Birch's RV5 Fanfiction Thread!

[Birch]

? . . . so I take my mallet, and I lay him flat.?

One of the mice gasped and covered her mouth.

?Well, he deserved it!? Birch said, her paws making wide sweeping motions to indicate her innocence. ?I'm sorry, but if you're going to buy me a drink and then expect me to swoon, you've got another thing coming. Like my oversized hammer.?

Across the table, another mouse raised an eyebrow.

?His paw moved a little too far up my tail, that's all I'm saying.? Birch sighed. She folded her arms on the table to rest her head, her pint of October Ale drawing a streak of condensation as she pulled it along. ?Maybe I should just wear something a little more conservative.? She knew she never would, though. She was just too cute.

?Hello?? came a small voice from the open door that led to her forge.

Birch sighed. Did she really forget to close up? What time was it? Cursing under her breath, she rose. ?Excuse me,? she said, leaving her pint behind.

She bounded from the mice's shop, already preparing an ?I'm sorry, we're closed,? when she laid eyes on the otter. Bruised and battered, she looked like she was in dire need of assistance.

Realizing that she must have stumbled to the wrong place, Birch told the maid, ?Umm, the healer is across the way,? her paw pointing in the general direction. Of course, it was after the words left her mouth did she remember that Ara was on a very important business mission of securing herself a mate. ?Ooh, yes . . .? she said, more to herself than anyone else. ?Ara's . . . ? Pause. ?Out right now, but she should be back soon.? Honestly, Birch didn't know when, or if Ara would even be willing to take care of somebeast when she came back. If she came back. There was a distinct possibility that Ara would not return to her own dwelling tonight. The thought filled Birch with aggravation. She didn?t know how to deal with something like this - she didn?t want to deal with something like this. However, she was not about to send this maid back out into the elements. The night must have been chilly, if the way the otter shivered told her anything.

Realizing she was rambling, she motioned the lass to come inside. ?Well, come in; you must be freezing. Go ahead and warm yourself up by the forge, it still has some embers in there.?

An unappreciated feeling of worry overcame her, not because she was concerned over the otter?s well being, but because she lacked the confidence to handle the situation effectively. Birch was no healer.

The otter stumbled to the fire, appearing as though she would collapse with every step. Birch went back to the open doorway, sparing a look towards the mice. They looked back in question. ?Could you brew some tea for me, please?? Her eyes lingered on her ale. She was going to need that as well.

[Birch]

A strong sea breeze ruffled the blacksmith?s fur, triggering a twitch of the nose at the acrid smell of salt and fish. Birch did not like the sea. She much preferred a branch to laze about on than a stinking ship with stinking beasts stinking the place up. Goodness knows how her brother got into the scene. But he was, and Birch could not fault him for that, though she did on a regular occasion.

Shifting the belt strapped across her hips to something that was a little more comfortable, she reached into a hanging pouch and withdrew some sort of shellfish. Her eyes gazed at it, unremarkable thing as it was, wondering whatever it could be inside that was so urgent to reach her brother, Fitch. The thing was scored with marks that betrayed a certain squirrel?s privacy policy. Well, she had told herself, the ottermaiden never said she couldn't see what it was between the shells - only that it had to get to Fitch and quick. It wasn't until the shellfish was lying on her worktable with her mallet hovering above did she think it might be a good idea to leave it alone.

The memory forced her to withdraw the shell from her mouth. Her molars were sore, and she rubbed her jaw, alleviating the pain slightly. Placing the shell back inside the pouch, she lifted herself from her haunches. The smell of fish and sea salt was now accentuated by the fresh taste in her mouth, and Birch hated it. The sooner she got this over with the better.

The generic port town to be described later did not seem to be very busy, and there might have been a few ships docked, but only one caught Birch?s eye. It was a rather large thing, with masts and sails and oars and everything befitting a hulking vessel. Despite her initial aversion, she could not help an innate desire that began itching at the squirrel to climb the crisscrossing ropes. It would certainly be fun, that much was for certain. Perhaps she could see why her brother liked sailing so much. Birch frowned at this thought, hoping she was not getting any crazy ideas. She liked her forge, where it was warm and safe. Well, as safe as a place could be that housed burning metal and sharp, pointy objects, but it was certainly more safe than a piece of wood set to be tossed about on the volatile waves.

She hoped that ship was her brother?s. She had heard that he docked here regularly, though where she even got that information was questionable. She was surprised she had gotten as far as she had, what with the minimal information the ottermaid had given her. Just that she had returned from the war and Fitch needed that shell. She couldn?t say why, or how, or even where he was, because at that point she was dead.

If it wasn?t his ship, Birch supposed she might be able to wait a few days. She wondered lackadaisically if there was a blacksmith around here, and if she might take some work to keep herself occupied. She?d kill herself if Fitch left her waiting all season with nothing to do, and she knew that sometimes these ships were pretty lazy getting back to port.

?Oy!? Birch yelled at a passing mouse. He had a cane, and looked rather old; most of his fur was graying where it wasn?t already white. He looked towards her in surprise, and Birch bounded over to him. ?What?s that ship over there?? she asked.

?What ship, where??

?That ship, over there.? Birch pointed a claw for indication.

The old mouse turned his head in the opposite direction. ?I don?t see a ship.?

Birch baulked. There were plenty of ships over there, maybe, but she was only interested in the one. ?Not over there, over there!? Her paw shook in a fit of aggravation.

?Miss, are you sure you?re not seeing things?? The mouse turned a worried face towards her.

Birch opened her mouth to let loose a cascade of vengeance upon this beast. She was nearing the end of her rope. A short rope that lacked the length of one that you could tie into a noose so that it could be worn as an ornament. Birch would have tightened that thing until this mouse turned blue. His eyes, however, stopped her. They were dull, glazed over in a milky white haze, and lacked the brightness of a sense taken for granted. Birch was beginning to feel quite the fool.

?Never mind,? she muttered, springing away from the blind mouse and towards the ship. She hated blindness in creatures. Those eyes were so creepy. What would she do if she lost her sight? How would she be able to see?

The ship looked quite abandoned. At least, there didn?t seem to be any beasts on it. She skirted aboard the gangplank, looking up and feeling dizzy at the height of the rigging. Dizzy? For a squirrel? Birch shook her head. It must have been the prospect of being out to sea, with water and waves and the constant spray and salt hanging in the air that made her dizzy. Certainly not the height; the squirrel loved to climb.

