#home made redscale

[ciaospiriti]

[anryuuepic]

Test Subject: Ceres Bio

Name: Test Subject Ceres

Species: Dzlethian

Race: Redscale

Role: A Test Subject of Winterkill Works and a Dzlethian immigrant with few positive feelings toward her home country. The kind of self-centered person who only values her own interests, and who will happily make use of anyone who crosses her path. Carefree on the surface, but scheming underneath.

Affiliation: Winterkill Works

Gender: Female

Age: 34

Height: 5’10

Appearance: Ceres is a tall woman with a slender, long-limbed build. Her hair is sleek, black, and falls almost to her waist in subtle waves, her eyes are narrow and burgundy-red, and her horns are long, thin, and gracefully upward-arching. Her expressions and posture convey leisurely, yet deliberate confidence, and she prefers clothing that reveals a fair amount of skin.

Personality: Though she’s friendly and seemingly carefree on the surface, Ceres is always carefully considering her next move. She considers using others to be the only foolproof way of getting by in life, so she chooses her companions with some future purpose in mind. Spontaneous, if not rather impulsive, she follows her whims wherever they lead, whenever she pleases. Though she dislikes attachments and debts tying her down, she seems to always find herself wrapped up in others’ lusts and dreams— both personal and professional. Extroverted and charismatic, the delicate, treacherous balance of social escapades she holds often turns out to be her downfall. 

Positive Traits: Ceres is outgoing and pleasant to be around; she’s the kind of person who can surround herself with friends no matter where she goes. Spontaneous and easygoing, she’s rarely bothered by life’s ups and downs, no matter how turbulent they might be. She’s self-aware and honest on a personal level, with a solid understanding of who she is and what she wants in the world. When she has a goal in mind, she can be ambitious and highly persistent, with innovative solutions for the problems that come her way. 

Negative Traits: While Ceres is perfectly honest with herself, her relationships with others are the exact opposite. She’s a people pleaser with a selfish streak, always wanting others to like her so she can make use of them later, for her own gains. She dislikes commitments and feeling tied down, and is notoriously repulsed by responsibility in nearly any form. Though she’s well-liked in the short term, she’s poor at maintaining long-term connections; once conflict hits, she’d sooner leave an inconvenient friend behind than put in any real effort to keep the relationship alive.

History: Ceres was born in the Dzlethian country, and spent the early portion of her life there. She was more or less an aimless wanderer in her childhood and early adult years, merely following entertainment from one place to the next. She came to the Daryan country on a whim, and ended up involved with Winterkill Works when the new dwelling place proved difficult to navigate on her own. She wasn’t aware of the full commitment made by joining, however, and quickly started looking for a way to back out. 

Relationships: On the surface, Ceres gets along well with most people she meets. She’s easily bored and highly extroverted, which means she actively seeks out interaction whenever possible. However, her shallow attachments and habit of using others mean she’s never had any true, close friends, and she drops relationships quickly when she starts to feel trapped. Among her fellow Test Subjects, she gets along best with Proserpina... sort of. 

Interests: Ceres likes lively social gatherings, the sights and sounds of a city at night, and getting what she wants without a struggle. She dislikes perceptive people, waking up early, and long-term routines. Her main hobby used to be attending parties, but her role at WW has paused that pursuit. 

WW Role: As one of the specially selected Test Subjects, Ceres was given a particular experimental power. In her case, all of her bodily fluids contain an intoxicating substance that dulls the senses, inhibits movement, and induces feelings of euphoria. Ceres herself is entirely immune to these effects, and the most potent dose seems to be delivered through her blood.

Miscellaneous: Ceres has experimented at length with recreational substance use in the past, in both legal and illegal forms. Currently, though, her options for a high are few and far between. She can’t imagine what it would be like to love someone else enough to sacrifice her own happiness for their sake. Although she enjoys how useful her experimental ability can be, she regrets her connection with Winterkill Works, overall. She’s always been most alert and active at night; fittingly, it’s notoriously difficult to get her up and out of bed in the morning, especially after a wild night. 

Connotative Description: A carefree and socially adept Dzlethian who freely uses others to get ahead. Irresponsible, easily bored, and only loyal to herself, with a strong dislike of duties or debts holding her down. 

[scrivenerofmossflower]

From the Depths

Word Count: ~5.2k I did the thing. Bless @fuzzhugs​ for the original story seed, and @wuddshipp​ for the art. It wound up far longer than I originally intended, but I’m not complaining (much). Un-beta’ed, any mistakes are my own.

