Redwall MUCK Forum

Dramatis Personae:

- Cap'n Bloodeyes, Searat Corsair (played by Piratical)
- First Mate Sawteeth, Searat Corsair (no forum account yet)

Two salty, vicious searats sail a ruined ship onto the shores between Salamandastron and the River Moss. What brought them here? What happened to their ship? How much of a threat do they pose to the goodbeasts of Mossflower and Redwall Abbey? Only time will tell...

Note: Sawteeth's player and I come from other MU* games where pose length is generally longer, so there are multiple spoofs per pose on our part.

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The sun beats down harshly on the shores as the waves roll endlessly in. The ocean is as it ever was, eternal and unchanging, beating eternally against the sands, uncaring and empty.

...Well. MOSTLY empty. Off in the distance, at the very edge of the horizon, there's a small dot growing slowly closer, inching its way across the blue. It is, in fact, a ship - at least, in the most technical sense. In a more practical one, it's a floating wreck. Only one of its masts is still upright, the entire ship lists to the side at a drunken angle, and it's so low in the water that the unfortunate beasts aboard are ankle-deep in seafoam as they wade their way over the deck.

Because there ARE beasts aboard, as unlikely as it might seem at first glance. Two of them - two rats, soaked to the skin, haggard, exhausted, and clinging desperately to the ropes as the ruined hulk of their ship limps its way towards the shore.   

The scrawny one in the red coat is standing just behind the one remaining mast, hauling hard on one of the ropes there. Despite her appearance, despite the fact that she looks like she hasn't eaten properly in weeks and hasn't slept in almost as long, there's a mad, bright energy in her red eyes as she cackles maniacally and points towards the shore with her free paw.   

"Y'see?" she calls to the other. "Y'see? Land ho! I said LAAAAND HOOOO, matey! We're as good as made! I told yer that map wouldn't steer us wrong!"   

The other rat is a fair bit calmer, sitting on a barrel tall enough to avoid the worst of the surf flowing over the sides. He tears a hunk of gristle off of a large bone, tossing the lot over his shoulder. "Aye. Earn't yer hat, yeh?" He stands, water lapping a good deal lower on him that the other rat. This one is tall and strong, laden with bags and bottles. "Terror Farmer's callin'. Getcher claws in th'dirt quickwise, yeh?" Shouldering his burden, the larger one stares up at the mountain with flinty eyes before wading his way onto the beach. "Anythin' left th'crabs own!"   

"Aye, that I did," says the scrawnier rat proudly. "Shame I lost me hat in the storm. I'll hafta find another 'fore long." She's obviously about to collapse from hunger and exhaustion, but she still manages to grin fiercely and sticks out her chest for a moment - just before the ruined hulk they're standing on finally grounds itself completely on the shore, and rolls over almost completely onto its side. This sends her sprawling out over the sand, and when she pushes herself upright again, she spends a few moments spitting grit before she finds her footpaws again.   

Once she does, she scrabbles upright, scowling, and beats some of the sand and grime off of her faded red coat. "Not me most dignified entrance, I'll admit," she says, apparently to no one in general. Then she blinks, realizes that her partner has already set off up the beach, and scampers off in his wake. "Oi!" she calls loudly. "Oi! Don't'cher go leavin' me now, y' great lump! I've still got the blessed map!"   

The larger rat stops after a few steps, making it to the shade of a mess of large rocks. "Tain't! Spyin' fer warders. Getcher letters here 'less yer lookin' to speak fer this'un." Placing the largest of his rope-and-canvas pack on the ground, the rat nabs a bottle. The cork comes out and finds the beach along with the hunk of shredded tendon. Ptoo.
   
Weapons out, make sure it's all in place. Bowstring isn't sodden, that's nice. Fletching held. Blades aren't pitted with salt. The captain's gear is fussed over as well, found satisfactory. Celebrating not dying with a swig, he lets out a reeking belch and tosses the bottle at the ship. Crack. Reverse-christened, the wreck sheds a plank or two. Lovely. "Right'en. Wot's th'Abbey yer jawin' 'bout?"   

The scrawny she-rat scrabbles her way up onto one of the rocks, taking a moment for another futile attempt to scrape off some of the accumulated sand and grime from her coat. She is, of course, completely unsuccessful, and she scowls for a moment at the sight of the disgusting state of her white coat. Then the larger rat speaks again, and she blinks once, apparently snapping out of her little private universe. "Eh?" Another blink. "Oh! Oh. Yeh, right. Give us a moment."   

