Snowy Longname is helping me with ideas on this fan fiction and I have her permission to use her character in my story (yay!).  Just if anyone was wondering. :)

This takes place after the events of High Rhulain, when Old Quelt's library is still in place.

It may interest you to know that all the characters in this fan fiction except for Robin and the minor characters are really people I know in real life (unfortunately most of them are girls because I don't know any boys ... sorry).

  • Songflower = me (duh)
  • Maryah = my possessed friend
  • Snowy Longname = Snowy Longname (also duh)
  • Sophia = my little sister
  • Mushroom = my crazy friend
  • Sage = (Mushroom)'s little sister
  • Emilia = my insane friend
  • Krakulat = another one of my friends
  • Kay = yet another one of my insane friends
  • Abbys (pronounced like the giant cavern) = my Warriors-obsessed friend
  • Robin = not anyone :)
  • Rockbottom the Cowardly = every single boy I hate :D


"I still think Southsward is closer!"

"No, the North Shores!"


"North Shores!"

The argument of the ancient hare and otter was interrupted as the door of the gatehouse suddenly flew open, not from a gust of wind but from a gust of Abbeybabes.  The Dibbun mole and squirrel that had been playing outside in the snow when a blizzard began to form.  Now they rushed inside the gatehouse as if they had been shot from a bow like arrows, spattering the whole of the small building with snow droplets.

"Do ye mind not getting water over everything mateys?" the old otter asked irritatibly.

"Sorry Rip, we only was trying to get out of the snow!" protested the squirrel.

"An' we want to 'ear ee story, zurr and miz, 'till wes be getting back to 'ee Abbey," added the molebabe.

"Not until we finish our argument, you liddle scallywags, eh wot Rip?" the hare replied with a wink, swinging the young mole into her lap.

"Certainly," the otter Rip answered with a little bow of his head, in turn lifting up the tiny squirrelmaid, causing her to squeak with glee.  "I can defend my argument now, Southsward, matey, that's wot's closer to Redwall."  He reached into a gigantic box of scrolls and books, rustled around for so long that the hare came close to giving up the argument.  Coming out with an ancient scroll, yellowed with age and sending up a cloud of dust, Rip unrolled it.

"See here?  On this map, Southsward is two pawlengths away, but the North Shores are three." he pointed out.

The old haremaid only rolled her eyes.  "But what of old records, wot?  I recall it took Martin and company only a fortnight to get to North Shores while it took the Bellmaker and crew half a bally season to get to Southsward, proving the No -"

She was interrupted by the inquisitive molebabe.  "Zurr Rip, where be that map a-comin' from?"

The otter sighed.  "Ah, Boomble, that was many long seasons ago."

The energetic squirrelmaid commenced bouncing up and down.  "Tell us, tell us!"

Rip raised an eyebrow in the direction of the hare, she nodded and said, "Go ahead.  I'll correct you if'n you need it, wot?"

The tale began with the traditional words of so many other old tales . . . "Once upon a time, though not so many seasons back, there was a tribe, and there was an owl . . ."

Book 1: Carrion Pine and Salamandastron

Chapter 1

There was a time when the black crows of the pine forests were thriving, cawing, mating, and most of all, pecking apart the parts of weary travelers with the misfortune to find themselves in those woods.  After many seasons of such persecution, the animals living in the area, good and evil alike, came to construct a name for this nefarious tribe of the birds who are black as a black hole.  The name was Carrion Pine.

Some such travelers was a group of owls, coming through the forest, looking for a place to settle.  They knew nothing of Carrion Pine.  Needless to say, their passing did not go well.

These owls were coming through the forest for an innocent reason.  They were barn owls, but the woods these birds lived in had been taken over by a gang of ferrets who had wanted to kill and eat any birds in those old woods.  The unfortunate creatures had been traveling for almost a season, searching for a new home.  In the group of owls were families, lone owls, young ones, old ones, warriors, maids . . . almost two score owls traipsing through the forest.  To the crows of Carrion Pine, these owls seemed like the perfect meal to satisfy their hunger for meat - these crows were so evil that they had grown almost mutant, and craved meat.  Settled animals nearby had learned this fact the hard way, and stayed out of the pine woods, but the owls knew nothing.

The leader of the crows, Cajarah, was an expert strategist.  She had to be; after all, she was the leader of a tribe that would kill at the slightest urge, the most miniscule annoyance.  The carrion were not only evil, but insane, which made them even more dangerous.  The only member of the tribe not insane was the Cajarah, and she could control this insanity to her advantage.  Now she watched the owls make their way into her forest from her headquarters, high in the tallest pine in the forest, and her ugly face contracted into what could almost be called a smile as she ordered her troops (if the deranged birds under her command could even be called troops) into silence.

"Chukar chukar, quiets!!  All of yous, quiets!!  The preys must not hear us, kuchar kuchar.  Silence!  Your Cajarah commands it!  Chukar kuchar jah jah jah . . ."