Summary: What if Martin had gone to sea after Marshank? 

Any beast living along the sea knew that the best time to search for salvage was after a storm, and after last night’s tempest, Welf was certain she’d find a few gems along the tideline. Shortly after dawn, with black clouds still rolling their way eastwards, Welff slung her loose canvas bag across her back and began picking her way down the cliffs. As she passed the small garden, she gave the thick, woody stems of the blackberry bush a sentimental pat. Some of the dirt had been washed away near the drop off, but the roots had worked themselves deep, and the scraggly bush had the obstinacy necessary to survive on the unforgiving northern coasts.

Welff brushed her apron off and gave it a single hard shake once she reached the ground to clear it of grit and grime. She cast a cursory glance to the horizon, then either way along the beach, before she trotted out to the edge of the tideline and began making her way slowly south. She kept her head bent, scanning the sands for anything which might prove useful. Timber was always in demand, especially anything already shaped that could be reformed into furniture. Tangles of rope, too, were common after a bad storm, or the tiny bits of amber that, though lacking any practical use, could be fashioned into beads.

A small raft of flotsam bobbed up and down with each wave, and Welff splashed into the water to fetch it. A wooden crate had gotten tangled in rope and seaweed, and though it was empty and small, it was still in good condition. Welff held up the seaweed to the gray light, combing through it for anything else that might have gotten tangled up. Through the brown-green drapery, she saw the mouse.

Welff dropped the seaweed with a splash.

The mouse stood, perfectly still, perfectly silent, hip deep in the sea, his face toward the horizon. The surf broke about him, foaming and casting up the occasional spray, but he didn’t seem to notice, not even shifting as the waves tugged at his tunic and tail. A sword was slung crossways on his back, the hilt sticking up over his right shoulder.  

It was as if the past had walked out of the sea, a memory made solid from the mist. A chill ran down Welff’s back and sent her spikes rattling, but she pushed past the sudden fright and took a few careful steps forward. “Luke?”

The mouse turned to look at her. “I… remember you,” he said, each word slow and careful. Welff realized her mistake—the mouse was far too young to truly be Luke, but the only beast he could be, then…

“Martin?” Welff breathed. “Is it—are you truly Martin?” Martin had been barely more than a child when he’d disappeared so many seasons ago, and the stranger in front of her would be the right age, roughly, though he looked older than he ought…

The mouse smiled, and reached out to take her paw, grasping it firmly in one of his own. “Welff. That was your name. Welff Tiptip… Yes, it’s me. I came back.” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “Welff, what happened to everyone? Please, tell me you know. Please.”  His grip tightened about her paw until Welff winced. He released her immediately.

“Oh, child,” Welff said. She sighed, and tugged him back towards shore. “It is a sad tale. Come, let’s get into one of the old caves and make a fire. Then I will tell you all I know.”

While Welff built and lit the fire, Martin gathered driftwood out under the cliffs, bringing armfuls in to stack to one side. Unstrapping his father’s sword, he leaned it against a rock, then sat beside the old hedgehog. He snapped a longer branch in two and fed it to the flames, watching them as he listened in silence.

“It all happened—well, not too long after you disappeared. Mayhap half a season’s time. A ship berthed just south of here, a massive, dark thing with a skull attached to the front. I don’t know if they were taking on water, supplies, or if there was some minor sort of damage, but in the end it don’t matter so much why they were here, only that they were. They found your tribe—oh, they were hidden, and they fought when they were found, don’t think otherwise. Timballisto especially fought like a creature possessed. They got a few of those searats, but there were too many of them in the end, and your tribe too few. Those who weren’t slain were dragged off with chains around their necks.”

When Martin closed his eyes, pale ghosts of the flames flickered behind his eyelids. “What of my father? Did he ever return?”

Welff let out a long, slow breath before she answered him. “Yes and no. We saw the red ship again, and we’ve heard the story from the few survivors. I’ll take you to the Arfship—that’s where they all live now, Vurg, Beau, Denno, and Dulam. They can tell you what happened to your father better than I could.”

Martin stood, picking up the sword to sling across his back again. “Thank you, Welff. Yes, I would very much like to speak with them. But for the moment, I need to be alone. I will come find you when I’m ready.”

