Prereading
One: Don't use any of the medical procedures described in this. I'm not a doctor, who knows what they could do?
Two: Some of the descriptions may not be "accurate." For instance, I don't want to spend to much time trying to figure out what shade of fur a certain character actually has.
Three: I don't own Redwall.
Now let's get to the actual story!
Brand
Prologue
The stranger came to Redwall near the end of Autumn, as the day came to a close. He was an old otter, his coat heavy with silver, but he stood without stooping. He wore a large pack of some sort, and had an old staff, bleached by age. He was spotted by a squirrel working on the construction of the Abbey's upper levels, who called down to a hedgehog named Furdy below. The stranger seemed to be passing, and Furdy, despite his girth, caught up to him after he had passed the gate- though it was a close call, the old otter was actually rather quick.
The old otter grinned when Furdy offered him a stay in the Abbey. "Well, mate," he said, "I'd be glad to stay. Wasn't sure if you folks in that fancy building would want an old riverdog."
"Sir, who would turn down an old otter?" Furdy asked.
The Grey otter chuckled. "Oh, they're not worried about an old Otter. They're worried about a scruffy old vagabond. My name's Gorg, formerly of Holt Mustaede, but now an explorer. I'm very curious, you know, so I didn't like it back at the holt to much when I was younger. I always wanted to see the world. And I have seen it. I wasn't even born on this side of the sea, but I'm still here today."
Ferdy's eyes opened in wonder.
"I imagine you have some tales to tell, good sir. Do you need some help getting in? It's almost dinner." Furdy was very conscious of dinner.
"No, I'm fine," Gorg said. "I travel a lot, so a short walk like that won't hurt me."
"Then let's get in sir. We can talk more when we get in out of the cold."
"It is a mite chilly out tonight, isn't it?" Gorg replied. He didn't seem bothered by the cold though.
Inside the Abbey, there where many creatures bustling to and fro, mice, hedgehogs, voles, and even the occassional squirrel or otter. There were also many who were chatting a little before dinner, having finished construction tasks. Martin, an older mouse now heavily streaked with gray, stood to one side, chatting with his visiting friend, Gonff the Mousethief, who looked even older. Off to one side stood a group of squirrels, including Lady Amber, who also had a lot of gray fur. As a matter of fact, many older woodlanders were showing signs of age. There were a few exceptions though. Bella of Brockhall didn't look particularly old, though she was older than many of the others present. But then she was a badger, and she could expect to live a lot longer than she had. Skipper also did not seem very old, his fur was only lightly touched by gray compared to many of his compatriots.
Gorg stopped when he saw Skipper. He looked surprised, and muttered, "Add a little more size, get rid of that gray, lose a little of that flab "
"Is something wrong sir?" Furdy asked.
Gorg shook his gray head. "No, no, of course not." he mumbled The old otter seemed transfixed by Skipper, who was greeting friends and family after the day's construction work. Furdy shrugged. Skipper was an impressive otter, so he supposed having some beast stare at him wasn't particularily irregular.
Dinner that night, was a somewhat restrained affair. There was thought of the upcoming feast that would come after a name had been found for the winter. Still, there was plenty of food, ranging from a heavy mole "Deeper n' Ever" pie to large cheeses and much lighter fair such as otter hotroot soup. The new stranger seemed especially fond of the soup.
"Best thing there is for an otter," he said, "but I don't get much of it on my travels."
Skipper, of course, was shocked at such a statement.
"No hotroot soup? How do you survive, mate?"
"Oh, I get by," Gorg responded. "I'm a good scavenger, and I've learned to eat what I can find. Still, I really like this soup. Very hot."
Skipper looked at Gorg. "Have we been introduced, sir?" he asked.
"Don't think we have been, mate. My name's Gorg. I'm an explorer."
Skipper looked at Gorg. "Gorg, huh? I'm the Skipper here, but my real name's Warthorn. Awful, isn't it?"
Grog chuckled. "I'll call you Skip then. Is that pretty young otter your wife?"
Bula's greying face looked up from the table. "I'm hardly young," she said, "but you definitely got the pretty part right."
The three otters chuckled. "You're young enough to be my daughter," he said, "so you're young in my books."
