep your head down, do what your told, don’t raise a ruckus. All difficult words to accept when all you want to do is escape, but Furl knew it was best to listen to the veteran and take his warnings to heart. Furl thought he saw a bit of blood drip from the Patchouli’s lip, but the hare quickly hid it from his view.

    Furl’s eyes widened at Patchouli’s mention of escaping this hell ship. Was it possible? Glancing from side to side, the other veteran galley slaves merely stared at the floor. Escape seemed impossible, and the submissive attitudes of the others only reinforced that attitude. If a chance at returning home existed, no doubt would it come from anybeast else than the one beside him. Until then, he’d have to continue his backbreaking labor. Furl felt his tired arms give less exertion in his rowing. The hare seemed to pick this up immediately, but instead of frustration, the hare encouraged him to ease up and rest when he could. Furl felt guilty, but the otter took the opportunity to simply hold onto the oar and make the rowing motion.

    “Much obliged mate,” thanked Furl in a low tone. The otter gritted his teeth, letting them grind from side to side. “I’ll pick up my slack when I can. If we’re ta make it offfa this fersakin ship, I’ll needs ta get stronger, an’ be able ta carry me weight. I never been inna battle before, but I wanna be ready when th’ time comes.”

    Furl glanced back behind him, spotting a fox pounding away a steady rhythm on a large drum. The red fox looked almost like a statue, other than his arms moving with his large drumsticks. The young otter had never taken a life, or even gave it a thought before. But now things would have to change. When the time came, he’d have to become a warrior, giving these vermin a dose of their own medicine. He didn’t relish it, but it’s what the situation called for, and he’d be ready to answer the call to battle.

    “Yew there, eyes forward!” snapped Wharll, noticing the otter lost in his thoughts. The rat stormed forward with loud thumps. Before Furl could completely turn around and protest, the rat was on him.

    WHACK!

    Furl’s eyes bulged in shock as the rat whipped his tail hard against the otter’s back. Furl yelped loudly in pain, the force of the blow practically knocking the wind out of his lungs. Instinct took over, and Furl began rowing again at full strength.

    “S-sorry sir,” whimpered Furl, eyes watering as he faced forward again, not looking at the rat slavemaster. Furl heeded Patchouli’s advice, taking the punishment and obeying the rat’s command. Yet with a loud sniff, the otter held back the tears as best as he could and rowed on. He’d obey the galley master’s commands, but Furl refused to give the rat the satisfaction of seeing him cry, even if he wasn’t completely successful at it.

    “Don’t worry riverdog, befer yews expire, I’ll see ta it yew ‘ave jus’ as many stripes decoratin’ yer back as yer long eared shipmate,” threatened the rat, before striding onward.

    Pain seared through the otter’s back from the wound as he let his grip on the oar lessen a bit. In the back, he heard Wharll tormenting another new recruit near the drummer. Gritting his teeth, the otter forced the faintest smirk he could in the direction of Patchouli, letting him know he was okay, despite his arms shaking from fear.

    “As I said,” muttered Furl. “I’m with ye. Now how’d ya end up in a rotten place such as this?”
    “Aha! Today I shall become an author! And I will auth and auth and auth and make a squillion dollars, whoopee!”
    -Brian Jacques

    My Story Blog

  8. #8
    Dibbun Patchouli's Avatar
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    ((Will do! Just another question, do you already have an escape planned or are all the slaves' motivations at an all time low? XD))

    "Aye, don't you worry about it," Patchouli replied back, and winked at Furlough. "You know what's good about all this work, wot? Builds strength in these jolly ol' arms!" Even in their situation, Patchouli's quirky nature revealed itself with the slightly inappropriate joke.

    The hare fell silent as Furlough took the chance to look behind to the drumming fox. Patchouli didn't have anything personal against the fox, but vermin were all the same in his eyes and it didn't matter whose necks he could get his paws on, be it foxes, stoats, or ferrets. He'd relish the moment he would be free of the chains, and would not hesitate to take his anger out on his captives. The Long Patrol hares weren't soft after all.

    As he was lost in his own thoughts, paws still performing the mechanical movement, he failed to notice Wharll advance on them. But this time, Patchouli wasn't the rat's target. He glanced sideways at Furlough, mentally slapping himself for not being more aware and instantly feeling responsible for what had happened to the otter.

    The otter was stronger than Patchouli had initially thought, at least attempting to hold back his tears. Patchouli glared helplessly as Wharll strolled away, tail waving insolently.