He walked out of the cave and down the shore, back to stand again in the sea. His footpaws were soon numb, but he ignored them, staring out at the clouded sky and gray, choppy waves.

How long ago was it that he had stood in this very spot, lifting the blade in a salute to a father he had hardly known? Eight seasons, now? Ten? Did it matter? And what had he done in the meantime?

Failed every one of his father’s hopes for him.

Stay and defend our cave from all comers. Instead, Martin had rebelled against his friend’s authority, wandered far from home, and gotten himself and his only remaining relative enslaved as a result.

Protect those weaker than yourself, and honor our code.  Martin had failed to protect his grandmother from falling to pain and hardship. He had failed to protect Felldoh from succumbing to the darkness and anger within him. He had failed to protect Brome from being exposed to the horrors of violence, slavery, and war. He had failed, most of all, to protect Rose. Rose, who had trusted him without reason, who had believed in him when he didn’t believe in himself, who had argued with him and never let him get away with self-recrimination or senseless self-sacrifice.

Always use the sword to stand for good, and right. Never do a thing you would be ashamed of. Shame? Shame was an old friend now. Martin lived with it every day, failure settling upon failure like innumerable snowflakes until he’d fallen silent with it, fled from his friends with it, marched back across the northlands with it, only to find his home ravaged as well.

And never ever let another creature take this sword from you, not as long as you live.

Martin unsheathed the sword in one smooth movement, stabbing it down into the sand beside him and bending over the hilt. Guilt welled up within him, until he sank beneath it and bowed his head, paws clutching at the crosstree as he gave vent to his grief. Of all his failures, this one he’d never expected. His tribe, his family, those he was meant to be responsible for, who had raised him as best they could—they were gone. All of them. Gone. Martin’s breath hitched, his paws spasmed upon the hilt, until at last the tears ran dry.

Slowly, moving as if underwater, Martin stood, tugged the sword free, and wiped it absently on the edge of his tunic. He turned to gaze southwards once again. Each time he had paused in his trek back to the lands of his birth, his eye was inevitably drawn south, something deep in his soul whispering that way, turn that way. He knew there would be no welcome waiting for him from the tribe he had abandoned. Timballisto had been well within his rights those seasons ago, and with time and distance, Martin could understand the stress his friend had been under, the expectations of his chieftain and the elders of the tribe to be strong. All he wanted before giving in to the pull and going south was to know that his tribe was all right.

That way. Go. You’re needed.

Not yet, Martin told the pull sternly. Not yet.

He’d run from responsibility once, and been enslaved for it. He failed his friends. He failed his family. But he had a duty. He was Martin the Warrior, son of Luke the Warrior, and his tribe hadn’t just gone, they had been taken.

And he was going to take them back, if he had to sail to hellgates to do it.

The Bloodwake rode the rising tide off the western coast. A point to starboard, the mountain of Salamandastron hunkered over the sandy beach like a primordial guardian, a throwback to some past, primitive era.

Captain Ripfang leaned against the starboard rail, tongue running absently over his single fang as he stared at the hated mountain. It often felt as if the mountain itself were his enemy, as much as the damned stripedog that lived there. Well, all that would end tonight. His eyes narrowed, glaring his hatred at the mountain. Aye, it would end tonight, with the badger’s death.

“Cap’n.”

Redscale’s voice spoke at his elbow, and Ripfang answered without even turning to look at his second mate. “Aye?”

“D’you want a lookout posted?”

Ripfang turned his head just enough to watch Redscale from the corner of his eye. “Why?”

The rat scratched at his ear with one ragged claw, sending nervous glances towards the north. “Well, what if’n that ship shows up agin?”

Though his voice remained perfectly even, Ripfang bared his teeth in a furious snarl. “Which ship would that be?”

Redscale, unfortunately for him, was still glancing over his shoulder and didn’t notice his captain’s mood. “The one wot’s called Liberator, wit’ that mouse that—” Redscale cut off with a gurgle as Ripfang rounded on him, seizing him by the throat and lifting him off the deck.

“Listen to me and listen closely, coward,” he snarled. “I don’t care about that ship, or its crew, or that bloody mouse. Liberator, ha! It could be called Fool’s Errand for all the good it’ll do. We left that ship limping in becalmed water with a half-dead captain, and if it’s not at the bottom of the sea by now, I’m an ottermaid. Right now, all I care about is the mountain and its old badger. We’re going to war tonight, dimwit, and if you, or any of the other crew are going to start jumping at ghosts of dead mice, I’ll slay you myself and let you fight him at hellgates. Is that understood?”

