Post by Bracken on Nov 16, 2011 17:01:32 GMT -5
Yeah, work-in-progress title. BUT, this little tale is something that kinda popped into my head a few days ago, and I'd like some critique. I've shown this to a couple people, but all I got from them was, "OMG JAN I LOVE THIS." Not that their responses weren't great, but, uh, I'd like to know if it needs improvement, heh.
It's very choppy, and still has a few kinks to be ironed out. And please know that I have absolutely no clue where this plot is going. At this point, the characters are writing the whole freakin' story, so ask them. If I get a good enough response from the rest o' y'all, I may be adding new chapters as I write them. Anyway, hope ya like!
It's very choppy, and still has a few kinks to be ironed out. And please know that I have absolutely no clue where this plot is going. At this point, the characters are writing the whole freakin' story, so ask them. If I get a good enough response from the rest o' y'all, I may be adding new chapters as I write them. Anyway, hope ya like!
"Curfew was an hour ago."
He lowered himself with a soft groan, old joints protesting the movement. The young mouse beside him nodded absently at the comment, her eyes on the moon hovering high above. A cool, night breeze ruffled her silky white fur and his messy gray coat. She sat with her legs curled up, slender arms wrapped around her knees. He sat stretched out, knees no longer able to bend properly.
"I know," her reply was unneeded, but she said it, anyway. The badger leaned against the trunk of the big oak tree, lighting a pipe. The high black shape of the old bell tower was clearly visible against the starlit backdrop of the sky. No bells had hung in the empty tower in over two decades. The abbey beasts had either never bothered to replace them, or had simply never gathered enough funds to do so.
"So, why ye out 'ere?" the badger, known to every beast as John, tucked the silver cigarette lighter back into a pocket inside his thick jacket. The little mouse's breath was visible in small clouds of steam as she shrugged, chin resting on her folded arms. Tattoos littered nearly every inch of exposed white fur, a few even present on her pretty face. All the inking was of plants and small creatures.
"Couldn't sleep, I guess," she mumbled, blue-green eyes darting to the side and then back up to the sky. John scoffed, puffing his pipe. He rested a big paw behind his head, settling against the tree.
"Martin talk t'ye agin?" he asked, only half-interested in her answer. She blushed a bright red, the color nearly drowning out the various tattoos on her cheeks. With every effort to keep her focus on the moon, she nodded.
"He still didn't tell me my name, though," she replied. John detected more than a hint of anger in her words. Gypsy, as she was known, was not a patient mouse. Martin the Warrior had spoken to her frequently in her dreams, but he'd rarely revealed anything about the mousemaid's mysterious past.
Though he was a fervently religious beast, John didn't think this Martin character really knew anything about Gypsy. After all, the poor thing had shown up at the abbey gates nearly twelve years ago, and she still didn't know her own name. Gypsy was more or less a pet name given her by the Brothers and Sisters. John wanted to help the tattooed mouse in some way, but there really was no lead to who she was. No special necklace, no prized weapon. Heck, she had arrived in a dress that was little more than a few patches sewn together. The only possible lead was her tattoos, but not even she remembered why she had them.
"I don't like talking to him, anymore," Gypsy remarked, pulling her jacket tighter around her thin frame. "He never tells me anything important. All he says now is something stupid about a thief and a witch." John regarded her with mild curiosity, taking a few short drags from his pipe. Her eyes met his, and he could see the desperateness beneath the anger.
"Wot's 'e say?" the badger inquired, not out of curiosity, but out of automatic habit. He was used to getting beasts to talk. It started with simple questions, ones they didn't mind answering. Gypsy only shrugged in response.
"He says a thief and a witch fell in love long ago," she murmured. "And then he smiles at me and a bunch of flowers appear behind him." She leaned back against the tree with a sigh, ears flattening. "I can't understand him, now. I wish he'd leave me alone." John said nothing for awhile. He knew she didn't want Martin to leave her alone. Even though the badger was unconvinced the warrior was for real, Gypsy was. And since Martin had been the only one who'd revealed anything about her past, she drank in every word he spoke. So far, however, all he'd said was that her family was alive, somewhere.
In twelve years, the last six months had been the most stressful for the little mouse. Martin had appeared to Gypsy half a year ago, and he'd promised to tell her about her family, and her past. Every night, Gypsy prayed that he would reveal her true name, but every night, Martin had evaded the question until she'd simply given up asking. He'd told her that her family was alive, looking for her. And he'd said something about witchcraft in regards to her tattoos. But in six months, that was all. And now some story about a thief and a witch. John didn't blame Gypsy for becoming impatient.
