Fluffy pink under-bellied and golden cream-topped clouds gently drifted over the western ramparts of Redwall Abbey. A crisp autumn breeze, rich with the refreshing scent of russet apples from the orchards and the warm embrace of woodsmoke from the kitchen, wafted upwards to the twitching nose of the walltop's lone sentinel.
Rivenah Thornpaww lightly and easily balanced atop the red sandstone battlements, while impassively scanning the peaceful sun-warmed path and field before her. Her left paw rested firmly on the hilt of an elegantly lethal fencing blade. She was unnaturally thin, as squirrels go, due to her recent life of hunger and helplessness. Had she not been found and rescued, revived and nourished back to health by the kind and …
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Autumn leaves swirled and danced on the stone steps outside the gatehouse of Redwall Abbey.
Rittlesby the hedgehog babe toddled over to the door, and firmly pushed it shut.
“Der we go, Mem Flinn! Did oi do et roit this here toime?” Rittlesby said, tucking his chin in and swaggering about, as he tried out his imitation mole speech.
The aged shrew, Flinn Furrit, chuckled gently as she leaned back in her old oak rocking chair and continued her knitting. A warm glow from the crackling fireplace lit her dark furred face.
“Of course you did, little one,” she said, kindly.
“Of course you’m did notter!” a husky voice piped up from the back of the room.
A rather round mole came trundling over to the gatehouse door, and swept up the little dibbun in one…
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