Redscale gurgled, clawing at his captain’s paw. “Unnerstood, cap’n.”

Ripfang dropped him, where he collapsed upon the deck, rubbing at his bruised throat. “Good. Now, go check the armory, and make sure every rat aboard has their weapon ready.” Watching Redscale scurry off, Ripfang rubbed absently as his own shoulder, where that bloody mouse’s rusty sword had pierced his flesh. Mayhap after his business with Boar the Fighter was concluded, he could hunt down the mouse and send him to the bottom of the sea—assuming that he wasn’t there already.

Ten creatures stood in the shadow of Salamandastron: six hares, a shrew, a mole, a mouse, and a badger. Ten creatures prepared themselves for battle against an uncountable number of pirates—corsairs and sea rats, bilgescum who spent their lives riding the waves in search of loot and plunder, slaying and stealing from good creatures more in pleasure than any real need. Ten creatures readied themselves to fight and to die if need be, standing on the sand surrounded by a horde only too willing to make that happen.

Gonff stared at the snarling faces of the rats, decked out in barbaric finery—scarves of brilliant red and jet black bedecked waists and heads alike, brass and gold teeth winked in the light of the moon, earrings and pawrings and tailrings all were in evidence, but of greatest concern were the savage swords: scimitars, cutlasses, wicked daggers, all were brandished by the howling crew. Gonff tightened his grip around the haft of the pike he had borrowed from the hares, taking some comfort in it.

“Well, well,” Boar said, sounding almost jovial, “the gang’s all here. Where’s old snotwhiskers?”

A new rat strode through the ranks, half again as big as the others, doubly armed with a whip in one paw and a sickle sword in the other. He sneered, his snaggletoothed mouth pulling his already hideous face into something grotesque. “Here I am, mountain lord. We have you surrounded and ready to die.”

Boar’s only response was to rush the ranks of rats, a thunderous battlecry ripping from his throat—“EULAAAALIIIIA!”

The sea rats broke upon them like the flowing tide, the din of battle drowning fear, drowning uncertainty, drowning thought, until there was only the red-hot rage boiling in Gonff’s veins and the animal need to survive. He lost his pike almost immediately, but found a dagger a split second later, and paired it with his own, whirling and flailing through the foe.

Distantly, over the shrieking of steel on steel and the yells of battle, he could hear Boar. His voice matched the keen of his broadsword, singing a death chant for the rat of the seas—“Come to me, Ripfang. Meet Boar the Fighter. I am the son of Old Lord Brocktree, ruler of Mossflower, Chief of the Mountain. My blade is singing your deathsong. Let Boar take you and your vermin crew to the gates of Dark Forest this night. The summer sun cannot stand the sight of you darkening the earth!”

The badger himself stood head and shoulder above the heaving mass of sea rats, wielding his great battle blade with the fluidity of long experience. His armor pierced through in half a dozen places, splattered with his own blood as well as the gore and fur of sea rats, he refused to fall, a rock standing stubborn against the flow of the sea. Boar strove to reach Ripfang, who stood on an outcropping of stone, a standard in one paw, urging his crew onwards.

Gonff found himself falling back until he was back to back with Dinny, who had suffered a slash to his shoulder and teamed up with Trubbs. Wother, Ffring, Log-a-Log and Harebell fought foursquare nearby, and the two groups met and joined, six working in a loose circle to defend one in the middle as they took a brief respite, before switching out to allow another comrade to rest. After a small eternity, Boar’s voice lifted over the noise of the melee again—

“To me, my warriors! To me!”

Honeybell and Willow were already at Boar’s side by the time Gonff and the others reached the Lord of the Mountain. They’d all suffered wounds, but nothing more than superficial. Gonff met each creature’s eyes in turn, seeing fear, acceptance, resignation, and fury—there was no way out of this, not truly.

There was a momentary lull as the sea rats regrouped, readying themselves for a final sally.

“I’ll force a way through,” Boar said, voice low and hoarse, hefting his blade with both paws. “There’s only that single group standing between us and the Bloodwake—we’ll have to run for it. Are you ready?”

Log-a-Log was the first to notice, and waved both paws over his head. “Boar, wait! Look! Look at the ship!”