    Patchouli squeezed the oar in anger, and his lips pursed tightly together, holding back the insults and death threats bubbling out of his chest. The rat had been dead many times in his imagination, but one day, it will become grim reality.

    Patchouli exhaled slowly at the smirk from the otter. Furlough was visibly shaking, so his tough facade didn't fool the hare. Nonetheless, it was a relief that Furlough seemed to be holding up pretty well.

    "Good t'hear, chap," Patchouli grinned over to Furlough. "As for how I became chained up in this rotten place..." he trailed off, shaking his paws slightly so that the chains rattled. "Not a very interesting story, wot. As y'know, I was in the Long Patrol. These vermin thought to invade our coasts many summers back, but our perilous forces, led by our badger lord, gave them a beating you wouldn't imagine, wot! Y'know why they call the marten 'Captain Ironteeth'? Because our jolly ol' Lord Hortrow knocked all his original teeth off, wot wot!" At the memory, the hare would've guffawed, but he settled with a satisfied snigger instead. "Couple o' seasons after that, I went to visit my family in the Northlands. Unfortunately they were all dead from a vermin raid. I was captured shortly after in my unstable state of mind, wot, but I'm done grieving' now. Huh, and as luck would have it, I end up with the vermin we beat! Ironic, wot?"

  9. #9
    Patroller Mulchior Lancer's Avatar
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    ((Don’t have anything completely planned at the moment, but there will be a time jump shortly, which will lead to the escape and greater adventure/pursuit by vermin. Working a bit on fleshing out the ideas on the side, but we’ll get to the runaway part soon.

    As for the crew, most are either too broken/exhausted/afraid to escape from the ship, though probably a few of the new arrivals might be strong enough to make it.

    Also, you don’t have to, but at the end of your next post, you should have Patchouli wake up from loud talking above deck. I’ll use it to throw some plot stuff in.

    BTW, if it takes me awhile to respond, it’s just due to prior commitments I have in my personal life. I’ll respond when I can and not keep you (or any that choose to jump in) waiting. ))


    Furl listened intently as Patchouli retold his history with the vermin captors. Part of the otter wished he could’ve been at that battle, watching the smug invaders face a true fighting force in open combat, with no tricks or ambushes. Furl chuckled under his breath with Patchouli when he heard how the Badger Lord Hortrow smashed in Captain Ironteeth’s original set of teeth. Still, Furl didn’t fancy meeting the captain, from all accounts the pine marten wasn’t one to laugh at. The otter’s attention snapped back to the hare’s loss of his family. Furl’s gaze fell to the oar and he continued to row. The otter had only been taken away from his family, though they still were alive. But Patchouli? He’d only see his family again past the gates of the Dark Forest. Then, to top it off, he got captured and enslaved here? It wasn’t right.

    Furl winced as he completed another rotation with the oar. The wound on his back seemed to sting more and more with each exertion of his upper body. Sighing through his nose, Furl had no choice but to work through the pain. He’d get tougher at least. And Patchouli was right, the rowing would build his arm strength.

    “Sorry ta hear ‘bout yer family,” sympathized Furl, returning his gaze to the hare. “Can’t imagine wot that’s like. Must be hard losin’ ‘em.” The otter paused, the rat had turned in their direction. After Wharll made another pass through the aisle, Furl muttered again under his breath. “Thanks fore lookin’ after me. I’ll repay yew somehow when th’ time comes.”

    And that was a promise that he swore to keep.

    --
    The rest of the afternoon and early evening was filled with constant rowing, with no time to rest weary paws. Wharll made sure every beast had fully exhausted themselves before calling for the oars to be stowed up. Furl both looked and felt dead tired, but thanks to Patchouli’s kindness, he was better off than he could’ve been with another partner. Furl took the momentary lull to rub his sore paws and wrists. The cuffs were chaffing into his skin, and the palms of his paws were bright red. After tomorrow, the otter felt sure his paws would be completely rubbed raw.

    A one-eyed ferret named Grull arrived in the pit of the ship wearing an apron, carrying with him a bubbling pot, held by two ratty mitts. The stew concoction didn’t smell particularly appetizing, but any food was vital to the health of a galley slave, so Furl made no protest in gobbling up the meager portion given to him. The otter dearly wished he could scoop in a pawful of hotroot pepper to give the bland slop some sort of taste, but he knew he’d have no such luxury.

    Next, Furl was given water to help cool his thirst. As he held the metal cup of water in his paws, the cool dampness helped momentarily soothe the pain. What didn’t help ease his pain was the stale, stinking air now that the port windows were closed shut. To make matters worse, the constant rocking of the boat, coupled with the stinking air made more than a few of the new slaves queasy. Furl winced as he heard the audible misery bellowing around him, thankful otters had little to worry about sea sickness.