"I'm almost eighteen," the mouse said, clearly frustrated. "And I don't know my own name, or where I came from, or even who my mother is. And the one beast I think can help me hasn't said anything helpful." John wanted the discussion to be over. He obviously wouldn't get anything out of the little mouse besides a rant about Martin.
"Ye'd better get some sleep, girl," the big badger said at length. "Father Silas don't like us t'be outside after dark." Now it was Gypsy's turn to scoff.
"You don't believe in those vermin gangs, do you?" she asked, sarcasm dripping from her words. John's eyes moved to the gaping opening in the south wall. He shook his shaggy head.
"Naw," he replied. "But I do believe in sleep. C'mon, Gyp." He used the oak tree to heave himself onto his feet. Gypsy stood up, brushing off her oversized jacket. The two walked back to the abbey building, the silence of the night quickly enveloping them.
"It's been twelve years, Draco. When ya gonna tell her?"
A black mouse stood on the wall tops, his fur blending in with the night. Another mouse stood beside him, eyes on the abbey grounds. This mouse was pure white, but he wore all black clothing so he wouldn't be quite so conspicuous. He looked over at his comrade and shook his head. His right blue eye and left green eye were intense, boring holes into whatever happened to fall into his line of sight.
"I can't tell her, Micah," the one called Draco said. "She's safer here. She doesn't need t'know about me." Micah snorted quietly, gesturing to the broken down wall.
"Does that look safe t'you?" he demanded in an infuriated whisper. Draco's eyes narrowed.
"I meant safe from me," he clarified with barely-concealed frustration. "Redwall can handle itself should that wall prove to be a weakness. But I can't let her know who I am."
"Not even who she is?" Micah asked with a raised brow. "She's got a right t'know her own name, y'know." Draco shook his head again, turning his back to the abbey.
"If she learns that, she's no longer safe," he said decisively, as if the discussion was over. Micah wasn't about to let it go. He followed Draco was the white mouse leapt into one of the many trees growing over the wall tops. They made their way down to the forest floor, and Micah prepared to make his case.
"Y'don't have t'tell her y'self," he argued. "We could jus' leave an unsigned note at the gates. Y'have t'tell her something, Draco. She's wearing down, an' you know it." Draco turned abruptly, and Micah almost ran into him.
"Listen to me, Micah," the white mouse hissed, glaring venomously at his comrade. "I know you love my sister, but I will not jeopardize her safety for the sake of your infatuation with her. She is more important to me than any beast else in the world, even you. If I think moving her from the abbey or revealing her true name would put her life one iota in danger, then I will avoid it at all costs. Is that understood?"
Micah didn't answer. He boldly returned the glare with one of his own. Draco sneered and turned on his heel, storming into the woods. Micah followed.
The morning brought with it a dense fog. It hugged the ground and made visibility nearly nonexistent. But the abbey beasts remained indoors more often than out nowadays. A solitary black bat flapped above the fog, finding the bell tower's spire and winging his way into the old building. He settled on the wooden floor, or, what was left of it. Carefully, he skirted the curiously giant-bell-shaped hole in the floorboards and skittered over to the hedgehog who was just coming up the stairs.
"Mornin', Gabe," the spiky creature greeted. The bat gave a nod and turned his back to the hedgehog for better access to the messenger's bag strapped between his wings. "Wot ye got fer us, eh?"
"Letter for Father Silas," the bat, Gabriel, replied as the other beast removed the documents. "A note to Friar Dundry, invitation for Sister Mina, a doctor's notice for Charlotte and Mrill, and one unsigned for--"
"Gabe, I see 'em," the hedgehog chuckled. "No need t'list wot I c'n see in me paws." Gabriel smiled sheepishly and scurried out of the spiky beast's way.
"Sorry, Brose," the bat murmured, his large ears drooping back. "But Ah'm a bit excited." He scuttled up beside Brose, following the hedgehog as he made his way down the stairs. "There's an unsigned. An' it's fore tha' wee mouse, wi' the tattoos." Brose raised a spiky brow.
"For Gypsy?" he muttered, suddenly curious. Gabriel nodded emphatically. His black shape was visible as a mere blur as he climbed the stairwell walls, hovering around the hedgehog.
"Aye, can ya see wot et says, Brose?" the bat asked, eager to read the note. "Ah never kno' wot's in them unsigned ones, y'know. Ah get excited." Brose chortled merrily.
"Aye, as am I, Gabe," he replied. "But this'un's fer Gypsy. We can't read it 'less she reads it first."
"You're living in a ruin!" Gypsy yelled, throwing the old green robe at the abbot. "I've had enough of you! You don't know anything about me! Not even your precious Martin knows who I am!"
"Gypsy, please," Father Silas pleaded, reaching out a paw to stop her. She swatted it away, spinning on her heel and storming through the abbey.