Somehow, the ship had come loose, and was now being driven directly towards the sands by the easterly wind. Figures moved on the deck, and several splashes were heard. A flicker, a spark, and the sail went up in flames, a mighty cry ringing out over the sands at the same time—

“Fur and Freedooooom!”

The companions turned outwards, but the horde seemed as taken aback as they.

An answering cry came from the dunes further north—“Fur and Freedoooooom!”—and a motley crew of mice, hedgehogs, shrews, and the odd squirrel flowed down and around the dunes, colliding with the sea rats’ flank at the same time the flaming ship ran aground, keeling over in the shallows with a sizzling splash. A second troop flooded onto the sands, a mouse with one eye and an old sword leading the charge, teeth bared in a fierce battlecry.

“I think we’ve just gotten reinforcements, sah,” Trubbs said dumbly, watching the renewed battle for a moment.

“Rather, but who are they, d’you think?”

“And where did they come from?”

Boar wheeled his blade over his head with a wild laugh. “Questions can be asked after the battle is done, my friends! Eulaliaaaa!”

And the battle closed again. The companions fought even more vigorously than before, rejuvenated by the hope of not just survival, but victory. They gave no quarter, cutting through rats and shields and spears alike. Gonff ducked around a pair of rats, dagger flashing up and between ribs, before realizing  they’d been menacing the mouse who had led the charge from the boat. His sword had broken in the midst of battle, but he’d kept the hilt in one paw, using the remaining inch or two as a bludgeon. Gonff laughed, as much from the thrill that he was still alive as at the other mouse’s obstinacy. To keep fighting with a broken blade?

“Here, matey, take this,” he offered one of his daggers hilt first. “Easier to stay alive with a whole weapon, y’know.”

The stranger flicked his one good eye from the blade to Gonff’s face, before relaxing into a grin. “That it is, matey,” he replied, switching the sword hilt to his other paw and taking the dagger. He flipped it once, catching it neatly. They stood shoulder to shoulder, guarding each other’s backs and working in tandem. They made a surprisingly good team for not even knowing each other’s names, Gonff noted. An idea began to take root in the back of his mind, but he nudged it gently to one side, vowing to consider it later, now that he was fairly certain there could be a later.

A squeal of mingled pain and fury rose above the clash of battle. Both mice looked up to see Boar with one arm locked around Ripfang, crushing him against the studs and rivets of his armor. The rat struggled and kicked, managed to rip Boar’s helmet loose and score deep scratches down the sides of the badger’s snout, but it was far too late.

Ripfang shuddered, wriggled, and at last fell limp.

“Whew,” Gonff said, letting his blade fall to point at the sand. Exhaustion suddenly seemed much closer than it had before. “I don’t mind telling you, mate, I’m glad that’s over with,” he added, watching as the remaining score and a half of sea rats, cowed at the death of their leader, were herded towards the tideline by the two trios of hares from Salamandastron, and a dozen or so warriors from their newfound allies. “What’s your name, by the—”

But his comrade was gone, striding over the sand, hilt still in paw. Gonff hurried after him, knowing that whatever was about to happen next, he wanted a front row seat.

“You killed him!”

Boar relaxed his grip with a rusty sounding creak, letting the crushed body drop to lie in a heap upon the sands. “I slew my archenemy, little pirate. If you were an ally of this scum—”

“That murderer was no ally of mine,” he interrupted, sounding furious at the very suggestion. “And I don’t care if he was your archenemy, or sworn nemesis, or whatever! I had a blood claim on the wretched, dockside, bilge—”

“Martin!” a third voice interrupted the pair, and an older, graying mouse strode through the fighters who, like Gonff, had gathered to see what would happen. “Peace, Martin. Peace. Ripfang is dead. Bloodwake is captured. We’ve won.”

The tension flowed out of the mouse, and he nodded. Turning back to Boar, he lifted his sword in what would have been a warrior’s salute, had the blade been whole. “My apologies, Lord.  On occasion I forget myself. Particularly during battle.”

Boar threw back his head and laughed. “A problem I share.” He stretched a paw out, eyes twinkling with good humor. “I am Boar the Fighter. Martin the Warrior, it is my pleasure to meet you at last.”

Martin’s paw was dwarfed by Boar’s, but he met the Lord of the Mountain’s eyes without fear or hesitation. “And mine to meet you, sir. I have heard many the legend of Salamandastron from corsairs and sea rats. The truth lives up to it. You have perilous comrades indeed.”

Boar nodded. “Come, I am sure you and your army are weary—you are welcome to enter my mountain.”

