Characters-

[Airan]

Name: Abbess Gentian
        by- Tibs

Species: Mouse
Gender: Female
Age: 57
Category: Abbess of Redwall

[spoiler]"Ah, crrrk, Mother Abbess, ma'am, I --"

Gentian held a paw up, cutting off the toad, and moved to the head of Cavern Hole's table, a seat that made her tiny frame loom taller.

"Paten, please get us some tea."

"Of course, Gentian."

She kept her paw up.
Kept the room silent.
Kept him waiting until the hare returned.

The mouse took a sip and said, evenly, "Master Slink. This isn't the first time you've come upon our threshold."

"Well, m-ma'am, I--"

"Twice in the last season you've come upon our neighbors and orchards and the fields across the road, and taken as you pleased. Thought to yourself, no doubt, 'the abbey shall not stop us'. And when we sent out scouts, they came back to us with bloodied snouts and black eyes."

"I-I'm sure it was m-merely..."

She stood and folded her paws into her sleeves. "Sufferance is the habit of our order, and so we let it pass. Yet here you are again, now that winter's hit, now that you've fatted on your spoils. You come to us and say, 'please, ma'am, we would be cared for'."

The creature before her seemed to sink deeper into his chair, a sickly sheen forming on his cheeks, reflecting the overstoked fire beside him. He gulped once, a gutteral croak that died in his throat.

Gentian walked beside the wide table and passed before the fire, her shadow dancing large across his vision. "You. Ask us. You, who spat upon our hearth. How should I reply?"

She moved beside him, quickly, and leaned down, her whiskers twitching across his forehead as in a sibilant whisper she continued, "Should I bend low and with a slave's timid tone, stammer: 'Oh, please, sir. You stole from our neighbors. You tore the harvest from our fields. You struck at our youths. Oh, please allow us the honor to care for yours.'?"

She straightened again, and turned her back upon him. "Your kind is under the mistaken impression that we are here to serve anybeast that comes upon our stoop. But we are the stewards of Mossflower." The mouse released a sharp chuff of air. "When you contribute to the bettering of this land, then you shall be given our aid."

"Paten, dear, please remove this beast."
[/spoiler]
Name: Peri
        by- Twyla

Species: Eurasian bullfinch
Gender: Female
Age: 27
Category: Infirmary Keeper

[spoiler]It had been another long day for Peri, nothing unusual for the apothecary, she was just busy. But it wasn't done yet. The bird flitted back and forth across the room, between shelves stacked with jars containing assorted medicinal plants and bowls with various salves strewn about. Soon the cheery bell by the door alerted her someone came in.

"I'll be with you in a minute," she called out. A mouse was standing in the entry clutching his arm. "Oh, Acer! Come sit here. What happened?" She led the mouse to a cushioned seat by the workbench.

"The only thing I can think of was when I fell out that tree earlier," he mumbled.

"The one with the parsnips?"

"Yes."

Peri sighed. "You should stay away from those in the future. While not the worst things to fall into, they can be a real nuisance later. I have just the thing though."

She went over to the crowded storage, mumbling to herself about searching for something while the jars clinked together. Flying over to a far shelf, she latched on to a small bowl, grasping the edge carefully while trying to keep her balance. Peri set the bowl on the workbench.

"Ah, here! This cream should help with the burns. You're just lucky only your arm's rough," she added.

"What's in it?"

"Mostly just aloe and oats."

The bird grabbed a leaf and some bandages, spreading the mixture on the cloth. She then wrapped it around Acer's wound. "Oh, you should wash that other paw too. Don't want to risk the oil getting on it. You should be good now though, be careful next time!"

The mouse replied with a quick "Thanks!" before leaving the room. Peri returned the cream to its shelf, doing a quick inventory check making sure everything was in the correct place. She dashed through her cluttered home as the sun was setting, adjusting this and that, closing the curtains on the windows, throwing the room into a cozy dim light. Peri went up to her nest, and as soon as she found a comfortable position, fell right asleep.
[/spoiler]

Name: Mrs. Flowers
        by- Cobb

Species: Mole
Gender: Female
Age: 45 years
Category: Foremole

[spoiler]"Bumbub! You'm best be diggin' yon garden rows straight!" Mrs. Flowers gave the young mole a stern look. It might be his first day on the job, but that was no excuse for sloppiness.

"Yez'm, Mizzez Flowers!"

The Foremole shook her head and muttered, "ho urr, th' young'uns 'ave no work ethic."

When their shift was over, the moles headed into the Abbey to wash up. Mrs. Flowers stood over the line of workers, more like a badgermum than the foremole she was. Bumbub leant over to the mole next to him. "'Ee be a roight tough'n, bain't 'ee?"