To the group of owls, the pines seemed like a perfect new home.  The trees seemed uninhabited, tall, green trees, full of shelter and food.  There was even a river running through the forest!  The owls flew through the trees on silent wings, even the smallest chick gazed with awe at what the birds were know sure would be their new home.  These owls had no leader, but the strongest warrior of the group was the only owl not positive of the safety of the woods.  He thought that the place was quiet . . . too quiet . . .

The warrior turned out to be correct, unfortunately.  A young chick, staring at the river with seemingly unquenshible thirst plain on his feathery face, accidentally ran into a tree.  The small owl dropped to the ground with a yelp of pain, and with that sound, danger struck.  The carrion of Carrion Pine were upon the owls.

"Wingcry . . . help me . . . please . . ."

"Where in the name of claws did these things come from?  AWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOLS!!!!!!"

"My chick . . . my chick . . . please, not my chick . . ."

"Blackfeather!  Blackfeather . . . where are you Blackfeather?  Please be alive, please be alive . . . NOOO . . ."

The owls were ripped to shreds like the filling of pillows in a pillow fight of careless Dibbuns.  The shrieking and cawing could be heard for many leagues around the forest as the owls desperately fought to their last to rid the pine of the fierce carrion.  Slowly, though, weight of numbers overcame the brave fighters, all but one, a huge owl, fighting almost as fiercely as a badger with the bloodrath.  The owl who had suspected all along that something was wrong, the warrior Midnight.  He was fighting to protect his daughter, a young owlmaid called Songflower.  The mate of this unfortunate creature had already perished from the claws of a particularly fierce crow, and Midnight refused to loose his daughter to the same fate.

Songflower high in a pine tree, disguising herself in its branches.  She was a small owl, light brown and golden with specks that were almost shaped like flowers.  Her huge golden eyes stared unbelievingly at the battle, watching her father give his utmost to protect her. 

Midnight was fighting five crows at a time.  He was the very last owl standing in the massacre, and so Cajarah came to finish him off.  She flew down while the huge black warrior was distracted, clawing desperately at the carrion surrounding him, and dive-bombed his head. 

Midnight went down in a flurry of feathers, but he called to his daughter.  He still had enough sense left to do that. 

"Songflower!" her father cried, with his final effort.  "Fly!  Fly away, fast as you can!  Don't let them get you!  Find safety . . . you can't let them get you . . . Songflower . . ."

The sight of the horrible battle had hardened the young owlmaid.  She would obey her father, and she would fly away to safety.  But first, she had a job to do.  Those evil crows weren't getting away with massacring her entire family without paying for it somehow . . . and Songflower had an idea.

The idea was pure genius and awesomeness, if she did say so herself, and she did.  The owlmaid's father, mother, brothers, sisters, friends, and tribe-mates had all been killed by the evil carrion, and she wasn't letting the crows get away with that.  Songflower silently began to peck at the branch above her on the tree on which she sat.  Her beak was not the best of the owls because she was one of the youngest in the group, but she could use her beak as well as the best of them.  The young orphan quietly pecked and pecked for almost ten minutes as the crows below her made perfectly sure that all of the owls were dead (as previously mentioned, they didn't exactly have the best of brains).

At last, the branch gave way.  Songflower had chosen well - the branch she had been pecking at was full of huge pine needles and was heavy and thick with pine sap.  Of course, that didn't exactly make it easy to peck, but the choice was worth it.

Songflower flew upward as silently as she could, so that even in the silence of a final exam room it would be almost futile to hear her.  As she flew, the branch crashed down onto the forest floor.

The branch fell like a heavy stone, and indeed it was almost as heavy.  So heavy, in fact, that it achieved the owlmaid's aims beyond her wildest imagination: half the crows in the undergrowth of the pine forest perished from the fallen branch - they were all congregated into one area, watching their leader as she began a victory speech.  The screams of the carrion echoed in Songflower's ears as she flew upward as swiftly as possibly possible, for silence no longer mattered, she couldn't be heard over the screams of the crows, screaming louder than fireworks.

And yet, for all of Songflower's careful efforts, not all of the crows failed to notice her departure.

Unfortunately, the owl Songflower was not the only young maiden about to be fleeing vermin as quickly as was possibly possible that fateful afternoon.

Maryah was an angry hare.  If you know anything about hares, then you would know that angry hares are not hares about to listen to any reason of any sort.  An angry hare would charge into battle outnumbered ten score to one with no weapons or armor whatsoever without a single rational thought.  Angry hares are dangerous.  At that moment, young Maryah was completely prepared to slaughter all of the 120-some odd creatures that stood around her with her bare paws and teeth.  She was seeing the color that a star has the moment before it bursts into nonexistence.  Her paws were shaking with rage and her mind had been invaded with thoughts of one thing and one thing only ...


Why was Maryah, a typically carefree and jubilant young haremaiden, filled with such rage?  The reason was simple.