?Hello?? she called out. Her whiskers twitched as she sniffed the air, and her tail fluffed out. There was something hanging about that wasn?t just fish and salt. Something that was a little more twitch twitch musky. She rose to her full height, opting out of the sneaking pose she had used entering the ship. It just didn?t seem necessary.

?Fitch! Fitch, are you on this thing?? Birch yelled, wondering how good sound traveled on a ship. She was sure it wasn?t that well, what with all the planks of wood everywhere, and they were probably all thick, too. She waited. No answer. Nothing aside from the creaks as the huge thing rocked on the water. Nothing else for it - she might as well search the place, see if anybeast was below decks. Perhaps then she could figure out what was going on. But first, she had to quell that natural desire.

Throwing caution to the wind and tasks at paw to the sea, Birch spent the next half an hour playing in the rigging. She bounded from one rope to the other, climbing the masts where there were no ladders and sliding down the cloth sails. The oversized hammer she kept secured in her belt flopped and dragged, but the practice she had garnered in the forest surrounding her forge no longer allowed the bulky thing to be an impediment. The way the ship swayed on the water was something she was a stranger to, however, and it cost her a few good jumps and swings. Fortunately, it was nothing that cost her a bone or a life, and it made her cavorting more challenging and even, dare say, more fun.

She found herself tuckered out far quicker than she would have expected. The squirrel still had not see anybeast climb aboard the ship, and she was too tired to actually go searching in the bowels as per her original intentions. So, finding a nice spot up in the rigging, Birch secured a place for herself, and settled down to wait for some sort of activity.

The squirrel awoke to sudden movement. She blinked her eyes, then rubbed at them, then yawned a jaw cracking yawn. A few of her other bones joined in on the fun as she stretched in her perch before she settled back down. She blinked again. Why was the port receding from her? She was exactly as she had left herself, in the rigging of the ship. Nothing should be moving anywhere. Birch shook in the ropes as she jarred awake. The ship was leaving port! She had fallen asleep! The squirrel bounded down the rigging, yelling at the top of her lungs for anybeast?s attention. The bustle on the deck stopped immediately.

?Wait!? Birch yelled. She leapt from the ropes, her claws scratching for some sort of hold as she slid along the wooden planks. ?Turn around! Head back to port!?

?An? why, dear, should we do that?? said a coarse voice.

Birch was almost afraid to look up. That musky smell she had detected before was stronger than ever. She knew what it was now - what type of creatures it belonged to.

?I?m not supposed to be here,? she said in a small voice.

?No, m?dear. I?m afraid you?re not.?

[Birch]

Birch wanted her hammer. If there was one thing the squirrel desired more than anything else in the world, that was it. Just her hammer; nothing more. With her hammer she could do anything. She could break the oar she was forced to row, she could break the bonds that held her, she could escape and cause terror throughout the ship, but only if she had her hammer.

It was that and the fact they were still on the ship that really aggravated her. Birch figured by this time they would have reached their destination to dive head first into things. After all, that seemed to be what was going to happen at the very start, but most of the crew was content on dilly-dallying instead. The slaves were told that their time in the galleys would be mostly contained through flashbacks, but in all honesty--she thought as her back burned from the scourge marks--it wasn?t very flashbacky at all.

A loud whip crack resounded through the galley, breaking her thoughts. ?C?mon, ye yeller-bellied seascum! Put yer backs inter it!? Another whip crack, followed swiftly with a sharp scream. Birch?s knuckles were white with the grip she had on her oar. If she only had her hammer.

Her eyes wandered around the galley, taking stock of the slaves for the umpteenth time. They seemed to come from all walks of life: otters, mice, hares, even a few moles. She was unsure if she had ever heard of a mole oarslave before, and it almost made her wish to revisit some of those childhood stories that featured such a profession. If a slave could be considered a profession. But that?s what she was now, no longer a blacksmith, but not unemployed. Birch had become a full time slave.

It had already been a few days, but Birch was already formulating plans and ideas for an uprising. She had kept it mostly to herself, just because it was hard to mass organize something when they were watched like hawks like they were. The only time they were given any time alone was at night, and most of that time was spent listening to complaints by the other slaves about their predicament. Birch felt no pity. Apparently quite a number of them had been ?tricked? by being offered a position as crewbeast in correlation with a few drinks. What they were doing in a vermin bar in the first place? It made no sense.

Despite the complaining though, quite a bit of information was gleaned when there were no vermin eyes hovering over their heads. Those that were in the tavern had a fairly good idea of the types of beasts above decks. There was a general consensus that the one they hated most was some stoat named Venril. It seemed as though he was the one that had put them in the tavern in the first place, but the squirrel first wondered how that was possible, and then wondered if it was grounds for compassion or if they were just looking for excuses.

There was a ferret with half his sight gone because he thought it would be a good idea to lose it in battle, and then get caught in the throes of addition from an oddball wildcat momma's boy. When asked if the speaker had meant "addiction", he had shaken his head. Apparently the ferret was terrible at math, and the wildcat had taken to become his tutor.

The cat in question was about as canon as a bow and arrow. That was, when compared to other, more accepted felines of the times, it was found that while they were both projectile weapons, that was where the similarities ended. The squirrel didn?t know much about it, or even what it really meant, just that it was ruffling quite a few feathers.

Her mind going back to the ferret, Birch had queried which eye had been lost, or if he even remembered it was gone, but nobeast knew. The squirrel shuddered, wondering what it was like to be half blind, and then her thoughts went to how he became half blind and that wasn't good for her stomach either. They said he was a gladiator, but Birch had never been to one of the shows. They were always filled with vermin, and it was obvious as she rowed that this country was still working on the civil rights movement.

They couldn?t even give them food that was worth eating. Each slave received a stale biscuit and water at mealtimes, but something was unsettling about the biscuit. Once Birch had gotten past its steel exterior, hundreds of little black dots traversed the rock hard dough inside. Birch picked a few of them, discovering little legs and crunchy bodies. It was almost out of a horror story. The squirrel had watched the other slaves, seeing what they did with them, if they were healthy enough to eat. The gaunt hedgehog nibbled on her biscuit before passing it to another slave. Well, if the starving hedgehog wasn?t going to eat it, Birch sure wasn?t. She passed her biscuit to one of the hares. They would eat anything.

