Post by greenfang on Nov 9, 2009 14:14:56 GMT -5
(Here is a story I am wrighting in the style of Redwall. I don't think it will take place in the actual Redwall world, and the vermin are not as nasty as Brian's, but here goes! If you have nothing good to say, don't say anything! ;D)
Chapter 1
Dirkhem the weasel grimaced as he looked at the slop they called food. It was some kind of porridge, combined with potato peels, roots, and basically anything else the horde’s foragers could find. Slowly he raised the bowl to his mouth. He grimaced as he drank. With a look of disgusted, he set down the bowl. Nearby, a burly ferret yelled, “Come on an et up ya slobs!” Dirkhem quickly picked up his bowl again. He sighed as he started to raise the bowl.
******
“Come on en wake erp ya lazy slobs!” yelled Bilgeclaw as he swaggered about the massive camp that served as the home of the horde. Dirkhem staggered up. When the nasty ferret called the horde-beasts, they had to obey. His side ached as it did every morning from sleeping on the rocky ground. He was as so tired from working all day and waking up at the break of dawn every single day. The only thing that kept him going was constant threats of death.
It had not always been this way. Dirkhem had been born and raised somewhat the gentle-beast. He had lived peacefully, minding his own business. He was still young when they came. The horde members had given him a simple choice. He would join them, or he would be killed by them. Of course, he had chosen the former. It had only been a few days since he had joined the horde, and he did not like it.
Today, Dirkhem was surprised to see Bilgeclaw walk right up to him. “Hey softy!” said the ferret, “weapons training is today!”
Dirkhem was confused. “What is weapon training?” he asked.
“Its wer softies lak ya learn how ter handle a weapon!” said Bilgeclaw, “head over ter dat stoat feller to get yer education!” The ferret walked off snickering.
Dirkhem walked to a corner of the camp were a tall stoat stood. There were about a score of other horde-beasts there, which he guessed were also “softies.” “Top of the morning chaps!” said the stoat in a long drawn out voice. A few of the horde-beasts returned his “good mourning” cheerfully. The stoat pulled out a pair of crystal spectacles and fitted them on his snout. “I am your instructor. You will be taught how to handle a weapon, not for the reason that we care whether or not you survive, but because an existing warrior is better than one that has ceased to be.” A few of the “softies” rolled their eyes at the stoat’s fancy speech. He ignored them continuing, “Now, I think the best way to train softies like you is put you straight into combat. So each and every one of thee shalt be paired with a much more experience warrior, and then thou shalt fight.”
Dirkhem was worried as he walked toward the training ground. No, he was more than worried, he was trembling all over. He would be slaughtered! Him fighting an expert! He hoped his death would be a quick one. He looked over his entire short life as he walked. It seemed to take forever just to walk there. When he finally got to the training grounds he was surprised. The only beast near him was a female weasel, about his age. He cautiously looked around for an “expert.” “What do think yer doin? Yer suppose to be training with me!” said the other weasel. Dirkhem gasped in horror. He was going to be killed by this young weasel! Surprised she said to him, “Stop look’n at me like I’m a badger and get yer practice sword.” Dirkhem looked around; sitting on the ground next to him was a wooden sword. He noticed the other weasel was holding one as well. Greatly relived, he bent over and picked up the “sword” and held it horizontally in front of himself, hands shaking.
The weasel walked towards him, thrusting her stick forward. Dirkhem narrowly deflected it with the tip of his stick. Emboldened, he swung his stick downwards in the general direction of the weasel. Jumping lightly to the side, she swung the stick horizontally at the side of his head. There was an explosion of colors and Dirkhem fell heavily to the ground. When he felt well enough to open his eyes, he noticed the weasel leaning over him. “Are you all right?” she asked, apparently forgetting her accent.
“I thought the instructor said you didn’t care if we lived or died,” Moaned Dirkhem, still sprawled in the grass.
“Well,” she said, “he may not care, but I don’t want to have killed you with this wooden sword.” Grabbing his paw, she pulled him up. “Do you want to keep going?” she asked.
“Do I have a choice?” Dirkhem answered raising his stick once again.
******
Later that evening, Dirkhem was sat next to a fire with some other members of the horde. Besides his whack in the head Dirkhem had a few other bruises to remember his training by. “I can’t believe what dey feed us,” complained a rat, “dis bread must be as hard as rocks!”
A thin vixen turn to him saying, “Shut yer big mouth or they’ll disembowel you an burn ya alive!”
“Who is the leader of this horde any way?” asked Dirkhem. Bloodfur, the vixen, looked at him quizzically.
“No one is,” she said, “there are a few big guys like Bilgeclaw and Iceyes who are in charge, but no one has been able to keep command.”
“So why don’t we just leave then?” Dirkhem asked.
The rat, Scratchface, spoke up, “Yer couldn’t. Bilgeclaw or one of his cronies werd git ya.”