“Your invitation is appreciated, Boar, but I have a duty to my crew first.” Martin turned away, crossing the sands to the graying mouse with a single, loathing glance at what had been his blood-sworn enemy. “Vurg, I need you to call muster—I want a list of the wounded as well as the fallen. Beau, we’ll need broth and bread to start with the new freebeasts. The sooner they’re reaccustommed to real food, the happier they’ll be. Send a runner back north to the Liberator to let her watch know the news, and so we can get our healers here as quickly as possible…”

“He’s the captain,” Gonff realized, watching him walk back among the crew, organizing the lot of them with the ease and personal touch of long practice.

“He’s the warrior,” Boar murmured from above him. As they watched, Martin was stopped by a mouse so thin as to be almost a skeleton, with worn patches on his wrists. There was a brief exchange of words, before Martin caught the recently freed slave by the shoulders, staring at him as they both sunk to kneel on the ground. Boar turned away. “I didn’t see any of ours fall.”

“Neither did—” Gonff cut off, catching sight of a bundle of dark fur away from the rest of the fighters, and gasped. “Dinny!” He sprinted to his friend, sand flying as he skidded on his knees to the fallen mole’s side. “Oh, Dinny, don’t be dead, mate, don’t be dead! We came all this way together, you can’t die on me now!” He grabbed Dinny’s good shoulder and shook it, only for his paws to be pushed away by hefty digging claws.

“Burr, Gonffen, don’t you’m be caterwauling and carryin’ on. Can’t a choild close ‘is eyes for a rest?” Dinny complained, squinting up at Gonff. “Oi be roight toired after allen that billyhoe an’ barttlin, so Oi be.”

Gonff was struck speechless by this pronouncement, sitting back on his haunches. After a moment, he relaxed, tension and adrenaline ebbing away to be replaced by a fit of giggling, until he fell over backwards in the sand and laughed until tears sprung to his eyes.

To the east, back towards Mossflower and home, the sun began to lighten the sky. The third day of summer promised to be the best yet. They were safe. They were free. They were alive.

At sea, there had always been something that needed to be addressed: minor disputes between crewbeasts, an adjustment of course, vegetables chopped, drinking water tracked, not to mention the endless repair and mending and cleaning that went into keeping any ship afloat and in top condition. Martin had always been able to find something to keep his mind and paws busy, and always with that final goal in sight. Everything he had done, he had done in order to free his tribe from slavery.

It took a full day and half the night after the battle for Martin to run out of tasks.

His tribe and the other slaves from the Bloodwake’s galley were fed, their sores and wounds dressed, their rags replaced with decent clothing, their names recorded and their desires heard. Some had been enslaved for so long they barely remembered their homelands. Some, though, had families they wished to return to, and Vurg had been busy marking each destination on the map Martin and his officers had slowly developed while on their voyage.

The shrews in particular were eager to get back to their village—their chieftain Log-a-Log had managed to slip his chains three seasons ago and had, oddly, been on the beach during that final confrontation. Martin had already broached the subject of escorting him and his tribe back to their village, and found Log-a-Log to be a sensible and no-nonsense leader, as well as being an expert on ships of all sorts. He was certain he’d be able to get the Bloodwake seaworthy again—Martin hadn’t damaged the ship much, after all, only run it into the sand and lit the sail as a signal to Vurg to start the charge.

A handful of beasts of his own command had fallen in battle, and twice that many had been wounded in one way or another. Martin made sure each warrior was taken care of, and sat with the closest friends of the fallen as they grieved. He planned the funerals that were to take place, reminisced with them, and mourned as well. He’d always made a point of knowing the stories of each member of his crew, even as it had swelled with freed oar-slaves and outgrown the first small schooner he and half a score had taken to sea.

Then there were the prisoners to be dealt with—upon their captain’s death, the remaining sea rats had dropped their weapons and surrendered. There were almost two score at the final count. At the moment they were held in the cellars beneath Salamandastron, kept under guard until a better solution could be found. It had been Boar’s suggestion—both were loath to kill an unarmed beast, even a sea rat, but they couldn’t simply be released to roam the waves again, either. They’d likely be imprisoned for a time, then marched inland and freed.

At last, Martin looked around and found there was nothing else for him to do. He stood, swaying on his footpaws with exhaustion, as another realization crept over him.