One of her emaciated hands goes into the oversized coat, and she rummages around in a pocket for a moment before producing a small, watertight map case. Or a small map case, anyway; the "watertight" is highly doubtful, at this point. Still, the map she pulls from it is /mostly/ intact, even if there are several large splotches visible on its surface where the ink has run and smudged, or where the water has completely destroyed anything intelligible. She unrolls it, looks it over, clicks her teeth together a few times, and starts to turn slowly in circles atop the rock, holding the map up as she glances between it and the mountains looming overhead.

"Rrrright," she says, after a minute or two. Then, with more confidence: "Right. Yeh, thassright. Ha!" She grins harshly and looks up from the map, pointing down the shoreline with one clawtip. "There's a stinkin' great river thatwise, mate. That's where we're bound. We jes' follow it upstream 'til we find the road, an' then we follow /that/ t' Redwall Abbey, an' all the vittles an' plunder we could want."

There's another moment's pause, and then she swivels on the rock to point down the /other/ end of the beach, towards the largest of the mountains visible. "Only we jes' wanna be careful," she adds, "'cause, if'n I remember right, an' I always do, there's a whole mess'a fightin' hares in that great rock down there. An' a badger too, prob'ly. More'n you got arrers for, even." She rolls the map up again and shoves it back into the case, still grinning. "But that'll change," she adds, puffing out her skeletal chest again. "That'll all change. You mark my words, mate. By this time next season, every beast fer miles around is gonna know the names o' Cap'n Bloodeyes an' First Mate Sawteeth."   

Sawteeth crackes a smile, ghastly and jagged. It's real enough, gone quick as it comes. The mountain gets a long appraising look before he turns and hefts his pack. "Yar. Vittles firstly, yeh? Belly timbergets a ship sailin' better'n any tree." He still strings his bow, keeping it along his shoulder. Just in case. "T'ain't good fer nowt but dinin' on our tails, bein' here. Le's leggit n'talk."
   
Testing the earth with bare paws, the first mate strikes on, making sure Bloodeyes is close by. "So's I's thinkin'. Camp down sum'were near, 'case alms is lightwise. Rivers cuttin' up th'whole place, t'boot. Needin' a boat. Wee'un."   

Bloodeyes falls into step beside the larger rat, hopping down from the rock to join him as he starts up the beach. The size disparity between them is impressive, and his legs are considerably longer than hers - it's an effort to even keep her tail from sweeping through the sand as she moves - but she manages to keep up remarkably well despite this. She keeps one paw on the hilt of the ornate sabre at her side as she walks. Even through the muck, it still manages to gleam just a bit in the light.

"Aye," she says, nodding along with Sawteeth's words. "Gettin' us'n's some decent grub's the first order o' business. Nuffin' but weak grog an' soppin'-wet hardtack, an' that ran out a while back. Shame the ol' Grimtail weren't equipped fer proper fishin'." She jerks a thumb over her shoulder towards the ruined wreck of a ship behind them. The name on the prow is faded and scratched and almost illegible, but it definitely doesn't say "Grimtail".   

She licks her lips with a dry tongue and continues, "This ole river up here's prob'ly full o' tasty fish. Could do with a net. But I hear tell there's shrews an' otherbeasts use the rivers 'round here." Her grin returns, a sly, evil expression stealing over her scarred features. "Mebbe we can convince 'em t' have pity on a couple o' poor, stranded, starvin' lost beasts. An' t' lend us a pretty little boat, for's to reach this Abbey place with."   

Sawteeth's weapons are simpler and more cruel, designed to do what they're supposed to with minimum fuss. Stowed for now, but judging by the look on his face when the shrews are mentioned that's easily changed. "Now that's sense, innit? We usin' words or irons?"
   
"Well, seein' as we've only got the four paws 'twixt the two'f us," Bloodeyes answers, her grin never faltering, "I thinks we're best off doin' it my way. Ye got us out o' that last mess nice an' quick-like. Best I return the favor." She pauses for a moment, her tongue digging around the base of one tooth, then spits out a lump of something gritty and unidentifiable.   

"'Sides," she adds. "Like I said. Perilous beasts about, mate. It'd be no good 'tall if'n the legend o' Bloodeyes an' Sawteeth got cut short just 'cause they'd drawn steel too close t'..." She pauses for a moment. "Sala... Salamanger... Saladramast... Bah." She waves a hand over her shoulder, back towards the looming bulk of Salamandastron. "The blasted mountain. Bes' be on our bes' behavior fer now. 'Specially 'cause beasts 'round these parts is s'posed t' be soft anyway. No point makin' bodies when they're 'appy t' jes' give us the vikkles out o' the goodness o' their sweet liddle 'earts, bless 'em."

EXIT ALL as the pair of corsairs begins to make their way towards the River Moss.