Author:
Cuimhin Waveripple (aka Longlegs G. Swiftfoot)
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Date Posted: 03:26:00 12/17/02 Tue
((ooc: I thought I needed a storyteller alt, 'cos Longlegs wouldn't be able to with his accent and all that. ^_^ This 'un's a new one, typed up without writing it down first.... Been a long time since I've written something over here!! ^_^))
**the young otter shuffled uncertainly into the room, her heavy travelling cloak drawn tight about her. The winter winds buffeted her thin frame as she struggled to close the door against their fierce onslaught, finally managing to bolt it shut with a whack from her javelin. Shaking the snow off her cloak, she laid it by the fire to dry as she curled up comfortably on a rush mat, leaning back. Turning her slate-grey eyes upon the beasts in the room, she cracked a wide smile, laying her javelin down beside her** Well, mates, looks like ye want a story, eh? **chuckles softly** 'Twas quite some time ago, this 'un, though I think ye'll like ta hear it. Dreamers can become warriors, you know... all in the time of a bitter winter, just like this 'un.... **shifting into a more comfortable position, she began her tale, closing her eyes and recalling all the complicated details, unravelling the tale with her gifted tongue**
It was a cold night at Redwall Abbey, the wind honing the icicles down to keen blades with its haunting dirge, always howling ceaselessly. All were asleep, for it was late, past midnight, save for one beast. Deripe Flightleap the young leveret was standing waist-deep in the rain-crusted snow, blinking away frost from his strange blue eyes. They were eyes of a dreamer, quiet and thoughtful, always fixed in a faraway gaze. A smile was on his face as he snapped off an icicle as long as his arm, an icy crack issuing as he drew it from its perch among its glittering kin. The bitter wind tugged at his light, almost white, brown fur, his cloak fluttering loose behind him as he pranced about with his icy weapons, thrusting and parrying at imaginary foes, the wind shrieking down his ears and around his limber form. In his mind he was running wild with the Long Patrol, a long sabre dangling from his scarred paw as he marched at the front of the ranks, a column of dust rising in the wake of the spirited, perilous hares. He laughed, wishing himself away from the annoyingly peaceful recesses of Redwall Abbey, falling backwards into the snow and lying there, breathless from his adventure.
The Long Patrol!
What a glorious thought, galloping free with the dangerous, free-willed hares of Salamandastron, led by a wise and fearless Badger Lord to some faraway battle, destined to gain victory. He wanted to be rid of Redwall Abbey and its peaceful, boring ways. He wanted to be wild, a beast of the outdoors, a true warrior. He wanted to sing those soul-raising marching songs, his voice swept away with the wind as he tore through the country like an arrow from a bow. He wanted to run like the winter wind, swifter than a gale and stronger than thunder. He wanted to be free!
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