Divide and Conquer
Setting:
A campsite, hidden in the forest near Marshank.
Characters:
Aden, an acrobat
Flicktail, Redwall Champion
Magramba, a warrior
Marshank Raiding Party
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Hunkered along the periphery of a vermin encampment has understandable downsides - the most prominent of which is the constant, overbearing threat of attack. It eats away at sleep, and gnaws a constant thread of anxiety into even the most hard-willed of beasts - and Aden has never been particularly hard-willed. She /is/, however, /excellent/ at pretending. Faking things has been her forte for a long time, and as such has remained a chipper force of sheer positivity throughout the stay. Despite her exuberant, devil-may-care attitude, she doesn't allow herself to fall into complacency - because, at the end of the day, she is drawn-tight, too. The squirrel is nearing the end of her watch shift, the sun just starting to drag its way over the tree tops, when she spots the slightest flutter of movement, about 200 yards off. She departs her tree in a flash and descends on the camp. "Could be nothing, could be something!" She announces. "Look alive, you guys."
Flicktail's ears perk and his nose goes up...circling with the stealth of a veritable FOX, Flicktail moves down wind to see if he can catch the scent of whatever that...THING is...testing the air with his nose. Sonar like ears stand too ready to catch the slightest whisper...Flicky in full predator mode, also catches the scent of......could it be? SQUIRREL...his mouth starts to water.
Magramba sits up from his bedroll, eyes snapping open as he starts awake from Aden's announcement. The squirrel has always had a way of jolting to life out of his slumber, and today is no exception. Weary paws fumble at his side for his sword, wanting to know it is close before he slips out of the sack and ducks under the cover of the canvas to stand to his feet, grabbing for his pack and bow. "Here we go again."
Aden leaps back to the trees, springing past - is Flick drooling? Ew. "Could be nothing, could be something." She repeats, almost sing-song. Unfortunately, the fast-approaching sound of voices and footfalls reveals that this is going to be a good deal of /something/. Now that the weather is starting to warm up, Marshank must be sending out raiding parties - probably to hit the fort which sent their little gang all this way. "...Something." Aden confirms, softly, from the branches, ears splaying back. It's a good sized group - no less than 15; marching and stomping and laughing their way closer and closer. "Hide the camp, hide ourselves, and pray?" The silver squirrel suggests, her stomach sinking down to her toes.
Flicktail blink blinks.. as the THINGS "Hide? Pray? What FOR they are just pesky vermin!" Still he leapt to before, maybe this time he would try it the squirrel's way, hiding himself where if they stumble on ANY they stumble on him, he is, after all...a Foxy fox.... He will help them hide, but they would not attack a Fox....would they?
"I don't mind two-to-one, but five- or six-to-one is too many for me even if they are /just/ vermin," Magramba replies, slinging his quiver of arrows over one shoulder and his backpack over the other. "Flick, grab the tarps and canvas; Aden, get your things and the clothes. We need to high-tail it out of here before they arrive. I'd prefer Rogir doesn't know we're here for a few more days until we decide how to get inside."
Aden hops to, leaping into camp and stuffing everything hurriedly into bags - she doesn't even really care whose bag is whose, everything just get /stuffed/. Punching her bed roll in, she throws her pack over her shoulder. "Flick, there are /too many/. You can talk your way out of it, but they'll take one look at us and -" She runs her index finger across her throat. Dead squirrel would be dead. She takes off at a run - it would be easier to simply hide their things in the trees, but the oaks and pines around them have yet to actually regain enough spring leaf cover to do a proper job of hiding anything. Behind them, a horn bellows among raucous hoots and hollers of savage mirth.
Flicktail hasn't VOICED any intent to attack, he is just getting the..well tarps and canvas....he looks up though at the thought of 'high tailing it'. "Shouldn't we keep or tails LOW?"
"I don't care where you keep your tail, Flick," Magramba mutters, strapping his sword belt on and shoving his foot through the gap between the bow and the string, pushing the top loop up into its notch so that the weapon is functional and taking off after Aden with a wave of 'Come on!' at Flick.
On the road, Aden has often chased Mag down - running ahead to scout the path. This is in the back of the acrobat's mind as she runs, a thought which is brought /violently/ to the front of her mind as she hears another horn bellow - this one uncomfortably, /uncomfortably/ close behind them. Closer than the rest. Back with the main party, a gleeful shout goes up. Cries of 'CHASE 'EM DOWN!' echo behind them, as the raiding party breaks into a sprint. Desperate, Aden spins to shoot Flicktail and Magramba a panicked look - and then gives a meaningful nod towards Flicktail. "C'mon Mag!" She calls back. "Tha' white fox called his friends!" Because, to be real, Flicktail is the only one with the chance of talking his way out of this - and can be left as their secret weapon. An element of surprise. As the vermin pick up the chase, Aden groans and drops her pack to lighten the load - just as an arrow soars past her head. They've got company.