    By now, Wharll’s shift had ended, and as Grull collected the last dish from the slaves and headed back, the night galley slave master arrived for his shift. Peg Jed certainly didn’t have the authoritative air that surrounded Wharll. Instead, Peg Jed seemed barely competent, already taking a sip of a flask underneath his coat. The one footpawed weasel in a rancid and moldy black coat clunked back and forth in the aisle, making sure the chains on the slaves were in place.

    “All rites yews, ah wants nosh talkins between ya’s,” slurred Peg Jed and waving his arm, eyeing what he thought was a three headed squirrel. None of the veteran beasts seemed to respect him, and either ignored the weasel, or talked quietly amongst themselves. Peg Jed stomped towards the door leading back upstairs and plopped down with the grace of a landslide. The drunk weasel took a long drink from his flask and leaned back for a nap. Furl turned to Patchouli and raised an eyebrow.

    “Is he always like that?” wondered the otter. Furl took heart at the sight of the weasel. Perhaps, when Wharll was absent, a future escape attempt was possible.

    The galley hull had darkened considerably with the absence of daylight and open port holes. A dim lantern swung lazily with the movements of the ship, but other than the flame’s glow, the room was comfortably dark. The otter’s head sunk low, sleep overcoming his resolve to study the lazy weasel. Furl raised his head once, twice, trying to listen to his friend talk, but tiredness won in the end. Furl fell into a deep sleep, hoping when he’d wake up he’d discover this all was a dream.
    “Aha! Today I shall become an author! And I will auth and auth and auth and make a squillion dollars, whoopee!”
    -Brian Jacques

    My Story Blog

  10. #10
    Dibbun Patchouli's Avatar
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    ((Will do! I may take my time in replying as well starting from now. School is really weighing down on me.))

    Patchouli smiled fondly at the astonished expression of Furlough. It reminded him of the younger Long Patrol recruits, who wore similar faces after hearing about Salamandastron's history and all the exploits of its force of perilous hares. The fleeting reminiscence brought a mix of sadness and nostalgia. What he wouldn't give to be back with the Patrol, putting vermin in their place and protecting the freedom of good beasts?

    He looked away as Furlough dropped his gaze. The hare's eyes grew distant, recalling bits and pieces of the past he frequently struggled to remember. The shock from the loss of his family and the few summers spent rotting in the bottom of the ship had caused him to forget the warm memories. But now they were coming back along with his will to escape, though many of the fragments were hazy and the faces of his old companions remained unclear.

    How were his comrades now? The former Colonel had disappeared without a trace, and nobeast knew his current whereabouts. Perhaps they'd already had a makeshift funeral for him. Patchouli stifled a laugh at the thought of his comrades' surprised and delighted faces as he would suddenly return to Salamandastron, as if reappearing after so many summers was the most natural thing in the world. Lord Hortrow would probably just frown and demand why the hare had been skipping duty for so long, but he'd be secretly relieved.

    "I'm all over that now, wot," Patchouli replied quietly. He was in a much better mood now, and his resolve to escape the ship was much stronger. "T'ain't good for jolly body to always be grieving, dontcha know. Don't worry about repaying this ol' beast - everything's offered free of charge, wot wot."

    ----

    The constant rowing halted at the approach of evening. After being a slave for so long, Patchouli wasn't affected as the new recruits were, but his arms and paws were still tired and strained. He massaged and stretched his muscles, relieving them slightly. He caught a glimpse of Furlough's red palms. Unfortunately, nothing could be done about that, but it'll eventually get better as time went on.

    Next was the food. Patchouli would rather not think about what ingredients were used to make the vile stew. Disgusting as it was, he learned to accept it. Food for the slaves was already scarce enough and only a beast with a death wish would not eat. As he swallowed the stew, he imagined it being Redwall vittles, unmatched anywhere. It helped the horrid glop go down the poor throat.

    Patchouli used the water to flush down the stew, finishing the liquid with just a few gulps. The water wasn't the freshest around, but that couldn't be helped either. It only heightened his thirst for some Redwall drinks... Strawberry cordial... October ale... He sighed. Perhaps he'd visit Redwall first before Salamandastron simply because the vittles and drinks were so good.

    It was about time for Wharll to be off shift. The next in line, a completely incompetent weasel, stumbled his way down the aisle to check the slaves. Patchouli shook his head. He'd never understood how the vermin organized themselves. A hare on the level of Peg Jed's efficiency wouldn't even be accepted into the Long Patrol, let alone enter the mountain.