Her heart went out to the poor creature, and she wondered what was going on in the beast?s head that decided it was a good idea to fix an oar to a half dead creature. They might get a week?s worth of labor out of her, tops, but then, even if a slave was a slave was a slave, she was adding more weight than countering it with her strokes. However, if a starving beast knew anything, it was the right thing to eat, and Birch took her cues at every meal.

It was days since the squirrel had last eaten. She was beginning to wonder if the vermin would give them any sustenance that wasn?t filled with disease, or if the hedgehog really just had a secret agenda of dying and taking Birch with her.

The squirrel was getting increasingly uncomfortable with each day she followed the hedgehog?s fasting regime. Every once in a while the galley door would open and close, and Birch didn?t have to turn her head to know who had entered. The squirrel looked over the heads of the other slaves, her eyes locking on the stoat that had taken her mallet. Her belt was now across his disgusting waist, where her hammer forced it to sit at an angle. It didn?t make him look cute, like it did her. It made him look dumb. What she wouldn?t do to be given the chance of wiping that idiotic smile off his face. She?d take her hammer back and make him rue that day. She?d make them all rue that day. She would destroy them.

It was learned recently that a pine marten had ruined half his face, which threw Birch into a fit of jealousy. She wanted to be the one that beat him up, not some prissy marten that had a hundred times more control over things than she did. The marten annoyed her, mostly because whenever the slaves talked about her Birch didn?t understand half the words that came out of their mouths. If the squirrel had easy access to a dictionary, things might be different, but the time it took to look up a word every other sentence did wonders for breaking a flow.

The stoat exchanged a few words with the slavedriver whose description was to be filled in later before turning his attention on the rest of the slaves. Their eyes locked, and his mouth curled into a vicious grin. Birch was already baring her teeth. The two had already gotten into a few tiffs, which usually left Birch in pain. She was still having trouble realizing she was at a disadvantage when it came to her problems with authority, but that was the cause of the problem in the first place - that he was in a position of authority, and she was not.

He saw her bared teeth as an invitation. ?I heard you were causing a ruckus down ?ere,? he said, lifting her chin with her hammer. Her hammer! It made her furious.

?That?s my hammer,? she said through gritted teeth.

?I know. I like it.?

She could grab it, if she wanted to. It was right there, right beneath her chin. All she had to do was grab it, and all her plans would come to fruition. She just needed to be quick. Too slow and he?d pull it back. But she was quick enough; she could grab it.

She wasn?t quick enough. The stoat jabbed his paw, the hammer temporarily closing her throat. Birch went into a coughing fit, and then saw stars as pain exploded all around her. Her nose fountained blood. The stoat laughed as he walked away, leaving her in unbridled fury. Birch pulled at her bonds, sure that with enough strength she could break them. She hated Nivard and their relationship. He would hurt her, but he never went so far as to break anything because she was strong, and she could row.

The stoat spoke a few more words with the slavedriver, but Birch couldn?t hear them as she was too busy trying to staunch her bloody nose. Their conversation stopped abruptly, however, and they both turned their heads.

?Who keeps breathing so loudly outside that door?? the driver asked.

Nivard narrowed his eyes and walked up to it. Putting his paw on the knob, he shoved outward hard. There was a solid bump, an ?Oop!? and then the sound of claws scratching wood as whoever it was scampered away.

She?d return later with a sword to take one of their arms. Birch thanked the fates that she wasn?t a vole.

[Jarrtail]

Greenfang

?Next!?

Greenfang walked forward and watched with a mixture of apprehension and disgust as the chef?s latest contribution exited the ladle with a sucking sound and landed with a plop! into his outstretched bowl. As he exited the tent, he heaved a loud sigh (out of hearing rang of the cook, of course. It doesn?t do to insult a beast who has a large collection of knives close to paw).

The food and general quality of life in the encampment had gone down drastically in the days since the ship had wrecked, and the aging weasel was already becoming affected. His old wounds pained him more, particularly his leg, and he was beginning to get tired more easily. In the middle of the skirmish with the woodlanders, he had actually had to lean on his scimitar to take a breather. In the midst of a battle, of all times!

It was clear to Greenfang that some sort of solution was needed, but he certainly was not going to help Matukhana, not after he pressed me into service on that star-crossed idiot-filled ship, he mused has he attempted to chew his bowl of Ambiguity.

As he was slurping down the remainder of the concoction, he happened to catch sight of a commotion in the slave pit. Deciding that that had the potential to be more interesting than internally grousing, he made his way through the great canyons of sailcloth tents and mud-and-twig huts to the area of disorder. It looked like Nivard had stabbed somebeast, a skinny-looking hedgehog.

Feh. What else is new? In the short instances that Greenfang had seen the stoat, he had appeared to not be altogether mentally stable, in the violent sort of way.

??ey! Yew!?

Turning toward the voice, the weasel say that he was being summoned by a shifty-looking fox with an eye patch and a cutlass. He thought that he recognized him, and then realized that he had been the ship?s bosun. Probably still held a fair amount of rank, and it wouldn?t do to ignore somebeast like that.

?What? I?m tryin? t? watch th? local entertainment, y?see?? He waved a paw at the bloodied sand of the slave pit to empathize.

?Never mind that, th? captain needs a few beasts to look around fer food, an? yew ?appened to be right there when I thought of it. So git over in that group over there an? try to find somethin? that we kin eat, or yer on the menu, you useless relic.?

Greenfang considered running the insolent fox through, but he was trying to get to the end of this trip without being thrown out of another army. Besides, he thought, I get to be away from camp for a while. How bad can it be?

***

Very bad, he answered to himself. The party, consisting of Greenfang, a squirrel slave whom they had brought along to carry everything and kept blabbing about a hammer, a ferret who looked, for lack of a better word, slinky, and a fox who asked if anything they came across, including certain rocks, could be eaten.

?Kin ye eat this??

?Nay, that?s a cactus. ?s all spiky.?

?Well, maybe we could put it in a soup er somethin??

?Good point. ?ey Greenfang! Give these cactuses to th? slave.?

Greenfang had had to endure this for over two hours now. He was already beyond the despair phase, and was instead fantasizing about beating all of them to death with that stupid squirrel?s hammer.

?Hey! Idiot weasel! He said get the cactuses!?