"Ho aye," replied the worker in a hushed voice, "but doan't you'm be lettin' 'ee 'ear that. You'm'll get a roight talkin' to."

Mrs. Flowers sighed and pretended not to hear them. She took her turn at the wash basin last, taking particular care to wash her claws. The mole then hung her apron on its peg and shuffled off to her room to change for the evening meal.

The room was dimly lit and impeccably neat. The bed was made with crisp corners. Everything was dusted. The only decoration in the room was a vase with tulips on the side table next to the double bed. The mole crossed to the wardrobe and pulled out a sage green frock to replace her muddied one. She looked in the small mirror hanging on the wall and smoothed her fur.

"Oi be wearin' yore fav'rit color, Murbol," she spoke to the framed portrait on the table. "If'n you could be seein' Oi naow, Oi wonder what you'm be thinkin'?"

Mrs. Flowers picked up the tarnished gold band that sat next to the portrait and rubbed it with her claws.

"Oi doan't loik t'be so 'arsh t'em, Murbol. But 'aow else'll they'm listen t'Oi? They'm be larfin' when they'm learn they be workin' furr Mizzez Flowers. All Oi be wantin' be thurr respec'."

The mole put the ring back down. When she looked in the mirror again, there were tears shining in her eyes and her face was flushed. She took a deep breath to compose herself.

"Burr, Murbol, Oi be missin' you gurtly t'noight. Oi best be goin' t'dinner naow. Think there'll be deeper'n'ever poi?
[/spoiler]

Name: Timothy Gracepaw
        by- Jared Sandeye

Species: Squirrel
Gender: Male
Age: 50
Category: Abbey Friar
---
[spoiler]Friar Timothy Gracepaw plopped his chef's hat onto his head and smoothed out his white apron. He puffed himself up in front of a semicircular brick oven and put his paws on his hips, nodding confidently to himself.

"Dress to impress! On my honor as Redwall Abbey's Friar, I promise to give these weary travelers from a faraway land the finest cuisines that our humble monastery has to offer!"

He raised his spatula high in the air in a rather overdramatic manner, earning more than a fair share of giggles from the chefs in his service.
"'Kay, that's all well and nice, Friar," a teenage mouse laughed from a working stove. "But we can do without the theatrics, you know."

"Theatrics? Hmph!" Timothy dropped his spatula by his side and puffed out his chest even more vehemently. "Fiddlesticks! These ain't no theatrics, Arthur, my boy. This is dedication to the craft!"

He placed raspberry and cherry buttermilk scones onto a wooden paddle. These were slipped into the fire crackling heartily inside the brick oven.

Timothy leaned over a bowl of fresh fruit sitting on a counter, rubbing his chin thoughtfully and nodding. "Caramel apples with hazelnut and almond bread, then roasted mushrooms and cheesy polenta to complement the drinks, and perhaps some leek and celery soup to warm their cold bones. Aye, that'll do nicely."

"Whoa!"

A sudden short burst of flame shot upwards from Arthur's stove and disappeared in a flash. Arthur stared dumbfounded at his pan of mushrooms, burnt to a crisp.

Timothy came rushing over. "Arthur, what happened? Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, but...." Arthur answered, wiping soot from his face. "Friar, th' mushrooms...th' oil...they got burnt! I've no idea 'ow it happened!"
At this, Timothy gripped his spatula tightly and clenched his fists. "No, no, no! It can't happen like that! We cannot possibly serve burnt food! We are chefs, not lumberjacks! Those poor mushrooms! Blast it!"

Facepalming himself, he stared out at the group of travelers waiting expectantly in Cavern Hole for their delicious food.

Timothy bit his lip and sighed anxiously. "My friends, it appears we'll just have to improvise."
[/spoiler]

Name: Log-a-Log
        by- Abrahem

Gender: Male
Species: Shrew
Category: Log-A-Log of the Guosim

[spoiler]Log-a-Log was by the river, when he saw someone run to him.

"Chief!" Rubtus, a shrew youth, taught in swordwork by Log-a-Log himself. A handsome young
beast, towering above other shrews, broad shouldered and well muscled. He was called the hero
of the tribe, after he had slain the most vermin, rescuing the tribe from a raid.

"Rubtus lad!" The Log-a-Log called, he never had a son, and had grown fond of the warrior. "How fair you boy?"

"Fine, sir." Rubtus appeared nervous.

"You sure lad?" The shrew chief cocked his head slightly.

"Yes sir." The young shrew seemed nervous. The Log-a-Log had a feeling as to why.

"I know what's wrong."

"You do?" Rubus' eyes widened in fear.

"I've seen you eye my Orpah." Log-a-Log winked.

"Huh?" Rubtus turned his head to the side. "Oh....right, she's a nice beast." He said abruptly,
moving the conversation along.