Flicktail hurries after the Squirrels, keeping low...he will try it THEIR way this time......But still he grins and then looks back at the chasing vermin. "STOP shoottin those arrows...don't you DARE put a hole in that silver pelt! I wants it fer a...um..fer a LOIN cloth!" As soon as he said it Flicktail sighs, why did he say LION cloth "it's an expensive pelt i don't want it damaged..over ERE ya slobbering broke tailed sods!
"...why would you say that?" Magramba hisses, unable to let it slide even as the vermin start shooting. One paw snaps back over his shoulder to fumble for the fletches of an arrow, finding one and stringing it on the run. The warrior spares a few paces to stop and snap a shot towards the oncoming vermin, hoping less to hit one and more to scare them into slowing down before sprinting off after the other two again. "Now's our chance while he's distracted!" he shouts, playing along with the ruse.
"PUT ME ANYWHERE NEAR YOUR LOINS AND YOU. WILL. LOSE. THEM." Aden shouts, breathy from running, over her shoulder. Should she die, this pelt is destined for far greater decoration - a rug, maybe. A cloak? perhaps. But a loin cloth?! The nerve! The vermin, confused by this sudden interruption, break into two groups. The larger continue to pursue the squirrels, not paying much mind to Flick - the second, consisting of five /very/ angry vermin, charges the fox. Their apparent leader, a nasty, burly stoat, growls, waving his saber at him. "Youse best have a /good/ reason t'be huntin' on /our/ turf, fox. D'you know wha' Rogir /does/ t'beasts who trespasses? Eh?" Meanwhile, Aden is /booking/ it, and Mag's arrow does little more than further goad their pursuers on - hooping and hollering. This is fun to them. This is a game. An arrow rips the hem of Aden's cloak, and she waves at Mag before swerving, suddenly from their path to try and shake them off in the tree cover, and circle back around towards Flicktail, pulling a dagger free.
Flicktail exclaims, "Wot are ya TALKIN about ye Lilly livered slobknocker! who do you think I want that pelt FOR....it is a GIFT to Rogir! And if yer friends damage it I will turn YER pelt into a very large tent, ya oversized Galute!" he draws his own sword "CALL them beasts back ere so we can catch this squirrel right....you can have the GRUMPY one, but he's pro' too tuff ta chew ya ave ta boil im for a month o'Sundays"
The too-tough-to-chew one notes Aden's wave, latching onto a tree as he passes to swing himself in a fast turn after her, dragging another arrow free of his quiver and nocking it to the string. The tickle of the feather against his cheek barely registers as he draws, turns, shoots, and continues running after her.
The hordebeasts aren't the brightest bunch, and they look between each other, slack-jawed. "Gift f'Rogir, y'say?" "Think he would like a pelt like tha'." "No' a loin cloth, though." "Who you t'say wha' Rogir's fashion is like?" The argument between them carries on for a good bit, before they finally decide, collectively, that they buy the fox's story. The call goes up, harsh and loud, for the beasts still in pursuit of the two squirrels. "TH' GREY ONE COMES ALIVE!" The fox had given them free reign over the other, apparently - a smart compromise, for they do love a good play thing. Aden swings a hard right, changing her course now that it seems that Flick is going to be okay - she, apparently, is granted immunity - which shoves Mag to the forefront of her worries. One of their pursuers takes Mag's arrow through the eye and hits the ground, tripping up several behind him. But they keep coming - spilling through the trees and over logs. The leader stays with Flicktail, but he releases his other three cronies to join the chase as well. This is not looking good. Her own attack comes as a silver flash of dagger, burying itself into another's throat. Still, they come.
Flicktail watches the others leave, flicking an arm he lets one of Aden's throwing daggers slip into his paw, standing beside the stoat, of course he only does this if he is NEXT to the stoat so it won't see. He does not throw the dagger, instead he tries to casually slip it between the leader's rips so he can them proclaim "there see that *I* am leader now, forget that other mangy tailed freak and bring me that silver one..we will brig er alive to the camp" of course this only if he gets away with it.
As the fox attempts his plot, Magramba blinks at this sudden turn of events, pausing in his movement to pull another arrow. That was... unexpected. Also unexpected is how close the nearest rat has managed to get; he's about to lunge at Mag before the arrow darts forward and crashes through his face. A convenient branch and the warrior hangs his bow, ripping his sword free as things inevitably devolve into a melee encounter.