Half-turning around, he glared at the abovementioned beast angrily, ?Don?t ye start. I kin kill ye easily an? only get a ?you idiot, we need these slaves!? from Cap?n. So don?t push me.?

Handing the pointy plants to the slave, and noting with pleasure her discomfort when trying to stow them in the food sack, he suddenly gave a start, realizing something.

?Ain?t ye that squirrel that tried to stow away on the ship??

The squirrel?s head snapped upright, and she decided that it was time to return the glare. Taking this as a yes, Greenfang decided to take the opportunity to berate her.

?Ha! And yew call us stupid! Ye try to sneak onto a vermin ship an? expect t? stay ?idden?! Yer even more ova lan?lubber than I am!? 

?Shut?up.?

?Ha! Yew can?t tell me what to do! Yew an? yer stupid ?ammer! I bet ye couldn?t even lift that thing!?

The squirrel charged him with a look of venom on her face, knocking Greenfang to the ground with the haversack. As she began to beat him with a rock that she had found on the ground, he reflected with what was left of his consciousness that he might have gone a bit too far. Her own bloody fault for being so sensitive?

[Birch]

Birch wanted her hammer. Maybe then she could take her aggression out properly against this idiot weasel that didn't know the right time to shut his trap. She was thankful the rock she had grabbed was a strong one, with jagged edges and a heavy weight to it. Easy to grasp in the paw, as well, which did well for leverage.

Unfortunately, she wasn't able to cause too much damage, as the two other vermin had pulled her off, restraining her paws. They didn?t expect her strength, however, and before anybeast knew it Birch was back on the weasel, this time abandoning the rock for her bare paws. Birch tore, gouged, kicked, bit scratched, well, scratched wasn?t a strong enough word for what she wanted to do. Lacerated, yes, that was a good one.

Again she was pulled off, this time his cohorts keeping a better grasp on her. That didn?t stop her from struggling, and neither did the blow to the gut. That wasn?t to say it didn?t calm her down, but it wasn?t until the second blow did she take the hint.

The weasel rose while she was busy gasping for air. ?That?s a good way to git yerself killed, squirrel!? He spat. There was a trace of blood in his saliva. He was also looking decidedly worse for wear, both things Birch appreciated.

The squirrel would have come back with a witty retort, but she was too busy fighting for breath. That had been quite a punch, and the only reason Birch was still suffering from it  was because they had caught her off guard.

The weasel--Greenfang, was his name?--gave a hefty punch to her face, his fist connecting solidly against her left eye. She stood dazed, barely comprehending the orders he was barking to the others. The next thing she knew she was on the ground, picking up the dropped cactuses that had spilled out of the haversack.

They placed her back in the slave line, shackling her paws behind her back in an effort to make her as uncomfortable as possible. She tried loosening the chain, but they had done something to it, Birch didn?t know what. Only that it was incredibly uncomfortable and was chafing her wrists. If she didn?t have fur, she didn?t know what she?d do. Fidgeting helped ease the restlessness, but the more she squirmed, the more restless she got.

?How?d the foraging go??

Birch shot an icy glare at the otter chained next to her, who promptly gasped at the poor squirrel?s eye. They spent the remainder of the day in silence.

It was not just the otter that stayed away from the squirrel. Nobeast got near her, though it was probably due to the fact that her teeth felt as though they had not gotten enough screen time, and were considered rather important in the Department of Intimidation. Birch didn?t mind; she would much rather stew over her predicament than chat it up with Ms. Things-Aren?t-So-Bad-Really. She was really getting tired of her chain mate.

Things were moving way too fast for her. Way too fast. Days were a blur that molded into weeks and might even have been months if the squirrel wasn?t paying as much attention as she thought she was. Considering the number of events that had taken place, she wouldn?t be surprised if that was the case.

Which meant that each strange character she had met and heard of should have gotten to know each other very well by this point, yet she still heard complaints about ?character development and interaction?, whatever that meant. The squirrel felt that beasts were complaining just for the sake of complaining.

They might have valid points, however. With the way things had gone down, Birch still felt as though she didn?t know quite as much as she should about her slave mates, and they were closer than most of the others, what with being tied together and not able to roam around like the vermin. They didn?t have the luxury of being able to avoid one another; they were forced to remain in miserable company until they woke up the next day chained to a dead beast. By then it was just a matter of time before a new slave was put in their place. Always complaining. As soon as one stopped, another would start. Birch couldn?t get away from it.

She supposed it all started when they let that idiot fox or something behind the wheel of the ship. Perhaps if the steersrat hadn?t acted like a fool and gotten somebeast who actually knew how to steer, there wouldn?t have been a problem. Or maybe if he had crashed the ship better, that would have worked, too. Just something that wasn?t so silly.

And then, once the ship was actually sinking, and water rising to the squirrel?s waist, the slavedriver actually returned to set them free. ?Don?t get me wrong,? she said to the otter, forgetting that she was on a vow of silence. ?I appreciate the sentiment. But by the time he had gotten us all unchained the water was up to our necks. It?s just--? she paused, ?Well, I wouldn?t have gone back for us. Go ahead and drown in the process? I mean, it might have made sense if they rounded us up on a longboat or something to keep watch, but they just left us to our own devices. What was the point of it all? Fine and grand that they were able to put us all back in chains once we got to the beach, but you?d think a few of us would have been able to escape somehow to cause trouble. I just, I don?t think it was well planned out, is all. And I?ve heard other beasts say this, too. I?m not the only one.?

?You know, you?re being rather hypocritical,? the otter said, and shrank at the glare Birch threw his way.

?Yes, well, you?re not the one that has a black eye, now do you??

?I don?t think that merits--?

?Well I think it does!? Birch yelled back, sitting on her rump in a huff. She squirmed in an effort to relieve some of the tension of her bonds. Su was dead, killed by that fool of a stoat, the only one up until that point to give her the time of day. Birch had quite the vindication for complaints, even if it had to do with something the hedgehog had done. How she reached the conclusion that it was Suellyn who put them in that situation, she didn?t know. Something just told her that the hedgehog had somehow been behind it all.

And then they were in the middle of a battle! Well, not now, but then. Birch didn?t even remember how it started, they were just in the middle of it. The only reason Birch knew what was going on was because she had been told about it from the very beginning.