Orpah was Log-a-Log's daughter, his pride and joy. "She admires you too, you know. Always
talks about you. How great you are with a sword."

"Does she?"

"Oh yes! And she's right too! Taught you myself! You two should head for a stroll sometime, I'd
allow it." Rubtus was touched by Log-a-Log's trust in him. "Why do you trust me so much?"

"Why not Rubtus? You're shaping up to be the best the guosim can ask for. Don't tell anyone
else, but I feel when I head to dark forest. You would be the best beast to take my place."

Rubtus felt a tear fall down his eye. "You mean it?"

"You're the closest thing I'll have to a son."

"I'm sorry Chief." Rubtus sobbed.

"For what?" Log-a-Log chuckled.

Rubtus put his left paw on his chief's shoulder, and the other on his sword belt.

"For....this!" He drew his cruel rapier and thrust roughly. Piercing Log-a-Log though his chest
and shoulder. The chief gurgled on his own blood, and couldn't say a word! But on his lips, he
mouthed "why?" His body fell into the river, and was swept away. It's clear waters a dark red.
"Murder! Vermin! Log-a-Log is dead!" Rubtus ran into camp.

A new chief had to be elected, naturally the hero of the guosim was chosen.

Log-a-log was dead. Long live Log-a-Log.
[/spoiler]

Name: Aquillian Nibs
        by- Tiny Pest

Species: Hedgehog
Gender: Male
Age: 54 seasons.
Category: Cellarhog

[spoiler]A.N. Autumn of the Raucous Robin.

Nibs brushed the dust from the barrel, knocking on the solid oak and listening. As he knew it would be, the ale was ready. The cellarkeeper nodded to the mouse behind him, chuckling happily.

"Take it up, 'Ornby. I'll follow in a little while. There's a lot to do before the Brew Barrelling."

Hornby nodded, rolling the barrel up the ramp.

"Yes, sir. The Brew Barrelling isn't for seasons."

Moving through the maze of tidily stacked barrels and jars, past the cheeses and preserves, the beast made his way to the heart of his business. In the coolest section of the cellars, in a neat row against the wall, sat twelve large bottles. Quietly, fondly, the beast took each of them and eased their lids, smiling at the hiss of the releasing pressure. He added a measure of powder into three of the bottles and felt for the temperature of their spot, making sure it was perfect.

"You'll be an 'uge 'it. No uppity 'are'll trump Aquillan Nibs' elderflower champagne! Keep going, lovelies. Nibs'll get you some honey tomorrow."

Giving his treasures one last smile, the hedgehog moved away, rolling a wheel of cheese back into place.

Chunnering quietly to himself, the spiked beast tidied up his workshop, putting tools away and sweeping up splinters.

"Hmph, seasons indeed. You youngsters don't know what you're on about. Two seasons'll go in a flash, faster'n my axe shapes a stave. I'll win that barrel, you see if I don't! Gregory Glitham the Glutton will be flabbergasted. I can just imagine 'is face. 'Why, this champagne is gorgeous, wot! Top hole, old chap! I knew you were a natural! I say, how would you like to be my apprentice?'"

The hedgehog laughed, shaking his head at the imagined scene.

"'Not on your life, Glitham. I'm not going to let you ruin my brews. You use too much 'oney.' Hah! The look on 'is face!"

Still greatly amused by his imagined victory, the hedgehog finally headed for the stairs, letting out an oof as somebeast bounded into him.

"There you are, you old fool! How's the brew coming along?"

Nibs looked up, surprised, then elated.

"Glitham! Just you wait and I'll show you!"
[/spoiler]

Name: Elsine
        by: Casterway

Species: Badger
Gender: Female
Category: Recorder

[spoiler]Elsine grimaced as she shifted her body. For all her predecessors, the Redwall Gatehouse had
been a cosy and snug place to work and live in. However, with all the bookcases, ladders and
scattered tomes lying around, she could barely turn in her chair, let alone concentrate on writing.

The residence was not designed for melines.

She was tempted to grumble about having one too many feasts at the great abbey in the
fourteen seasons she had been here, but it would be unseemly for a meline Redwaller to
grumble, Badgermum or otherwise. The Recorder sighed, and read through what she had
written so far, something about a storm and a feast consequently delayed, perhaps indefinitely.

The badger thought about what to add. The dibbuns having the not-so-brilliant idea to explore
the attic had been written down thrice before, and writing about Arden's dalliances had never
been easy. She quickly dipped her quill in her full inkwell, allowed her paw to drift over the
empty tome, and waited for a collection of words to form in her head.

They chose not to.

It was only a few seconds later before an otter pushed the door to the gatehouse open. "Elsine,
what's the matter? I heard a screech."