She had let the fox use her dagger the night before - Aden hadn't realized she didn't get it back until she goes to grapple another loose, and only counts two. The stoat lets out a gasp, eyes wide - and he falls to his knees. "Who -" He lets out a strangled last breath, and slumps to the ground. The vermin are too absorbed in their pursuit of the squirrels to notice this change in leadership, but one left behind /does/ hear Flicktail's proclamation - and he isn't too happy about it. "'E KILLED THE BOSS!" He shouts, calling back the other two who had hung back to meet the fox. They chase after Flick, swinging their weapons wildly, and pursue him further into the forest.
A weasel is the first to catch up with Mag and Aden proper, slashing his sword at Mag's middle with a guttural shout. They are bursting from the woodwork, and Aden uses her remaining knives with little to show for it - just two more fallen beasts, among many - before she yanks her own sword free.
The warrior bats the weasel's blade away easily, twisting around to chop into his shoulder near the neck, toppling him. Magramba's fighting style is completely business, which has been mentioned before, but really, all elegance is long gone, and if anything there's a bit of clumsy, dogged, pained determination to his movements. It's been a rough journey. As the next, a rat with a spear, comes flying in to thrust at him, the squirrel side-steps, latching onto the spear's haft and using it to pull its unwitting owner close enough to bash in the face with the pommel of his sword, pulling the spear away and claiming it as his own.
"Does have a pretty pelt, don' she?" The cackle is hoarse and harsh behind Aden, and sends a chill down the acrobat's spine. "Not today, perv." She snarls, spinning around and sliding her steel through his chest. "To your left, Mag!" She calls, ducking a swing to rip one of her daggers free. A second later, a rat - mace raised behind the other squirrel - crumples to the ground. But they /keep coming/ and she is /not/ a warrior. The first blow takes her between the shoulder blades, and she stumbles, swinging wildly behind her. The next takes her from the side - and she cries out as a scimitar opens a gash through her bicep. Any form she has dissolves under the pressure of desperation; her attacks and defenses become wild swings and slashes; her danger is that of a cornered dog - and it can only get her so far. The growing realization weighs on her: she isn't going to win this one. She seeks out Magramba - tearing through flesh with dutiful resilience. It's poetic, that he is there, really; he's always been there. Something kicks her in the leg, knocking her to the ground - she doesn't bother looking. She knows what's coming - her gaze is locked through the melee on the warrior, fighting the overwhelming weight of regret. She never did get the chance to tell him. "I'm sorry." She whispers, and the world goes black as a heavy-set polecat smashes her over the head with the pommel of his sword. "GOT 'ER! TAKE 'ER IN!"
In seasons past, Magramba might have looked like a dancer in the midst of this mess, twisting and spinning, like a ballerina. Today, he looks like a butcher, hacking, chopping, and stabbing at anyone within reach. That spear whips back and forth; big, dangerous sweeps keeping his attackers /back/ and /away/ as much as he can, with the shaft couched under his arm to let him wave it more easily. A paw, a nose, an arm, a blade, another spear, the warrior slashes at any and all of them as they come within reach, desperately trying to clear a path to his friend, but the vermin surge between them, pressing him back away from her. A stoat rushes in with a spear, burying the tip in Magramba's thigh and bearing him to the ground. A sharp outcry tears from his mouth, but he plucks the offending weapon out and turns his sword on the stoat, leaving the blade to rest in the corpse and resorting to the spear, half-standing and aggressively sweeping out at the surrounding throng, trying to hold out for /something./
The polecat flings the limp squirrelmaid over his shoulder, and the group skips back and away from the warrior. No one wants to be the first to rush him - they'll over take him, eventually - sure - but how many will he take down with him? No one wants to be the one to go down. So: they hesitate, their numbers much thinner. And then the calls come up from the rear - the fox. The /fox/ killed their leader. With shouts laden with a mixture of anger, victory, and disturbing glee, the beasts slowly back off of the squirrel with several parting jabs and slashes. Lucky for Mag, no one wants to get too close and they seem perfectly content to leave him there to despair and bleed as he will. Aden, who thought herself dead, remains unconscious on the polecat's back as they rush back the way they came - some in pursuit of the fox, and the rest with the acrobat. A fine rug she'll make, indeed.
Magramba, bleeding in more than a few places and barely able to walk, is left tired, cold, and alone, staring vacantly after the vermin who snatched his friend. Slowly, slowly, his brow furrows, deeper and deeper, swallowing a growing rage as he stumbles to his feet, leaning on his new spear. A spit of blood to the side and the squirrel wanders off through the trees, carrying a cloud of menace with him.
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