Author:
Lettucleeaf, of the Naughty Knot!
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Date Posted: 20:35:17 03/18/07 Sun
Some poems for ye, I'm a-hoping I get some CCs f'them.
Exchanging Tales.
The fire burns low in Cavern Hole,
And Redw'llers gather round
Abbot sits in his grand chair,
Whilst Dibbuns on the ground,
A loud voice calls up from the crowd,
and tells a tale of woe,
A hedgehog has a comedy,
And story's seeds are sown,
Now above the whispers clear,
comes a deep, rich sound,
The story-weavin' badgermum,
spreads tales from all around,
Now listen hear, yon crowd beasts,
If'n ye want to know,
The love of many comes from tales,
And sits in minds to grow!
Like it? Now here's a short story.
Crow on the Roadside.
Winter is a cruel slavedriver. It takes the land and the woods and pummels it into a shadow of what it once was. Beautiful trees turn to rancid skeletons and mist and snow swirls in haunting patterns, as travelers pass the path of Mossflower Woods.
Two such travelers were the hare Lettucleeaf and his beetle companion, Libe. Under his faded red tunic and frayed pants dragging in the soil, ribs showed under his deplenished fur, turned gray by the cruel temperature.
Libe the beetle stared worriedly into his master's sunken eyes. The pair's food supply consisted of a few crumbs and a hardened loaf.
Suddenly, a mocking cry came from above. Lettucleeaf raised his childhood weapon, a blowpipe with a pouch of thorns loaded into it, at a nearby tree. A single raven stood in it's leafless boughs, a smile tugging at its beak, if ravens could indeed smile.
Lettucleaf and Libe were more than a season into their journey from the great Redwall Abbey, where Lettucleeaf had spent his childhood days. Now he was out to find his lost parents, Horatio and Dewdrop.
It was winter.
lettucleeaf raised his blowpipe up to meet the oncoming raven, the crow. The scavenger fluttered down, revealing a fish clamped in its beak, half of the meat already scraped off.
The hare eyed the fish hungrily. He hadn't ate in almost three days and his stomach ached horrendously. He needed that fish. But could he kill the raven, who had done nothing to him? Lettucleeaf had almost no experience in killing.
He aimed his blowpipe and fired.
FSHWWOOT!
The raven screeched, unsettled from its perch, as the thorn imbedded itself in its filty talon. It flew away, dropping the fish in the road.
Lettuceleaf and Libe fell upon the meal gratefully, scraping every bone clean.
If not for the crow and its carrion meal, Lettuceleaf would have never gone on to meet his long-lost parents. He would have died needlessly to the cruel hands of winter. So, even though this piece of writing seems insignificant, it is one of Lettucleeaf's most vital moments in his life.
Thank you.
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