    Some veteran oarbeast stuck out a footpaw and tripped the weasel. Peg Jed fell heavily, tangled within his foul black coat. A wave of laughter rippled through the slaves, mostly coming from the veterans. The new recruits weren't as bold just yet.

    The weasel stood up indignantly, his artificial leg clacking loudly against the wood. "Which beasht di' thaht?" He slurred in his drunken state. More laughter met Peg Jed, and he hurriedly began to walk away, only to realize he was headed in the wrong direction. He turned abruptly and almost tripped again, but surprisingly managed to save face. Stalking off, he made a quick speech which was largely ignored, and plopped down for a nap.

    Patchouli smirked. He would be sticking out his footpaw as well if he sat on the outside, next to the aisle.

    The good thing was that escape would be easy enough under the supervision of this blathering idiot. "He's always like that, alright. Bally idiot. Bad form, I say, bad form! He could use some straightening up, wot. If this was the Patrol-" As Patchouli was about to delve into the details of the Long Patrol training, he noticed his friend already tilting forward, half asleep. "Perhaps for another time then, wot."

    The hare yawned widely. He was more tired than usual, probably from covering for Furlough when he took breaks. There weren't a lot of interesting conversations around them for him to jump in, so he leaned onto the hard wood to his side and shut his eyes. Sleep quickly overcame him.

    ----

    Patchouli's ears twitched, and he woke to the sound of loud voices above deck. It was quite late judging from the soft snores all around him. While his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he sat up slowly, careful to avoid waking Furlough. He listened intently to whatever may be going on above - his guts told him it was something important.

  11. #11
    Patroller Mulchior Lancer's Avatar
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    ((No problem, I understand. School first before fun, right? Take your time when you need to. I’ll be checking and will respond with my parts as soon as the time allows.

    I do have an escape planned now. Once we finish off what happens during this first night, I’ll do a time jump to the night of the escape. And I’ve decided that all of the slaves will make an escape, though the story will focus on what Furl and Patchouli do. The others might make appearances during the journey.

    Also, I’m open to input or suggestions on your end, too. This is the first interactive story I’ve run, so I might make a mistake here and there, but I’ll make sure we see it to the end.

    This one is going to be a bit long, as I’m fleshing out the crew of the Bloodrine a bit, and introducing a few slave characters. I should note that the crew of the Bloodrine has about thirty vermin on it, just so a crew number is established.))


    The floors on the Bloodrine were thin, and sound carried with ease from the floor above to the galley hold below. The slaves below didn’t need to strain their ears to hear the roaring commotion above. Most of the galley slaves learned from previous seasons at sea to ignore the chatter, but the noise was enough distraction to wake a green, wet behind the ears slave like Furl. The otter woke up with a loud yawn from a blank and dreamless rest. With blurry eyes, he blinked once or thrice to shake the sleep from his sunken eyes. Peg Jed still sat where the otter last saw him, head sunken down with his flask cradled in his arms like a newborn kit. Furl smacked his dry lips, wishing he could have a taste of the contents to relieve his dry mouth, even at the risk of inebriation. Furl noticed Patchouli was also awake, in addition to a few slaves in the general area.

    “Wot’s goin’ on?” whispered Furl to the hare, rubbing his eyes with a free paw.

    “Looks like they’re hittin’ th’ bottle hard tonite,” sighed a gruff voice from behind. Furl glanced behind him and saw the speaker, an older hedgehog leaning against the wall of the ship. The hedgehog was the longest living galley slave on the boat, having been a prisoner on the ship many seasons before Patchouli first arrived.

    “Wish I could ‘ave a nip of it meself,” sighed his rowing mate, a fierce looking shrew with a scar running down the side of his face. The shrew scowled when he noticed Furl eyeing him. “Wot’re you lookin’ at, dead meat?”

    “Settle down Worble, he ain’t but a dibbun,” chided the hedgehog, pointing a finger at the annoyed shrew. “We wus all one at some point.” The hedgehog gave a friendly nod at the otter and spoke in a kinder voice. “Don’t mind ‘im, he’s always a grump. Pascal Needleton at yer service.”

    “I’m Furl Scalloway, nice ta meet ya,” replied Furl with a returning nod. The otter noticed the other galley slaves looked at the gentle hedgehog with respect, as if he were the de facto leader of the ragged crew, or at least the settler of disputes.