?Okay, this is how it?s going to go down. You slaves row for us for a while, it won?t be that long, because eventually the ship will wreck, hopefully not at the paws of some idiot, and then we?ll recon on whatever beach we?ve scuttled upon. There we?ll run into some lizard who we?ll follow blind in return for eating one of you. After this we?ll wage war against some random tribe of woodlanders, aaaand we should be good. Any questions??

There had been none.

Birch supposed this was the supposed woodland tribe they were fighting. Supposedly. The older squirrel Venril had been fighting could easily have been her, but she realized it wasn?t after a second glance. It drove Birch nuts, really, and literally. She?d love to have an acorn or two right about now. She shook her head. Now was not the time to think of food, or she?d just get hungry. She cursed, her mouth already salivating. In any case, it drove her nuts whenever somebeast mentioned a squirrel. Her little heart went pitter-patter, pitter-patter, hoping against hope they were talking about her. They usually weren?t.

She thought at that point she?d be all caught up. Then she had to wake up with a bunch of new slaves tacked to the chain, none of which she recognized, or even knew how they got there. There was no explanation; nothing, nada, zip. Something about falling over a waterfall, and then they were on the slave line. She kept waiting for somebeast to go a little further into it, provide some sort of detail, but it never came, and eventually Birch gave up. Not as if she could ask them, oh no. Birch wasn?t that interested.

What really boggled her mind was the fact that the vermin had still taken the effort to tie up the pine marten and stoat. Of course, the stoat had gotten away, and nobeast seemed to really care about it, but never in Birch?s wildest dreams would she have imagined a vermin slave. But that?s what they were, vermin slaves. Perhaps that civil rights movement she mentioned before really was taking place, but it didn?t seem to be in the direction Birch hoped it would go. A vermin was a vermin was a vermin, and the fact that some of them were being treated like woodlanders . . . it seemed a regression, of sorts. And not the kind that had them mounting each other. To ride, of course. Birch loved a good squirrelly back.

Still, it seemed more fitting to just tie them up together where they would be out of the way. Even if keeping them with the slaves would be easier, that just wasn?t a thing vermin did - mingle. Oh well. She was sure it had its plot purposes.

Where was she? Birch had lost track of the time. Was she still reminiscing or in the slave pit? She turned towards Suellyn, checking to see if the hedgehog was still alive. No, that fat wench of a stoat had taken her place. She tried to get the attention of the dormouse chained next to her, narrowing her eyes, furrowing her brow, using her mind to attract the creature?s notice. If she thought hard enough, surely that would make her turn her head. She couldn?t throw a rock, or anything like that, not with her paws shackled behind her. Another round of fidgeting afflicted her.

?Psst!? she hissed. ?Psst!? Everybeast looked in her direction.

?Shaddup!?

Birch flinched as a rock struck her jaw. She glared at the grinning weasel, the metallic taste of blood in her mouth. But at least now the mouse was looking at her. Birch narrowed her eyes, getting a better look at her. Scared? She didn?t look so scared. Scarred, maybe, but not scared. ?Psst!? she hissed again.

?What?? the dormouse hissed back.

?Are you scared?? Birch spoke just loud enough for her to hear.

The dormouse quirked an eye. ?No.?

Birch nodded. ?I didn?t think so.?

There was a moment?s beat, and then, ?Do I look scared?? She sounded a little offended.

?No.?

?Then why would you ask something like that??

Birch shrugged. ?I dunno. I heard you were scared. But it didn?t make sense, because its obvious you have some sort of fighting spirit - anybeast can see it.?

The dormouse thought about this, then nodded in gratitude.

Birch nodded too, glad that she could clear that up.

?So, how did you come to be chained along with the rest of us?? the squirrel continued, hoping that she might be able to get some other things straightened out.

?I said shaddup!? Another rock struck the squirrel in the head. This one was larger and heavier, and hit her in her bad eye.

Birch cursed an obscenity she reserved only when she struck her paw on the anvil. It was loud, vulgar and gratuitous and had several of the slaves covering some of the younger ones? ears. The fat stoat listened raptly.

It was enough to shut her up, at least. For a while. Once she was done muttering and rubbing her face against anything that wasn?t gritty and rough, she turned to the otter chained next to her. ?How long have we been enslaved?? she asked, her voice barely audible. She had to repeat herself one or four times, each take brought the otter?s head a little closer.

?One week,? was the answer.

One week. It felt like months. Birch sighed.

If only she had her hammer.

[Jarrtail]

A hidden treasure. Of all the bloody, irrelevant, clich?d tangents, it was a hidden treasure. And Matukhana was stupid enough to believe it. If Greenfang had ever harbored a shred of respect for the fox, it was gone now.

The weasel stubbed his paw on a rock and stumbled awkwardly, cursing under his breath. At least he got away from that crazy squirrel for a day or so. Speaking of which, wasn?t there a woodlander tribe that they were supposed to go to war with? He wondered idly what they were doing right now. Whatever it is, it?s probably something better than traipsing around underground on a bird?s flight of fancy.

Greenfang allowed himself a brief chuckle. He made a pun. Normally he wasn?t one for humor. The underground air must be doing something to his head. He bumped into the rat in front of him as the group slowed to a halt. Now that bird had them looking at the wall. He felt his annoyance returning as he allowed his eyes to roam over the cave paintings. Picture of a woodlander, picture of a vermin, woodlander and together?no map, no warning, nothing that could be useful to us at all, he thought, so the purpose of stopping would be?

Hearing a loud crash from somewhere close to the front of the group, the aging weasel instinctively hit the floor and pushed the annoying rat in front of him forwards. After a few seconds with his head on the ground and hearing no agonized scream, he chanced a glance upward. It looked like the captain?s darling ferret had triggered a rockslide. And he was expecting them to climb over it, having apparently never been on the receiving end of a cave-in. Greenfang decided to forego his usual position at the back of the group and scrambled over the rockpile before anything important, such as the roof, collapsed.

Once safely on the ground on the other side of the boulders, the weasel took a second to admire the view, an amazing panorama of: nothing. The meager flickering torchlight revealed stark rock walls and an equally rocky floor, but nothing that could be considered ?treasure.? Figures. No way it?d be this easy. We didn?t bring any food, so Matukhana is probably going to keep us down here as long as possible.

