Disclaimer: The books in the Redwall series, including Mossflower Wood and other locales and Martin the Warrior and other characters, are not my intellectual property. The poem, as well as most of the characters so far, is what I've created on my own, but I of course ultimately owe my writing of this story to Brian Jacques. Because he rocks.

Characters I have created:

-Terry Rivenelg

-Hazel Brookberth

-The hare (still unnamed)


-Abbess Willow (name subject to change, since I realized that a Willow already exists in Redwall lore Willow is the name of one of the hares in The Long Patrol.)

I realize these chapters are painfully short, and I apologize. I assure you that they are unfinished, and I fully intend to fill them out in time. Any feedback would be greatly appreciated, as well as any suggestions for the Abbess' name. Thanks!


Chapter I

Over the spread of Mossflower Wood, the sky began to lighten in preparation for the sunrise. Royal blues chased the deep azures that were receding through the once deeply violet sky, drawing back the shadowed curtains upon the trees and scrubs of the wood. While the entire populace of Mossflower was aslumber, one long-eared figure sat facing a flashing campfire, twanging his lute, wincing at the dissidence heard in the chords as he tuned his most prized possession. Finally satisfied with a quite beautiful and tranquil chord that he stumbled upon, he paused a second before singing rather loudly.

"At this time of year, 'neath the willow's branches

Arrives the setting for second chances

Newfound love and blood still wet

Pays the fee: the warrior's debt

Embers of the past still glowing warm

Leaves still wet in the wake of the storm

The shadow of the past still deeply lingers

Behind all that hides from the present's fingers

Looking in the fire, I see my life

Past and Future, locked knife to knife

In a deep war where many innocents die

I've never known these flames to lie. . ."

Being left unattended as long as it was, the campfire began to dwindle as a playful gust of wind blew through, whipping around the licking flames, in an attempt to brighten the foreboding mood set by the lone bard. It only managed to add to the somber tone.

"The flames die down as my story closes;

A pallid soul lies down upon a bed of roses

Stares, unblinking, at the skies changing hues

That yearn and burn as this bard's muse. . ."

The hare paused for a second, deep in thought. A second, sharper wind rolled by and he gave an expression of sudden inspiration as he begin to play again, with his ending finally in mind.

"And so, fellow travelers, as you hear my tale

Spread out your wings and ride the gale

That casts Time's sands carelessly aside

Hold on tight, for it's a bumpy ride. . ."

Finishing with a satisfied smile, the hare delicately placed his lute beside himself on the log upon which he sat. He winked to his wordless companion as he spoke aloud, "I'd say we have a bit of a journey on our hands, wot wot! It's still quite a ways to Redwall."