    “Don’t matter who ya are,” barked Worble, before spitting on the filthy floor. The shrew sneered at the otter and pointed at the hare with his paw. “Yer th’ hare’s oarmate. They never last more ‘n a season. Wharll’ll see ta that, he always does.”

    Pascal and a few of the other alert slaves laid into the antagonistic shrew, as none of them cared for Worble’s antics. Furl felt the anger boil inside of him due to the shrew’s jab at Patchouli.

    “We’ll see bout that,” hissed Furl, facing forward again. “I won’t die so easily.” The otter vowed to himself that he’d hold out as long as he could, both to make it home, as well as to prove the shrew wrong. The otter stewed as he tried to get back to sleep, but he couldn’t help but overhear the commotion happening above.


    ((Note: Have to split this in two due to the length.))
    “Aha! Today I shall become an author! And I will auth and auth and auth and make a squillion dollars, whoopee!”
    -Brian Jacques

    My Story Blog

  12. #12
    Patroller Mulchior Lancer's Avatar
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    Since the accident, Captain Ironteeth was rarely in a good mood, yet tonight the pine marten was in high spirits. Surrounded by his close circle of officers and high-ranking shipbeasts, the captain downed another glass of seaweed grog and threw the clay mug against the wall of his quarters, shattering it into a million pieces. The vixen named Scarla Stargaze standing next to the captain sighed and shook her head as the room erupted into loud laughter at the act.

    “Cap’n, at this rate, th’ ship’ll run outta drinkware before our next port,” grumbled Scarla. Most of the shipbeasta would throw themselves overboard before speaking to the captain in that manner, but the fearless vixen knew the captain would kill the rest of his crew before laying a paw on his trusted healer. The captain chuckled at the vixen’s ire, as he enjoyed getting under the fur of his stoic advisor.

    “Then we’ll jus’ have ta plunder some more from some foolish beast on our next raid, right mates?” gaffed the captain, to the accompanying cheers of his crew.

    First mate Braccul, a stocky stoat with many scars on his arms and a patch over his left eye, added to the captain’s promise. “Aye, an’ we’ll bag all their vittles an loot, too. Mebee decorate th’ ship with their severed ‘eads, too.”

    Another crewbeast sitting next to the captain, an ermine called Vendrus, downed another drink of grog from his mug and laughed. The ermine had recently joined the crew as second mate, hailing from the lands of ice far to the north. He had joined the ship and gained a position of power, much to the murderous envy of his shipmates. They glared at Vendrus with contempt, knowing full well why the ermine held his position of power.

    “Ve vill do much mores then that vhen ve find Moltok the forger an’ take th’ Trident of th’ Hellsgates for th’ Captain,” snickered Vendrus. “Vhen all shall tremble at th’ mere mention of the Bloodrine.”

    Gruntrin, a veteran ferret on the Bloodrine, sneered as he folded his striped arms while leaning against the wall of the quarters. The ferret had been unceremoniously demoted at the arrival of the ermine, who had told the captain of the legend of the Trident.

    “’Ows we knows ya ain’t jus’ pullin’ th’ captain’s leg, eh?” grumbled the ferret. “Seems like a buncha hogwash ta me.”

    The laughter amongst the crew stopped, and the captain swung his head towards the indignant ferret. Captain Ironteeth slid his chair out and stood up from his seat. The captain towered over his crew, and Gruntrin immediately regretted speaking out of turn.

    “Vendrus, may I see yer sickle fer a moment?” asked the pine marten in a calm voice. The ermine produced his weapon and handed it to the captain wordlessly. The crew standing by Gruntrin took a few steps away from the ferret and the offender began whimpering in his spot.

    “Sorry cap’n, uh, I’s wasn’t insultin’ ya,” apologized the ferret as the captain coolly walked towards the ferret, cradling the sickle. Captain Ironteeth held the sickle with adoration as he held it up for all to see, especially Gruntrin. Light from the hanging oil lanterns glimmered on the pristine blade of the sickle.

    “Look at it, my friend,” ordered Captain Ironteeth turning the blade over and over. “Have ya ever seen a beautiful blade such as this? See ‘ow it shimmers in the light.” The ferret gazed at the blade, seemingly hypnotized at the craftsmanship and quality of the blade. “Hold it in yer paws an’ feel the weight of it.” The ferret stood speechless as the captain held out the sickle, hesitant to take the blade. “Take it!” growled the captain.

    Gruntrin extended a shaky paw and took the sickle from his captain. True to the captain’s word, the weapon felt different from any weapon the corsair had held before, with a hefty, yet manageable weight. Gruntrin swung the sickle in the air, making a humming sound from the blade cutting through the air.