Nobody was particularly suprised by the old otter's sense of humour. They were used to Otter's remaining playful long into their grown up years. Several of the older otters at the abbey were considered mavericks, Skipper among them.
Gorg was introduced to others later as dinner went on. The old otter didn't seem surprised to meet Martin, he remarked that the mouse's reputation was "Bigger than a Badger Lord's." Gorg was extremely polite to Lady Amber the Squirrelqueen.
"I've never met royalty before," Gorg joked later in the evening, being careful to keep Amber from hearing him. Not that that was particularily difficult as long as he kept to the side kept to the side Amber was missing an ear on.
It was nearing the end of dinner when Gorg made an announcement.
"I suspect it's snowing out there by now," he spoke.
"You're sure, mate?" Skipper asked, surprise evident on his face.
"Aye." Gorg nodded. "I sensed it coming earlier this evening. I've been around for a long time, so I should be right. Here, why don't we go check?"
Skipper and Gorg walked to the big doors at the front of the hall and opened them. A chilly blast blew in, carrying snowflakes that settled on woodlanders and food.
"See?" Gorg said smugly. "I'm never wrong any more."
"I thought it was seeming a little chilly in here tonight" said Skipper, "Maybe it's about time we got down to Cavern Hole where it's warmer."
At that announcement, parents began to herd dibbuns up to the dormitories, despite loud protests. Skipper grinned.
"Glad I don't have have to put up with that any more," he confided to Gorg.
"Yes, leave it to your kits," Gorg replied.
"Actually, even my grandkits aren't considered dibbuns anymore, though they aren't quite considered full grown-ups yet either."
"Well, before it's too late," said Gorg, "maybe I could mention that it's snowing tomorrow, so I doubt you'll be doing much work on your Abbey. I think that the Dibbuns could handle a late night. I have a rather interesting story they might want to hear."
"Well, I suppose they could stay up a little later tonight." Skipper admitted.
"Good," said Gorg. "Why don't we take them to that Cavern Hole you were talking about?"
Most of Redwall packed into cavern hole that night. Gorg had convinced the elders that his tale would be good for the Dibbuns. "It will expand their knowledge," the old otter had said.
***
Later that night the old otter sat facing his audience from a large chair near the fire in Cavern Hole. He faced his audience. Skipper sat in the front row with his family, Bula to one side and his youngest grandson to the other.
The otter studied Skipper for some time. Finally he asked:
"You are a NORT otter, are you not?
"Was," Skipper responded, "I had a little falling out with my father that caused
me to leave and eventually come here. We got it settled down a bit in the end, but by then Mossflower had become my home."
"Ah," The old Otter replied. He considered something before asking another
question. "Are you related to any of the royalty of the Northern Otter River Tribes?"
"I think I am somewhere back a bit," Skipper admitted. "But my family history
isn't all that clear to me. I'm not Queen Garraway's sister or anything."
"Whupperyho," came a voice from the back.
Skipper shot Gonff a glare.
"Gonff," he said in a dangerous voice, "you know having Garraway saying that
all the time when she visits irritates me a lot."
"Well, that's sort of the idea, you old-oof!"
Columbine looked at Gonff.
"Now dear, I don't want to poke you all night, but you know Skipper doesn't like
that."
"Yes dear." Gonff replied.
"Well," Gorg said, "I was wondering about that because you look a lot like a
picture of Brand I once saw."
"Oh, one of those legends!" Skipper exclaimed. "Those are fun, they're so
unbelievable."
"I'm not going to tell you some overgrown legend about Brand," Gorg said. "I've
gotten into his history a lot on my travels, so I've managed to piece together what I think is a fairly accurate account of his coming to Mossflower and the founding of NORT. He never slew a score of foxes at once, though."
"I thought that no one knew much about Brand. How did you find out so much
about him?"
"Well, I did quite a bit of going through old texts, accounts he and others wrote
after the war for Mossflower and some other records. Though I have to admit, otters don't take very good care of their records. Some of the writings were pretty faded."
"Preserving records isn't exactly our breed's best area," Skipper agreed.
"You got that right," Gorg agreed. "So, want to hear some of your history, Skip?"
"I'd be glad to, mate."
The storytelling went long into the night, as abbeydwellers listened closely to Gorg's enthralling tale.