“And gut ya!” added Bloodfur happily. With a sigh, Dirkhem laid out his blanket and lay down. Tired, he fell asleep almost immediately.
Chapter 1
Dirkhem the weasel grimaced as he looked at the slop they called food. It was some kind of porridge, combined with potato peels, roots, and basically anything else the horde’s foragers could find. Slowly he raised the bowl to his mouth. He grimaced as he drank. With a look of disgusted, he set down the bowl. Nearby, a burly ferret yelled, “Come on an et up ya slobs!” Dirkhem quickly picked up his bowl again. He sighed as he started to raise the bowl.
******
“Come on en wake erp ya lazy slobs!” yelled Bilgeclaw as he swaggered about the massive camp that served as the home of the horde. Dirkhem staggered up. When the nasty ferret called the horde-beasts, they had to obey. His side ached as it did every morning from sleeping on the rocky ground. He was as so tired from working all day and waking up at the break of dawn every single day. The only thing that kept him going was constant threats of death.
It had not always been this way. Dirkhem had been born and raised somewhat the gentle-beast. He had lived peacefully, minding his own business. He was still young when they came. The horde members had given him a simple choice. He would join them, or he would be killed by them. Of course, he had chosen the former. It had only been a few days since he had joined the horde, and he did not like it.
Today, Dirkhem was surprised to see Bilgeclaw walk right up to him. “Hey softy!” said the ferret, “weapons training is today!”
Dirkhem was confused. “What is weapon training?” he asked.
“Its wer softies lak ya learn how ter handle a weapon!” said Bilgeclaw, “head over ter dat stoat feller to get yer education!” The ferret walked off snickering.
Dirkhem walked to a corner of the camp were a tall stoat stood. There were about a score of other horde-beasts there, which he guessed were also “softies.” “Top of the morning chaps!” said the stoat in a long drawn out voice. A few of the horde-beasts returned his “good mourning” cheerfully. The stoat pulled out a pair of crystal spectacles and fitted them on his snout. “I am your instructor. You will be taught how to handle a weapon, not for the reason that we care whether or not you survive, but because an existing warrior is better than one that has ceased to be.” A few of the “softies” rolled their eyes at the stoat’s fancy speech. He ignored them continuing, “Now, I think the best way to train softies like you is put you straight into combat. So each and every one of thee shalt be paired with a much more experience warrior, and then thou shalt fight.”
Dirkhem was worried as he walked toward the training ground. No, he was more than worried, he was trembling all over. He would be slaughtered! Him fighting an expert! He hoped his death would be a quick one. He looked over his entire short life as he walked. It seemed to take forever just to walk there. When he finally got to the training grounds he was surprised. The only beast near him was a female weasel, about his age. He cautiously looked around for an “expert.” “What do think yer doin? Yer suppose to be training with me!” said the other weasel. Dirkhem gasped in horror. He was going to be killed by this young weasel! Surprised she said to him, “Stop look’n at me like I’m a badger and get yer practice sword.” Dirkhem looked around; sitting on the ground next to him was a wooden sword. He noticed the other weasel was holding one as well. Greatly relived, he bent over and picked up the “sword” and held it horizontally in front of himself, hands shaking.
The weasel walked towards him, thrusting her stick forward. Dirkhem narrowly deflected it with the tip of his stick. Emboldened, he swung his stick downwards in the general direction of the weasel. Jumping lightly to the side, she swung the stick horizontally at the side of his head. There was an explosion of colors and Dirkhem fell heavily to the ground. When he felt well enough to open his eyes, he noticed the weasel leaning over him. “Are you all right?” she asked, apparently forgetting her accent.
“I thought the instructor said you didn’t care if we lived or died,” Moaned Dirkhem, still sprawled in the grass.
“Well,” she said, “he may not care, but I don’t want to have killed you with this wooden sword.” Grabbing his paw, she pulled him up. “Do you want to keep going?” she asked.
“Do I have a choice?” Dirkhem answered raising his stick once again.
******
Later that evening, Dirkhem was sat next to a fire with some other members of the horde. Besides his whack in the head Dirkhem had a few other bruises to remember his training by. “I can’t believe what dey feed us,” complained a rat, “dis bread must be as hard as rocks!”
A thin vixen turn to him saying, “Shut yer big mouth or they’ll disembowel you an burn ya alive!”
“Who is the leader of this horde any way?” asked Dirkhem. Bloodfur, the vixen, looked at him quizzically.
“No one is,” she said, “there are a few big guys like Bilgeclaw and Iceyes who are in charge, but no one has been able to keep command.”
“So why don’t we just leave then?” Dirkhem asked.
The rat, Scratchface, spoke up, “Yer couldn’t. Bilgeclaw or one of his cronies werd git ya.”
“And gut ya!” added Bloodfur happily. With a sigh, Dirkhem laid out his blanket and lay down. Tired, he fell asleep almost immediately.