    “’Tis a fine blade,” whispered the ferret in awe.

    “Aye, and ya see th’ name inscribed on th’ blade?” inquired the captain, talking down to the ferret as if he were a dibbun. The ferret examined the name inscribed on the blade.

    “I, uh, can’ts read,” admitted Gruntrin, his face turning red. The captain patted Gruntrin on the head and took the magnificent blade from him. The captain held up the blade for the ferret to see.

    “Har har, why ain’t I surprised,” laughed the corsair captain. “Lemme reads it to ya. It says Moltok right here. M-o-l-t-o-c.”

    “K, sir,” corrected Scarla with annoyance. The captain shot a venomous look at his vixen healer before turning back to his captive shipmate, smiling a toothy grin with his steel fangs.

    “Wells, we ain’t all scholars,” snapped the captain, before waving with a dismissive paw. “’Sides th’ point. A forger of blades like this would certainly ‘ave a blade that could cleave that cursed stripedog’s blade in two. Don’t ye agree?”

    Gruntrin nodded vigorously with sweat dripping down his face. “A-aye sir, it ‘ould cut th’ blade in two. S-sorry fer doubtin’ ya.”

    “I’m glad ya see things my way,” praised the corsair. The captain turned towards his crew for a moment as the ferret let out a sigh of relief. “An’ when I get’s ahold of that trident—.” The captain’s voice trailed off for a moment as red mist clouded over his eyes.

    “I’ll lay m’ blade deep inta that stripedog’s belly an’ watch the life fade from ‘is dead eyes!” bellowed the captain, burying the scythe deep into Gruntrin’s shoulder, embedding so deep into the ferret it pierced the wooden wall of his quarters. The stunned ferret stood aghast, held firm against the wall with eyes open in surprise. Phlegm flaked the captain’s beard as he ranted and raved at his crew. “An’ then I’ll tears out ‘is neck!”

    Captain Ironteeth swung around and sunk his metal fangs in the dying ferret’s neck. The crew gasped in horror, and a few turned away in disgust at the carnage. The captain spat out the mess of flesh and fur on the floor as Gruntrin let out one last gurgle before departing to hellgates. Placing a foot on the dead ferret’s body, the captain savagely tore the scythe from the ferret’s body, letting it hit the floor with an unceremonious thump. The captain heaved in oxygen for a few silent moments before composing himself. He leaned down, wiped the Gruntrin’s blood off of the blade with the expired ferret’s own coat, before returning to his seat and handing the scythe back to Vendrus. The captain took the jug of seaweed grog and took a long draught of the drink before thudding it against the table.

    “Anyone else question if th’ legend is real?” queried the captain. No one spoke a word, sending Captain Ironteeth into a fit of laughter. “Good ta see all of ye ‘ave a bit more common sense. Once we make land, Vendrus’ll leads us ta th’ forger an’ th’ trident!”

    Two of the crewbeasts picked up Gruntrin’s corpse to throw overboard as Wharll raised his mug of grog.

    “To Cap’n Ironteeth, slayer of stripedogs!” cried Wharll, followed by the agreeing cheers of the frightened crew.

    The captain took a longer drink of the grog until it dribbled down the side of his muzzle, letting it mix with the blood of the ferret. The captain chuckled and turned his steely gaze to his galleymaster.

    “That loudmouthed hare from th’ mountain’s still alive, ain’t he?” asked the captain. The rat slaver nodded from his seat.

    “Aye, wiff a few more scars since we caught ‘im,” answered Wharll, beaming with satisfaction.

    “Good, good, make sure that one stays alive long enough ta see ‘is precious fortress fall,” ordered Captain Ironteeth. “I wants ta see th’ look on ‘is face when he sees th’ corpse of ‘is beloved master missin’ a chunk from ‘is neck.”

    Wharll let out a deep laugh from his belly and winked at his captain.

    “’Twould be a pleasure, cap’n,” agreed Wharll. “That it would.”

    The crew chimed in with cheers and continued their merriment. No crewmember would be going to bed sober that night. Not with visions of plunder and conquest swimming in their minds.
    “Aha! Today I shall become an author! And I will auth and auth and auth and make a squillion dollars, whoopee!”
    -Brian Jacques

    My Story Blog

  13. #13
    Dibbun Patchouli's Avatar
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    ((oh man... it's finally the weekend.))