One: Don't use any of the medical procedures described in this. I'm not a doctor, who knows what they could do?
Two: Some of the descriptions may not be "accurate." For instance, I don't want to spend to much time trying to figure out what shade of fur a certain character actually has.
Three: I don't own Redwall.
Now let's get to the actual story!
Brand
Prologue
The stranger came to Redwall near the end of Autumn, as the day came to a close. He was an old otter, his coat heavy with silver, but he stood without stooping. He wore a large pack of some sort, and had an old staff, bleached by age. He was spotted by a squirrel working on the construction of the Abbey's upper levels, who called down to a hedgehog named Furdy below. The stranger seemed to be passing, and Furdy, despite his girth, caught up to him after he had passed the gate- though it was a close call, the old otter was actually rather quick.
The old otter grinned when Furdy offered him a stay in the Abbey. "Well, mate," he said, "I'd be glad to stay. Wasn't sure if you folks in that fancy building would want an old riverdog."
"Sir, who would turn down an old otter?" Furdy asked.
The Grey otter chuckled. "Oh, they're not worried about an old Otter. They're worried about a scruffy old vagabond. My name's Gorg, formerly of Holt Mustaede, but now an explorer. I'm very curious, you know, so I didn't like it back at the holt to much when I was younger. I always wanted to see the world. And I have seen it. I wasn't even born on this side of the sea, but I'm still here today."
Ferdy's eyes opened in wonder.
"I imagine you have some tales to tell, good sir. Do you need some help getting in? It's almost dinner." Furdy was very conscious of dinner.
"No, I'm fine," Gorg said. "I travel a lot, so a short walk like that won't hurt me."
"Then let's get in sir. We can talk more when we get in out of the cold."
"It is a mite chilly out tonight, isn't it?" Gorg replied. He didn't seem bothered by the cold though.
Inside the Abbey, there where many creatures bustling to and fro, mice, hedgehogs, voles, and even the occassional squirrel or otter. There were also many who were chatting a little before dinner, having finished construction tasks. Martin, an older mouse now heavily streaked with gray, stood to one side, chatting with his visiting friend, Gonff the Mousethief, who looked even older. Off to one side stood a group of squirrels, including Lady Amber, who also had a lot of gray fur. As a matter of fact, many older woodlanders were showing signs of age. There were a few exceptions though. Bella of Brockhall didn't look particularly old, though she was older than many of the others present. But then she was a badger, and she could expect to live a lot longer than she had. Skipper also did not seem very old, his fur was only lightly touched by gray compared to many of his compatriots.
Gorg stopped when he saw Skipper. He looked surprised, and muttered, "Add a little more size, get rid of that gray, lose a little of that flab "
"Is something wrong sir?" Furdy asked.
Gorg shook his gray head. "No, no, of course not." he mumbled The old otter seemed transfixed by Skipper, who was greeting friends and family after the day's construction work. Furdy shrugged. Skipper was an impressive otter, so he supposed having some beast stare at him wasn't particularily irregular.
Dinner that night, was a somewhat restrained affair. There was thought of the upcoming feast that would come after a name had been found for the winter. Still, there was plenty of food, ranging from a heavy mole "Deeper n' Ever" pie to large cheeses and much lighter fair such as otter hotroot soup. The new stranger seemed especially fond of the soup.
"Best thing there is for an otter," he said, "but I don't get much of it on my travels."
Skipper, of course, was shocked at such a statement.
"No hotroot soup? How do you survive, mate?"
"Oh, I get by," Gorg responded. "I'm a good scavenger, and I've learned to eat what I can find. Still, I really like this soup. Very hot."
Skipper looked at Gorg. "Have we been introduced, sir?" he asked.
"Don't think we have been, mate. My name's Gorg. I'm an explorer."
Skipper looked at Gorg. "Gorg, huh? I'm the Skipper here, but my real name's Warthorn. Awful, isn't it?"
Grog chuckled. "I'll call you Skip then. Is that pretty young otter your wife?"
Bula's greying face looked up from the table. "I'm hardly young," she said, "but you definitely got the pretty part right."
The three otters chuckled. "You're young enough to be my daughter," he said, "so you're young in my books."
Nobody was particularly suprised by the old otter's sense of humour. They were used to Otter's remaining playful long into their grown up years. Several of the older otters at the abbey were considered mavericks, Skipper among them.