Immersing himself near the center of the party, Greenfang followed the bobbing torch (Why couldn?t whoever?s holding it keep the bloody thing still?) until the group ground to a halt. Craning his neck over his comrades, he managed to make out yet another impenetrable wall of rock. After an inaudible conversation- the weasel was disappointed to see no blades drawn, as he was quite partial to roast robin- the entire group did an about-face and began retracing their steps.

Greenfang was now utterly sure that the bird had no earthly idea where they were going. He was on the verge of saying something to the captain, never mind that he?d probably stab him, when he heard Matukhana call, ?Halt!? and that annoying singsong voice shout, ?I?ve found the second tunnel!?

The second tunnel, as it turned out, was steeper, darker, and positively littered with rocks, making navigation nigh impossible. ?Are ye sure ye know where yer headed?? he called out irritably, and then mentally winced after saying it.

Thankfully, he was saved by the bird?s reassurances that they were in fact going the right way. Matukhana then turned and told the bird that he could command his own troops, and a stoat commented that they should have brought food. Greenfang sighed. That stoat had more sense than all of the commanding officers put together.

Limping a few yards forward, the weasel realized that it wasn?t as dark as it used to be. A few more feet, and he was positive that something was up. Sure enough, as the group rounded a corner somebeast shouted ?Oi fink I c?n see light ahead! Hey, it?s ?em slaves!?

Smiling grimly, Greenfang drew his scimitar. Here we go again?

[Birch]

((Much thanks to Bellona for the dialogue edit!))

Birch wanted her hammer. A sword was certainly no substitute, and she had made it quite obvious when it was given to her, but when was the last time somebeast had listened to her pleas?

?Don?t eat me!?

?I can?t eat this filth!?

?I want my hammer!?

All of it unheeded and discarded. So she went with the sword, simply because nobeast was willing to trade. She would have taken a club, for crying out loud! A club was more like a hammer. Besides, who wouldn?t want to trade a sword for a club? Nobeast, apparently. That wasn?t saying that Birch didn?t know how to wield a sword. As a blacksmith, she was quite proficient in the wares she created. She just would rather have a blunt object to strike things with. It allowed her to be less delicate.

?Why didn?t you fight back?? Birch hissed at Bellona as she and the others came back to the hut. She had seen the whole thing, and it infuriated her to no end.

?We have a truce,? was Bell?s no-nonsense reply.

It was at that point Birch lost it, if she ever had it. ?The truce is broken! Matty-Whatever-His-Face-His-Name-Is-Too-Long-Anyway broke it when he killed Giddy! And you just let him die!?

?Well, I?ve sense enough to separate a private little war from a public truce. What does that say about you??

?What it says is that if I had my hammer it would have been up his butt so hard he would have been defecating stones the rest of the season! Next season, too!? She added, realizing that Autumn was almost over.

Bell responded with an incomprehensible noise, and Birch was content continuing the argument in that fashion as well.

The problem was that there was nothing ?private? about it. Not when Giddy had been killed as though he were nothing more than an NPC . . . pawn, she meant. It made no sense. Why would Bell let Matapoophead kill whomever he pleased, but stay her paw in return? It was uncharacteristically . . . honorable. The squirrel never thought the dormouse was honorable. She had watched her from the sidelines. Judging by actions and intimate feelings Birch was somehow privy too, that scarred ferret was far more honorable than the dormouse ever was. She couldn?t blame her though. Bell had been taught to fight through warfare, and not paid cage fights that didn?t leave the loser dead. With a mentality of ?kill or be killed?, Birch could understand why the dormouse would kick dirt or backstab and laugh about it later. But that just meant Bell had more reason to fight back. Whatever. She was sure it had its plot purposes.

Speaking of which, the squirrel wondered how Makhatuna had taken the blow Bell gave him so well. The last she checked, the warrior maiden had given him a Glasgow smile, and she could have sworn his tongue had been in the way of that blade, too. What was he doing prancing around talking as if he had just bitten his lip? The dogfox didn?t seem to be in nearly as much pain as he should have been.

Jerkhana should have died, that was the problem. Everybeast would have been better off for it. That one chap, Venril, was his name? He might actually blossom into a pretty cool character, instead of chasing damsels that weren?t even his species. And now there was talk that he had taken a shine to the bird as well. Birch shuddered at the prospect of how that would work out. He had denied it, and even tried to cover it up, but the seeds had already sprouted. Her tail bristled at the terrible memories. It was High School all over again.

Venril needed to stop with the theatrics, she decided. Perhaps the problem lay in the fact that he wanted to be the robin. The theory didn?t seem that far off. Everything he had done so far had been following the bird?s footsteps. ?Think about it,? she told her old chainmate, an otter. An otter that might not die, for once. Maybe. Now that Birch brought attention to her, she was sure her days were numbered. ?Damask starts going after Eliza, so does he. Damask starts acting all heroic, so does he. I swear, if he starts rhyming--?

?Can we not talk about this right now?? the otter interrupted. ?We?re kind of in the middle of a war.?

?Mm,? Birch acknowledged, limping off to find somebeast who was more more willing to listen to her complaints.

Her footpaw was still aching from the time Revel had tried to eat her. It was bandaged with a piece of cloth from her shirt, which made her look more battered, and therefore more sexy. She couldn?t help it as the next paragraph turned into a flashback, her mind going back to that frightening event in the caves . . .

Nothing could be seen in the darkness, but she was sure she could make out the silhouette of her tail. Was the tip turning black, or did it still hold that rufescent color? It wasn?t--that would be impossible. Her paws stroked her fur, her face pouting at the results. It felt coarser, she was sure. Stoat fur was more rough and ugly than the silky, soft fluff that made squirrels so attractive, she told herself. She hoped it was just her imagination. For the first time she was thankful there was no sunlight in the cave. Despite her curiosity, Birch would rather die than find that exposure to the sun made her sparkle.

She almost didn?t want to go outside, the fear lingering on her mind. But she was pushed out in the rush, and she hadn?t sparkled, and that made her feel better.

She shook her head. What she really wanted to do was find Nivard and take back her hammer. Her sword was hitched to her belt for the sole reason not to leave her unarmed, but she?d abandon it the first chance she got. She had been waiting for this moment far too long, and if nobeast was going to do it for her--she hinted RATHER SUBTLY--she?d do it herself.