    Patchouli sat tensely, ears erect. He didn't want to miss anything that was going on between the crew upstairs. When Furlough stirred awake beside him and asked him a question, Patchouli brought a finger to his lips, signalling the otter to be quiet. It didn't help much now that many of the slaves were stirring and beginning their chatter.

    The hare ignored the exchange between the otter and the two slaves behind them. There was nothing he could contribute anyways, so he remained silent, listening to the commotion upstairs while the otter and hedgehog got to know each other. Worble was in a terrible mood as always, and though his harsh comment was true, Patchouli couldn't help but shoot the cranky shrew a hard glare.

    Bits and pieces of the vermins' conversation were caught by the hare's sharp ears. Again, he felt the terrible anger that threatened to overcome all reason when the vermin talked about what they would do to free beasts in their despicable joking way. Closing his eyes, he breathed in deeply and released his fists, which he had been unconsciously clenching. It helped calm his flaring temper, and he opened his eyes once more.

    As the vermin talked on, Patchouli was absorbed into their conversation, and the quiet chatters around him seemed to fade. Peg Jed was still slumbering on, oblivious to both the activities around him and above him.

    The commotion seemed to grow and suddenly die down. Patchouli shook his head, exasperation overwhelming him. It was another one of the typical vermins' superstitious discussion, something about a trident this time. The tradition of the vermin was a puzzle in itself.

    He turned over to the otter, relaying the information he was able to catch. "Didya hear that? Seems like they're findin' a blacksmith or something." The hare snorted.

    He didn't believe any blacksmith could be better than a badger at Salamandastron. "What's the jolly chap's name now? Motork or somethin', wot?" He shook his head sadly. "Silly vermin superstitions, I tell ya. That marten will need a new head if he thinks a single weapon can win you a battle, wot."

    Of course, a good weapon was important too, anything warrior would know that. But the ultimately, it was the wielder of the blade who decided the battle.

    "But I wonder if what they said holds some truth, wot. I've seen a jolly good blade in my life. Made with special metal too. It's lasted throughout the whole history of Redwall. Every heard of that place, wot?"

  14. #14
    Patroller Mulchior Lancer's Avatar
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    ((Woo, thank goodness for weekends, otherwise my brain would explode.))


    Furl noticed the shift in Patchouli’s posture, from one of rest to total attentiveness. When the hare brought a finger to his lips, Furlough stopped his pestering and kept quiet. Whatever was going on, it had to be important to his friend, so far be it from him to distract him. Apparently only the otter seemed to care, as quite a few of the slaves were whispering amongst themselves, though they didn’t need to. Peg Jed looked like not even a shipwreck could rouse him from his slumber.

    The otter strained his ears to hear the muffled voices above him. His hearing wasn’t quite as good as Patchouli’s, but he heard words here and there, most notably “plunder”, “raids”, and “severed heads”. Furl felt sick to his stomach, the slaves were nothing more than tools for the corsair’s use in spreading suffering along the Mossflower coastline. The full realization that he and the others were helping them in their carnage caused Furl to grip his chains and crunch them between his paws.

    As Furl was lost in his thoughts, the hare finally spoke to the otter. Apparently, they were searching for some sort of blacksmith for some sort of weapon. He heard one beast mention the word trident amongst the din of voices.

    “Heh, a blacksmith, eh?” replied Furl with a raised eye. “Seems like th’ scallywags are too afraid ta take on yer badger friend without resortin’ ta help.”

    The hare’s confidence in his Long Patrol and Badger Lord brought a little bit of comfort to the otter. At least there were some beasts out there that struck terror in what little hearts these vermin had. Though the question of if the weapon truly existed did seem to tug a bit at the hare. Even if the blade didn’t match up to the forging skill of a Badger Lord, a well-crafted blade could still slay a great number of beasts.

    Furl nodded in agreement with Patchouli’s comment. A good weapon could save your life in a dire situation. Furl only had some training with spears, pikes, and slings, and knowing how to wield one efficiently determined whether you’d live or die in the wilds of Mossflower.

    But then the otter paused when the hare mentioned one word, one special word: Redwall.

    “Ya mean Redwall Abbey?” asked Furl, eyes brightening at the thought of the abbey. “Never been there meself, but I was gonna see it with my father and crew durin’ our trip, ‘till they left me behind.”

    Furl let out a deep, wishful sigh. If only his father had taken him along for the trip. Then he wouldn’t be stuck wallowing in bilge water and chains at the bottom of a galley ship. As the otter momentarily felt sorry for himself, another thought occurred to him. Had he gone on the trip, most likely another member of his holt would’ve ended up on this ship, maybe even his sister. The otter straightened up, feeling sorry for himself wouldn’t get him out of this slave ship.