Gorg was introduced to others later as dinner went on. The old otter didn't seem surprised to meet Martin, he remarked that the mouse's reputation was "Bigger than a Badger Lord's." Gorg was extremely polite to Lady Amber the Squirrelqueen.
"I've never met royalty before," Gorg joked later in the evening, being careful to keep Amber from hearing him. Not that that was particularily difficult as long as he kept to the side kept to the side Amber was missing an ear on.
It was nearing the end of dinner when Gorg made an announcement.
"I suspect it's snowing out there by now," he spoke.
"You're sure, mate?" Skipper asked, surprise evident on his face.
"Aye." Gorg nodded. "I sensed it coming earlier this evening. I've been around for a long time, so I should be right. Here, why don't we go check?"
Skipper and Gorg walked to the big doors at the front of the hall and opened them. A chilly blast blew in, carrying snowflakes that settled on woodlanders and food.
"See?" Gorg said smugly. "I'm never wrong any more."
"I thought it was seeming a little chilly in here tonight" said Skipper, "Maybe it's about time we got down to Cavern Hole where it's warmer."
At that announcement, parents began to herd dibbuns up to the dormitories, despite loud protests. Skipper grinned.
"Glad I don't have have to put up with that any more," he confided to Gorg.
"Yes, leave it to your kits," Gorg replied.
"Actually, even my grandkits aren't considered dibbuns anymore, though they aren't quite considered full grown-ups yet either."
"Well, before it's too late," said Gorg, "maybe I could mention that it's snowing tomorrow, so I doubt you'll be doing much work on your Abbey. I think that the Dibbuns could handle a late night. I have a rather interesting story they might want to hear."
"Well, I suppose they could stay up a little later tonight." Skipper admitted.
"Good," said Gorg. "Why don't we take them to that Cavern Hole you were talking about?"
Most of Redwall packed into cavern hole that night. Gorg had convinced the elders that his tale would be good for the Dibbuns. "It will expand their knowledge," the old otter had said.
***
Later that night the old otter sat facing his audience from a large chair near the fire in Cavern Hole. He faced his audience. Skipper sat in the front row with his family, Bula to one side and his youngest grandson to the other.
The otter studied Skipper for some time. Finally he asked:
"You are a NORT otter, are you not?
"Was," Skipper responded, "I had a little falling out with my father that caused
me to leave and eventually come here. We got it settled down a bit in the end, but by then Mossflower had become my home."
"Ah," The old Otter replied. He considered something before asking another
question. "Are you related to any of the royalty of the Northern Otter River Tribes?"
"I think I am somewhere back a bit," Skipper admitted. "But my family history
isn't all that clear to me. I'm not Queen Garraway's sister or anything."
"Whupperyho," came a voice from the back.
Skipper shot Gonff a glare.
"Gonff," he said in a dangerous voice, "you know having Garraway saying that
all the time when she visits irritates me a lot."
"Well, that's sort of the idea, you old-oof!"
Columbine looked at Gonff.
"Now dear, I don't want to poke you all night, but you know Skipper doesn't like
that."
"Yes dear." Gonff replied.
"Well," Gorg said, "I was wondering about that because you look a lot like a
picture of Brand I once saw."
"Oh, one of those legends!" Skipper exclaimed. "Those are fun, they're so
unbelievable."
"I'm not going to tell you some overgrown legend about Brand," Gorg said. "I've
gotten into his history a lot on my travels, so I've managed to piece together what I think is a fairly accurate account of his coming to Mossflower and the founding of NORT. He never slew a score of foxes at once, though."
"I thought that no one knew much about Brand. How did you find out so much
about him?"
"Well, I did quite a bit of going through old texts, accounts he and others wrote
after the war for Mossflower and some other records. Though I have to admit, otters don't take very good care of their records. Some of the writings were pretty faded."
"Preserving records isn't exactly our breed's best area," Skipper agreed.
"You got that right," Gorg agreed. "So, want to hear some of your history, Skip?"
"I'd be glad to, mate."
The storytelling went long into the night, as abbeydwellers listened closely to Gorg's enthralling tale.
I don't lack a life. I lack nine lives. -Darthtabby