The Recorder stared straight at Brother Arden, the shallow red mist over them parting. "Scribe's
block. Again. I will not be rid of it."

"With a room this stuffy, no wonder you can't write! Why didn't you open the windows?"

"I ran out of insect-repelling incense. Now would you get out of my sight?" huffed Elsine. "I have
to concentrate. Daily entries do not manifest themselves on paper."

"Actually, I was wondering if we could go on a walk in the Abbey Grounds together." Arden
winked. "Well, you seem to have a bit of trouble getting words down. So maybe we could get
some inspiration into your head as a couple?"

The badger walked towards the door, gestured the otter out, and swiftly locked the door behind
him. "No. Duty first."

Yawning, Elsine took a sip of water and slipped into her chair to continue her never-ending work.
She will be burdened with a Recorder's mission until her dying day, and nothing else filled her
heart with such pride.
[/spoiler]

Name: Jaskia
        by- Dirgecallers

Species: Hare
Gender: Female
Category: Abbey Gardener

[spoiler]Jaskia hummed softly to herself as she moved through the garden, even as she felt the light autumn breeze softly against her ears. But she would have her mind focused on other matters, even as she bent low, paw inspecting the carrots as she sighed. There was a few missing from where she'd planted them, as she smoothed out the disturbed soil,  so that it would be suitable for replanting.

The dibbuns again, the Hare thought, as she would place seeds in as well, just before moving onto the next spot, would check the next area. The garden was not quite as big as it had been seasons past, she noted, the dry patch next to the leeks where she'd planted not a season ago. It was a cycle, one she knew all too well, as she would find a tune coming unbidden to her, as she would begin to pick berries.

Only the freshest would do, she knew how the abbeybeasts could be very picky, but again, it was difficult to keep in such good condition when they were having feasts every other day. She could hear them even now, as she spared the abbey a glance, hearing the shouts of dibbuns from somewhere far, but probably not far enough away. It was definitely something....she thought, even as she had her basket half full, deciding it was enough.

Best not to waste them, there were only so many, and than they would be wondering the opposite, she thought, as she turned, scanning her garden, her domain. Everything was in it's place. Berries next to grapes, leeks next to chard...lettuce next to celery, all in neat orderly lines... Even a patch of mushrooms off to the side, as she let a smile slightly cross her face, as she stepped back through.

It wasn't much, but it was hers, she thought, as the Hare would feel at peace, satisfied with what she had in the basket, as she stepped out of the garden, which seemed dwarfed by the size of the abbey lawns, as she made her way to the kitchens. It was smaller than yesterday's....but it would do,  it did feel a bit more satisfying for Jaskia, growing the food rather than eating it.
[/spoiler]

Name: Bo (Sticky)
        by- The Grey Coincidence

Species: Badger
Gender: Male
Age: On The Younger Side
Category: Beekeeper

[spoiler]The badger got up at the crack of dawn, just as the sun began testing the waters of the horizon on multicoloured tiptoe. He yawned. He stretched. He ignored the face that met him in the mirror as he brushed his teeth. And then he sighed, slumped forwards, his shoulders sagging in familiar misery.

The blanket was stuck to his fur. Again.

A comically over the top slapstick scenario later, the badger left his cell to be met with the usual morning birdsong.

"Mornin' Sticky!"

"I do believe that's my tunic stuck to your rump, wot. Don't mind if a chap yanks it off, do you Sticky?"

"STIIIIICKY!!! GET YOUR BEES OFF MY BUTTERFLY BUSH!"

Everybeast called him Sticky. It wasn't a false description by any means, but he preferred to go by Bo.

The hum of the hives greeted him as he approached the corner of the abbey orchard he'd reserved for them. He blew a little tune into a copper whistle and poured sickly sweet syrup into a bowl. The swarms descended at once, a dark cloud of ravenous insects, hungry for sugar. When all was said and done, he played another note on his whistle and the bees dispersed in search of more nectar.

All but one who had gotten itself stuck in the residue syrup and for all it's buzzing needed a helping claw up. Bo provided the claw and watched it fly off into the sunrise. The badger sighed wistfully, mournful of his own lack of wings. Things would be easier if he wasn't always getting stuck to things.

Bees as a whole, were easier to understand than beasts. They never judged one's clumsiness or one's manners. They obeyed the call of the whistle, ate nothing but saturated sweetness and flower pollen, drunk water from the pond and lived out their lives for the sake of the hive as a whole. They were simple.

Mice and moles and squirrels and otters and shrews and hares and all the rest were... less so. Each one was different, not even the occasional twin was as identical as a pair of working bees. They had customs and quirks and ways of phrasing things that made Bo's head spin.

But he had time to learn.
[/spoiler]