"No!" she spat, tears of frustration welling in her eyes. "It's been twelve years since I came here, and I'm no closer to knowing who I am. I'm through!" The tattooed mouse clenched her paws into fists, throwing open the doors of the main abbey building. "This place was dead ages ago, and you beasts still pretend like it means something!"
"It means plenty, Gypsy!" a deep, gravelly voice halted the mouse in her tracks. John's brusque paw steps echoed loudly around the inside of the old Great Hall. "It means a Hell of a lot more'n you know. Get back here!" Gypsy snorted a cloud of steam in the cool winter air that flooded into the Hall from the open doors. Her eyes practically glowed with anger as she whirled on John.
"It used to mean something," she snapped. "Now it just means . . . f-false hope!" John scooped her up as if she weighed nothing, his dull silver eyes locking with her blue-green ones. She yelped in surprise and tried to push away from him; he could see the tears of frustration threatening to spill down her white cheeks.
"I made a promise t'this place, Gypsy," the badger told her evenly. "I said I'd help any beast who came t'them gates. This place means that much t'me. I don't care if it's dyin' from the outside in. It's still here, and I'll keep my promise t'this place 'til the last damn brick is turned t'dust, d'ye understand?"
Gypsy whimpered, anger still burning in her eyes, though less intensely. Father Silas could only watch as the giant badger calmed the little white mouse. Where had he seen a similar image before . . . ? The old squirrel abbot folded up the habit Gypsy had been wearing, sending up a silent prayer for her.
"You promised nothing, 'cause this place means nothing!" Gypsy sobbed. Twelve years of anger and desperation were poured into her words as she buried her face into John's shoulder. Father Silas felt his own eyes grow damp at the sight of the anguished mousemaid. All she wanted was to know--
"Mail call!" Brose the hedgehog entered the old Hall at just the wrong moment. Wrapped up in his coat and a homemade scarf, he trundled inside, a look of mild confusion on his face when he noticed the doors standing wide open. His footpaws crunched in the shallow snow covering the grounds as he came to a halt with a sheepish, "Oh, sorry."
Father Silas took it from there. "Good morning, Brose," he said softly, taking the hedgehog's arm. "I'll help you with that mail, today." Brose nodded distractedly, eyes drinking in the scene of John and Gypsy. Silas gently guided the spiky beast away from the big badger.
"Oh! Wait!" Brose exclaimed suddenly, fumbling with the stack of papers in his paws. "I got one fer Gypsy!" The little mouse looked up with a tiny gasp as Brose grinned. "Aye, dunno 'oo it's from, but Gabe jus' brought it fer ye."
John set the mousemaid down before she wriggled out of his grasp. She approached Brose, who held out the unsigned note for her, his grin never wavering. Gypsy was quite at a loss. Mail? For her? This could be the lead she'd been waiting for!
As if terrified, the mouse reached for the note. She didn't get a proper grip on it, and Brose let go too early. Quickly, she dropped to her knees to catch the envelope and tore it open. Father Silas, John, and Brose all looked on expectantly. Gabriel scurried inside at that moment, grinning from ear to ear when he saw Gypsy reading the note.
But the mousemaid stood up suddenly, allowing the paper to flutter to the floor stones. She then ran out into the snow, shoving past Gabriel and making for the hole in the south wall. John let out a growl of surprise and ran after her, groaning with every step. His damaged knees weren't used to this kind of exertion. Father Silas made to follow the badger, but he stopped, stooping to pick up the note. The old squirrel's eyes widened with every word he read.
"Oh, my God!" he exclaimed.
"I don't approve of this, Charles."
Pale sunshine glinted off the freshly-fallen snow that covered the cottages of the small town. Atop the short red bridge that spanned a small stream, a tall hare stood with a stocky mouse. The second creature wore a black fedora, and this he pulled down partially over his eyes, lip curling back slightly.
"Malcolm, I told you t'cool it with that 'Charles' nonsense," the brown mouse muttered. "Jus' call me Charlie." Malcolm ignored him.
"You're pretending to be somebeast you're not," the hare said. "I don't care how one looks at it, it's lying. Lying to an innocent maid, no less. And for what? Personal gain?" Charles grinned.
"I do my ancestor proud, huh?" the mouse chuckled, tipping the brim of his hat. The hare looked up to the sky for a moment, sighing through his nostrils. Charles was impossible.
"I don't suppose you know of such a thing as guilt," Malcolm inquired. Charles threw back his head and laughed. That was answer enough. The hare turned away and stormed off the bridge. "I want no part of this, you glorified circus performer." Charles' head snapped up, and he jogged after Malcolm.