Her paw clenched as she thought of her mallet, not realizing that she was developing a tic disorder. And what happened to that shell she was supposed to deliver to Fitch? Birch was beginning to think that the whole thing had been nothing more than a plot device to get her integrated in the story. The whole adventure had been riddled with plot devices. Like what happened to Sailpaw. Wasn?t it some sickness? What happened to that? As far as she knew, there hadn?t been any mention of it since the brawny squirrel?s affliction. Birch was sure that it was just a way to get rid of him, which was a shame, because he was a beast she really admired. He had been like a well-worn anvil, riddled with chips and work around the edges, but still sturdy as the day he was made. Birch looked around in a surreptitious fashion, hoping no one saw the flush of red to her cheeks. Not saying it wouldn?t have been cute. But it could have. If only!

Point was, the whole thing had been dropped like yesterday?s garbage. She would have liked to see a resurgence of it, or something, just to make sure it hadn?t been forgotten. Even the Serchhurl or whatever had gotten more text time, and they were far less interesting. They didn?t even make sense. Birch could barely understand their story. Something about a group of vermin that had captured the fritterik, hopped them up on steroids, and sent them to devour their former kin. ?Oh well. I?m sure it has its plot purposes,? she said.

?What are you talking about?? said the otter.

Birch pawsed [sic], thinking. ?You know, I don?t think I ever caught your name.?

?I?m sure I?ll get one eventually.? She sighed wistfully.

Birch just wanted her hammer.

[Jarrtail]

Greenfang sat down, breathing hard. It was nice to be fighting again, though more painful than it used to be, he thought ruefully. As the aging weasel cleaned his scimitar, he tried to make sense of what had happened during his stay underground. Oddly, it had felt like he?d been there a long time without getting anything done. Wasn?t there supposed to be some kind of disease, and weird-looking fanged things?

He would?ve thought that the group of beasts who seemed to be the focus of this madness would?ve figured this stuff out before deciding to cut and run. He supposed they had gotten distracted by this love triangle thing that he had heard about. Everybeast was talking about incessantly, and it about made Greenfang near go out of his mind. Is everybeast bloody insane? We were trapped underground, besieged by mutants, and all they would talk about is some robin/marten/stoat relationship. Is anyone here going to have a normal relationship, at least?

Ah, yes, the pregnant stoat, he remembered. She was sweet on Nivard, right? Of course, anything involving her couldn?t really be called normal, but?

Where is she, anyway? Greenfang wondered. For some reason or other, he was now very interested in learning her location. Having felt odder than this while underground (including one episode where he actually acted as Mat-half-face?s errand boy. He resolved to make up for that by betraying the fox at first opportunity.), he decided to go along with it. Maybe tell her about the new ?truce? so the crew wouldn?t think he was starting another love triangle or something. Thinking that it might be wise to recruit some help, he called out to a nearby rat, ??ey, Jibsnout! We gotta tell th? crazy stoat t?start tearin? down th? ?uts!?  

The large rodent heaved himself up, and began following the weasel. Several other beasts, interested to see the result of a confrontation with the crazy female stoat, began trailing behind them. Not long into the march, Greenfang found that he had a pretty fair idea about where he might find, the stoat he knew as Crinktail A long trail of drag marks and blood led to a tool shed-like establishment, which loud voices were emanating from. ?I bet she?s in there,? he said to his companion.

?Heh, I?d lose that bet!? the rat responded.

As the aging weasel approached the hut?s doorway, he noticed that there was an otter corpse on the ground, and that robin was lying down, obviously in pain. ?See ye got one,? he said to the female stoat, who was holding a knife in one paw and reaching for a hoe with another, "Good fer ye, Crink. Very thorough. Gonna do th'bird next?"

?What d?you want??

?There?s been a truce. Again,? he spat at the ground in disgust, "We're gonna tear down this ?ut fer ship's wood."

?A truce,? asked the robin, "So, it's safe to go out again? Is every - ow!"

Greenfang barely suppressed a smile as the stoat began kicking the robin. She then turned to him, and dropped her voice rather low, ?This is my ?ut.?

Greenfang sneered, ?This is a toolshed. Barely more?n a commode.?

You're not welcome 'ere, weasel. Or any of you," she pointed toward the crewbeasts who were crowding behind him and Jibsnout for a better view. "This is - my 'ut."

He watched as she screwed her face up in pain and leaned against the wall of the shack. Obviously new to the whole ?pregnancy? concept, he reflected.

Crinktail (or whatever her name was) kicked at the robin, ordering it to sing. "Yer not... not sick, are ye, Crink? Jiltsnout - she look sick t'ye?" Greenfang asked his companion.

"Hard t'say," his companion responded. "Maybe. 'Ey, isn't she that stoat, Greeny? Th'one th'Whirlwind was allus with?"

?Yeah??

Shouldering roughly past the weasel, the rat dropped a folded bundle of cloth on the floor, and then hastily backed out again. ?His coat,? said the robin. ?How lovely.?

Gold star for you, Mr. Obvious, Greenfang thought. ?Rath?s coat?? asked the stoat.

And his partner, Stupid Stoat! The weasel shrugged. ?None o? my concern.?

"It was my idea," Jiltsnout said, puffing out his chest. "I thort, 'Well, th'Whirlwind's dead, an' so who gets 'is coat?' It don't fit barely anybeast, but Nivard sed 'e don't want it. So I goes, 'Well, wot about that stoat allus with him? Bein' 'is friend an' all.' So I guess it belongs t'ye now. Though," the rat added, grinning hugely, "we did empty th'pockets first. Ohoho."

?Don?t tell me,? said the robin. ?You thought highly of the brute as well??

?Get out,? the female stoat muttered quietly.

Needing no second invitation, Greenfang limped away from the hut, muttering ?Th? wood was rotten anyhow.?

***

Electing to avoid the crowded temporary quarters of the mess hall, the aging weasel decided to spend the remainder of his stay in the Oasis in an old farmer?s shack on the edge of a palm grove that, oddly enough, he hadn?t remembered being there before. He figured that he might as well make it a passively habitable, but his attempts to install a hammock were interrupted by a loud knock on the door. Opening it, he was greeted by the ugly face of the First Mate.

Greenfang very nearly grimaced. Nivard obviously hadn?t fared very well during their stay underground. His eyes were red-rimmed from lack of sleep, he had the look of somebeast who had been overindulging in alcohol, and every few seconds he looked over his shoulder.

?Don?t just stan? there gawkin, weasel. I got somethin? I need t?ask ye.?