    “Heard it’s a grand sight ta behold,” answered Furl, thinking back to the stories he heard around the campfires in his holt. “A red gemstone in a sea of emerald trees an’ grass. Aye, an’ their legendary vittles, too. Leafy salads, cakes a foot high, scones with th’ jam drippin’ off o’ ‘em an-.” The otter stopped and sheepishly smiled once he heard both his and the hare’s stomach’s groan for the delicious bounty. “An’ I heard of their legendary warriors, too. ‘Twould be a wondrous place to visit, And I plan on seein’ it one day with me own eyes.” A glint flashed in the otter’s eyes, his old spirit slowly returning from the shock of enslavement. “Have ye been there before?”
    “Aha! Today I shall become an author! And I will auth and auth and auth and make a squillion dollars, whoopee!”
    -Brian Jacques

    My Story Blog

  15. #15
    Dibbun Patchouli's Avatar
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    ((My brain's already fried from the week... lol. Physics is too hard. XD))

    Patchouli laughed, a dry, hoarse sound full of resentment towards vermin at Furl's statement. "Ain't that all vermin, wot? Cowards, the lot of them. They can't do anythin' but pick on innocent and free beasts. That's why the Long Patrol exists, dontcha know, wot. Our number's fluctuated a bit over the many summers of our history, but who we are will never change."

    Just like Redwall, Salamandastron has had its own share of history. Long lines of Badger Lords and perilous hares, the many battles and skirmishes... Patchouli was extremely proud of the Patrol and puffed out his chest slightly over his last comment. No vermin would be safe from the wrath of the Long Patrol if they would ever dare to disrupt the peace.

    But, Redwall was different. Patchouli could hear the awe in Furlough's voice as he repeated the word. Holding different beliefs from those at Salamandastron, the red-stoned sanctuary was inhabited by peaceful creatures, rarely slaying other beasts. It was a place known by all; hospitality from the Redwallers were unmatched, and the Abbey was kept forever safe by the spirit of Martin the Warrior.

    "Yes, Redwall Abbey." The hare pat the dejected otter's back as he mentioned his crew. "Don't worry young chap, you'll find your crew again. I'll see to it, wot."

    Furlough seemed to feel better, but now he was talking about Redwall vittles. Patchouli's own stomach twisted. How long had it been since he last tasted proper vittles? "Oh, stoppit you horrid streamdog!" he chortled in amusement as the pair's stomachs growled in unison. For a hare like him, the topic of vittles was pure agony.

    "You aren't off at all, though," he continued, smiling fondly at his memory of Redwall. "'Tis a wondrous place indeed, not somewhere you should pass up, wot! I've been there once or twice, wot wot."

    On the first occasion, he was to escort an old, retired hare to become the Abbey's resident hare. The second time, he simply traveled there for another taste of the Redwall cooks' amazing recipes. The gluttonous hare wasn't particularly ashamed of that, but he should set a good example for Furlough.

    "Words can't describe how amazing the place is, wot!" Patchouli spread his bound arms. "They've got a one of a kind tapestry of their hero and founder, Martin the Warrior. I'll tell you, that piece of art is magical. You'll feel calm and peaceful just by standing in its presence, wot! Martin still lingers there, forever protecting his beloved Abbey."

    It was a well known, undeniable fact. Redwall was sacred, the embodiment of freedom and peace.

    "You know, they still have Martin's sword. In times of need, Martin chooses a warrior to take up his role, wot! I'll tell ya, that sword is unbreakable. It was Boar the Fighter who forged it, wot. The Redwallers still have it, dontcha know!"

    The vermin seemed to be attempting to forge a powerful weapon like Martin's sword, but the hare didn't take them seriously at all. By nature, vermin are cowards, liars, and evil, nothing like the heroic Martin.

    "Heh, that marten may be seeking a weapon similar to Martin's, eh, wot? 'Tis but a waste of time!"

    "What if they do get the weapon, what then, huh?" A rude voice interrupted behind them. "More trouble fer us, that's what it'll be!" It was Worble, spewing his usual pessimism to lower morale. "Didn't ya hear them? Them vermin's goin' ta keep ya alive just so y'could see yer fortress fall. They sound mighty prepared ta me! And 'ere ya are, talkin' about other places like yer free." He spat contemptuously again.

    Patchouli rolled his eyes, ignoring the bothersome shrew. After a while of being on the ship, he had grown used to the shrew's constant blabber, and had ceased to waste his time and strength arguing.

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