"Hey, hey, hey!" the mouse called, pacing around the taller creature as the hare made his way back into the village. "I'm doing nothing wrong, Malcolm. She's got no family except me, and she knows it. So what if I don't know if we're actually related? D'you know 'ow popular our shows'd get with a girl like that to perform with me?"
"Your ability to place beasts in two categories of 'useful' and 'not' never ceases to amaze me, Charles," Malcolm said drily, stepping around the shorter mouse. Charles sneered, paws clenched into fists. He glared at the hare and jogged to catch up.
"C'mon, Mal," the mouse begged. "As much as I don't wanna say it, I . . . need your help. You c'n make this convincing." Malcolm scoffed, never breaking his stride.
"That is my job already, Charles," the hare reminded him. "I make sure your stupid illusions always please the crowd. But the shows are harmless fun, how we make our living. This is lying. Blatant lying, Charles."
"Right!" Charles exclaimed, having only heard the beginning of Malcolm's words. "Since I don't 'ave my brother, you make my stuff believable. This ain't no different." Malcolm let out a frustrated noise, halting at the edge of town. He pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Have I mentioned how utterly annoying your 'selective hearing' is?" he groaned. "Yes, I help you. Yes, I make the crowds believe it. But I don't lie, Charles. I perform. There's a difference." The mouse humphed and scurried around in front of the hare, holding up his paws.
"Look, Mal," Charles said. "I'm not hurting her. In fact, I'm prolly helping her. She doesn't know who her family is. She hasn't known nothing for most a' her life. I wanna help her. And I could almost promise you I'm her brother. If not, then at least her cousin. She'll be happier with us than at some old abbey, anyway." Malcolm was still unconvinced.
"Why haven't you tried to find her before, then?" the hare asked, genuinely curious. The mouse shrugged.
"My brother told me she was dead," he replied. "I asked him b'fore 'e left, though. But I never mentioned it 'til now 'cause I just heard of a tattooed mouse living at that old place."
"My, how word doesn't get around," Malcolm remarked sardonically, his tall ears swiveling back. Charles grinned.
"So you'll help me?" he asked.
"You forgot about that idiot, didn't you?" Micah drawled, leaning against the trunk of a sapling. Draco paced like a caged tiger, growling under his breath. The morning's fog had begun to disperse finally, restoring visibility. Concealed in a thicket on the south side of the abbey, the two mice had witnessed the morning's scene. Draco ran his paws through his head fur, muttering darkly to himself. Micah smiled a little. "At least she knows something, now."
"You're the idiot if you think this is a good thing," Draco snapped, his odd eyes frequently checking the abbey for movement. He'd seen the tattooed mouse try to escape through the south wall, but she'd been thankfully stopped by the badger. "How was I supposed to know Case would pull a stunt like this? It's just like him, not to trust my word. I told him to leave it be. But as soon as he hears word, one damn word about it, he's off like an arrow. This could get both of them killed."
Micah scoffed, "You don't know that, Draco. Maybe keepin' 'em both in one place will keep 'em safer." Draco snorted, sending his comrade a glare that could have broken a mirror.
"Keeping them in one place would make it easier for them to be killed," he spat. "I'm not about to let that happen." Micah threw his paws in the air helplessly.
"You're impossible!" he cried. "Ya can't show y'self t'her. Ye can't speak t'Case. . . Wot in Hell's teeth ye gonna do t'stop her from goin' after Case? She don't know who he is, anyway. If they come in contact, maybe y'can finally stop worryin' about 'em so much." Draco snarled, but said nothing. There was nothing he wanted more than the ability to stop worrying. But he hadn't been granted that luxury.
Micah stole a glance at the south wall as the white mouse resumed his pacing. The black mouse saw the girl sprinting towards the opening. Without thinking, he tackled Draco. The white mouse let out a grunt of surprise as he received the full weight of his comrade. Pinning Draco's legs and arms down, Micah watched the girl climb over the toppled stones and dart away into the woods.
Draco's eyes went wide with horror. "No," he breathed. "No! Micah, get off! We have to stop her! No!" Micah tightened his grip as the white mouse continued to struggle.
"I can't let you, Draco," the black mouse said with a shake of his head. "She has to know something. You can't keep her there forever." Draco growled, writhing beneath Micah's iron grip. The tattooed mousemaid disappeared into the woods in the next instant. Micah felt tears of relief welling in his eyes as he tried to keep Draco down. She was free!
Suddenly, Draco's fist was free, as well, and it connected powerfully with Micah's eye. Yelling in alarm and pain, the black mouse fell back. Draco pushed himself off the ground with astonishing speed and pinned his comrade, anger burning in his eyes.
"D-Draco!" Micah shouted. "I'm sorry! Don't--" Draco's eyes filmed over with red. The black mouse cried out in terror. "Draco! No, don't!"