?What is it?? Greenfang responded, and then quickly tacked a ?sir? onto the end.

?I wanna know why ye didn?t knock down that toolshed at th? edge of the village. We need all th? wood we kin get if we?re gonna get outta this ?ellhole.?

?Ye know that crazy stoat? Crinktail, or summat? She took over the ?ut, an? won?t let us tear it down, sir.?

?Heh, her again? I?ll go an? teach ?er a lesson she won?t soon ferget!? Greenfang breathed a sigh of relief as the stoat wandered off, and found that he was feeling vaguely sorry for Crinktail. He had a feeling that whatever Nivard did, it wasn?t going to be pleasant.

Renewing his efforts to habituate his shack, Greenfang made a mental vow to make sure that Nivard received his comeuppance sometime soon. The stoat was abusive to his command, plus he was now apparently a drunk. Beasts like that weren?t fit to hold positions of power. Now, I?d probably make a better first mate, but that is not going to happen anytime soon, he chuckled at the thought.

[Jarrtail]

Edwin raised an eyebrow. ?Er, isn?t Dwight the one who y? found swingin? from the rafters next to a note written in his own bloody handwriting?? he inquired.
?Yes? yes, that was the one,? Superstripe answered slowly. ?You know, for the life of me, I still can?t figure out how that happened.? Edwin grew more certain of the answer to that mystery every day.
-The Adventures of Superstripe the Unrealistic


Golden sunlight peeked through the many cracks in the hut?s woodwork, tinting the inside of Greenfang?s eyelids red. The weasel groaned as he rolled out of his hammock to start another wonderful day, albeit at noon. As he limped out of the curtain of dried palm leaves that served as the shack?s door, he grimly reflected on the events of the previous day. Matukmoron had left them again, taking along the ?main? characters (his name for the central players in this deranged little charade). The bright side was, that crazy squirrel, Birch, was gone as well, and the Amazing Disappearing Lizard had been drafted as their guide. Maybe if he was lucky, they?d all die a horrible death and he could get on with his life.

Apparently, the reasoning behind the disappearance was that they all had some kind of plague and some mushrooms in the tunnels were the cure. The odd thing was, the sickness had first surfaced back in the horrible monotony of the tunnels when that squirrel captain (what was his name? Sailsomething?) went crazy and got killed. Then nothing happened for a while, until the escape from the tunnels and the onset of disease. Seems to me like someone just ran out of horrible things to put us through and just recycled an old topic, but for the love of ?Gates, I?m just a puppet. What do I know?

As the mess hall came into sight, Greenfang noticed that his silent walk had been joined by an otter. In an attempt to figure out whether this new beast was planning to kill him or not, he tried to strike up a conversation. ?So, whadda think ?bout Matty desertin? us again??

The otter looked momentarily confused, then replied, ?Oh snap, he didn?t!?

After a moment of thought, during which the weasel regarded his companion incredulously, the woodlander appeared to remember something, and said with a sage nod: ?He did.?

After being the recipient of another odd look, the otter said, by way of explanation, ?Sorry. I forget things sometimes.?

?I see,? replied Greenfang, who was rather glad to have arrived at the mess hall just then. The aging weasel turned quickly into the hut and grabbed a wooden bowl, which was promptly filled with porridge by a stoat wielding a ladle and a large pot.

?Hey, where?s Kirby? Don?t tell me he?s out with the bloody plague, and if he is, please don?t tell me that he made the food today.?

The stoat laughed, which Greenfang took to be a good sign, ?Nah, ?e?s takin? th? day off to read some leadership trainin? an? moatyvation books. Th? crazy bedbug?s got it in ?is ?ead that ?e?ll be leader if Cap?n doesn?t come back.?

?Heh, a cook who thinks ?e kin lead. What?ll they think of next?? Adjoining to a nearby table, the weasel regarded his meal glumly. Although the Oasis allegedly provided good farmland, the only thing it was apparently able to produce was ?porridge,? and not terribly good porridge at that.

As Greenfang morosely chewed his porridge (chewed? What was this stuff?), he reflected that at least now that the main characters were gone, the beasts stuck aboveground would be able to have a bit of r-and-r until their lives fell under the manipulation of the omnipresent forces that appeared to be controlling them. He was pretty sure that he had a deck of cards somewhere.

***

?Yer kiddin? me. Th? wood ?ere is rotted beyond repair. Ye couldn?t make a set of cutlery with this, much less a bloody ship.? The rather large ferret, who had interrupted Greenfang?s game of solitaire by barging in and demanding that the hut be torn down for wood, just sneered. Deciding that a conflict would not be prudent, the weasel conceded with a muttered ?Don?t blame me when yer ship sinks.?

As the horde of corsairs began chopping at the walls with axes, the old weasel hurridly gathered his few belongings and limped out of the doorway before one of the idiots chopped out a support beam and collapsed the hut on him. Looking around for another place to stay, Greenfang realized that the village was considerably smaller than he remembered. The weasel thought that he might as well check on how the repairs were going, seeing as I really don?t have anything else to do.

Upon arrival at the beach, the aging weasel was astounded. The hole in the ship was just as large as it had been the day Drug Kitty crashed it. Accosting one of the many vermin lounging around the general area, he soon received an explanation, ?Oh, well, y?see, nobeast actually told us to fix anythin?, per se. We were just told to knock down as many huts as possible and bring the wood over here,? he gestured toward a large woodpile, ?we?re thinkin? ?bout makin? a bonfire out of it. Roast food an? whatnot. Just like when me old dad used t? take me campin?.?

Greenfang sighed (this was becoming his signature sound). He was going to be stuck in a giant desert with two armies who had the same IQs as mayonnaise forever.

The weasel decided that he needed a drink, but wasn?t na?ve enough to believe that he would be lucky enough to find anything with a higher alcohol content than mess hall porridge around here. He also remembered that the only cliffs high enough to throw oneself off of were too hard to reach to really make it worth it. That only left one option, which was write a some sort of ballad based on this little exercise in collective insanity.

No, that would be stupid. No way that would ever get anywhere.

??ey, Greeny!? a voice called out from somewhere behind him, ?Medjool came back! Thought you ought t?know!?

Leaving the eternally-on-break shipbuilders behind, the old weasel turned around with a groan and much cracking of bones. Limping back toward where the voice had called from, Greenfang unconsciously coughed. It looked like his break was finally coming to an end.