His fight was done. He’d rescued his tribe and countless other oar-slaves. He’d achieved the goal he’d set for himself so long ago on the northern coasts. He’d won. Martin had won, and he had no idea what he was going to do now.

Thoughtlessly, Martin made his way through the roughly hewn corridors of Salamandastron, until he at last felt the sea breeze against his whiskers. He’d come out onto a western ledge roughly two thirds up the mountain. Far below, he could see the Liberator riding at anchor, with the tipped-over Bloodwake alongside her. Lights dotted the beach between the base of the mountain and the waves, with a handful more on the deck. He sat—collapsed—to the ground, putting his back to the wall and blinking up at the star-strewn sky.

What was he going to do now?

Martin turned the question over in his mind again and again, trying to find some answer. Nothing occurred to him. Yes, he would be sailing with Log-a-Log and the shrews soon, and there were a handful of other excursions to be made to return the others home, but after that? His father’s sword had broken early in the battle, his quest had been realized, and he somehow couldn’t conceive of simply returning to the northern caves and living with his tribe.

What was he going to do now?

How long Martin sat there, he didn’t know. He may have dozed off, his body finally giving in to exhaustion, but when he heard a soft scratch and a step behind him, he came alert instantly.

A mouse roughly his own age was standing in the arched doorway behind him, a cheerful, plump looking fellow dressed in green—the same mouse who had saved his life, and fought at his side as if he were stepping into a place already reserved for him. “You’re a hard one to find, aren’t you?” he said, settling himself down beside Martin without a second thought. He pulled a flat flask out from beneath his shirt and passed it to Martin, then produced a bundle that, when unwrapped, was revealed to hold a yellow cheese and a crusty loaf of bread, with faint wisps of steam still rising from it. He pushed this towards Martin, took a sip from the flask, and thrust it into his paws as well. “Stop staring at me and eat, matey. Haven’t poisoned it or anything,” he added with a broad grin.

Martin couldn’t remember when he’d last eaten—before the battle, certainly, but how long before the battle? He took a sip from the flask, then another when he found it to be dandelion cordial, light and refreshing. “You saved my life yesterday,” Martin said. “Thank you for that.” The mouse waved off the thanks and the flask when Martin tried to offer it back. “I’m afraid I never got your name, though.”

“Gonff, Prince of Mousethieves,” he answered. They shook paws briefly, Martin smiling at the little thief’s good humor.

“Prince of Mousethieves? How’d you earn a title like that?” Martin asked, curious about his new friend.

Gonff laughed. “By stealing, mate, how else? Oh, I don’t take from goodbeasts, at least, not without returning it, but where I’m from, there’s plenty of rotten ones whose larders are filled with food that don’t belong to them.”

“Aye?”

“Aye,” Gonff said. He cut a slice of cheese with his knife and munched it, staring out over the sands, his jovial face uncharacteristically solemn. “It’s a long and sad tale, mate, but it’s one I think you might be interested in.”

Martin tilted his head, curiosity roused. “What kind of place is it?”

A wistful smile stole across his companion’s whiskers. “Oh, it’s a beautiful place. Thick woodlands, flatlands to the east and cut through by a great river. The creatures there are peaceful for the most part, but not afraid to defend themselves or stand up for what’s right, and always willing to help each other when they need it. Someday, when we’ve gotten rid of that cat and her army, it’ll be a grand place again, old Mossflower Woods.”

The fur rose on the back of Martin’s neck, and a thrum ran through him, as if he were a bell being rung for the first time. Mossflower Woods. Something echoed back to him from within his soul—yes. You’re needed.

Martin reached out, taking Gonff’s paw in his own. “Tell me what I must do.”

[8storeytree]

Let’s STAY HOME and make redscale films. The ‘redscaler’ we made a few years back. To easily make redscale, on the go.

#redscale #redscale #redscalefilm #35mm #35mmfilm #filmcamera #35mmcamera #8storeytree #filmcamerasingapore #filmcamerasg #35mmcamerasg — view on Instagram https://scontent-iad3-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t51.2885-15/92176690_544504353170289_1798285736927599292_n.jpg?_nc_cat=102&_nc_sid=8ae9d6&_nc_ohc=EQTL95PLpiYAX_VAV6T&_nc_ht=scontent-iad3-1.xx&oh=81841a73c068e43d518dd66456fdbbdc&oe=5EB0D9A4

[good-art-inspiration]

98410022 by Guilherme Adami on Flickr.