She had no family left.

Chapter 2

From the excerpt of the records of Girry, Recorder of Redwall Abbey in Mossflower Country.

'Today I write of a sad, but not unexpected occurrence in the time of Redwall Abbey.  Sister Snowdrop, the Librarian of Redwall Abbey in the library that Old Quelt put together, died yesterday night.  I say that this was not unexpected because SIster Snowdrop has been around for an exceedenly long time.  The oldest member by far of Redwall Abbey, she has lived for uncountable seasons upon seasons.  She was an old mouse when I was born, and now here I am, an ancient squirrel recorder.  The Foremole Tribsy and I are now the only ones left from the time of Abbess Lycian, when we were solving the riddles of Sister Geminya to help the High Queen Rhulain Tiria Wildluough . . . I wonder how she's doing out on Green Isle these days . . .

'I digress.  Sister Snowdrop's death.  Last week, the good sister contracted a cough.  Her weak immune system probably couldn't deal with it, or at least that is what Sister Formica, the infirmary sister, believes.  I am not an expert in such matters.  So, last night, Sister Snowdrop died in her sleep.  I am glad to say that it was peaceful and she likely didn't feel a thing, for the old sister was my mentor in teaching me to be a recorder.  Even though I was expecting her death, I still feel sad that the abbey has lost her talents for a librarian. 

'Abbot Apple, who, if you were unaware, is a hedgehog who, when a dibbun, showed such a loving for apples that his mother named him Apple (to this day he eats at least two apples a day) performed the funeral ceremonies.  All of the abbey came to pay their respects, and we planted snowdrops on the grave infront of the gravestone that Foremole Tribsy's crew had engraved.

'The one problem that this poses . . . who will be the next abbey librarian?'

"Woi zurr, thoi ansur be quoite simpul.  Yoom zurr cun be them loibrarian." said a surprised, rustic mole voice from behind the ancient squirrel recorder.

"Of course not, Tribsy.  I already am the Recorder, and I cannot take on two jobs at once." answered Girry.

"Whom else coin be doin' it?"

"That, my friend, is the question," sighed the recorder.  "Come on, we have to get to the dining hall or we'll be late for breakfast."

The two old friends walked out across the grounds to the dining hall, Girry hobbling along with his cane and Tribsy walking in a way that was more a roll than a walk with his belly as round as a ball's.

"You know, Tribsy, if you don't stop eating soon you'll be too round to fit in any tunnels and have to retire as Foremole," Girry commented.

"Youm be quoiet, zurr Goirry.  Oim be having poifect control of moi appetite, hurr hurr."  The mole attempted a retort, but failed when he began to chuckle.

By this time, the recorder and Foremole had reached the abbey and were entering the dining hall. The feast was, of course, all that was to be expected of a Redwall feast, or in other words, delectable beyond compare. The food included various trifles, cakes, cheeses, salads, breads, wines, ales, pies, and a huge fish that had been caught from the Abbey pond, among other foods. Practically anything that you could think of was there.

"Hullo zurr Abbot, would yoom be liking to try soom o' this foin Oictober Aile?"

"I would, thank you."

"Hoi Cera, pass the pumpkin tart, would you?"

"Sorry, there's none left!"

"Oh dash it all, those Dibbuns must have taken the entire thing! They'll never eat it all . . . hey you, Gumple, give me some of that pumpkin tart!"

"Isn't happening."

"Hmph. Those Dibbuns . . ."

"Excuse me Brother Girry, have you seen Violet and Zurn? The little rips, I can't seem to find them anywhere."

"Sorry, Sister Kate, I haven't."

Sister Kate, the typically kind and gentle squirrel Infirmary Sister, had a red face that was twisted into a sour expression. She marched up to Abbot Apple.

"Father Abbot, I can't find Violet or Zurn. We have to search the Abbey for them, nobody's seen them since before the beginning of the feast."

"Of course, Sister," the Abbot replied.

The search for the missing Dibbuns went on for the rest of the evening, but to no avail. There was no sign of the little mouse or mole on the entire grounds, not a paw print, or a piece of fur, or anything of the sort. Sister Kate was out of her fur with worry.

"Abbot, we can't just stop searching! They have to be here somewhere!" she cried.

The squirrel sister's cry was interrupted by the resident Skipper of Otters. "Excuse me marm, but it's late. Tomorrow mornin' me an' my crew can search Mossflower woods. We'll find the little tykes, don' worry."

"Thank you, Skipper!"

And so, early the next morning, Skipper led a party of a dozen or so otters out into Mossflower woods, laden with lanterns, provisions, and the like.

They set out to find two missing Dibbuns, but that was not all that lurked in the woods, longing to come into the Abbey . . .

Songflower flew upward through the trees as quickly as her small, hardly-used wings would let her, but she was not alone. Cajarah flew after her. Thank Mother Nature (or whatever Redwallers worship) that the young owl had a head start.

The evil carrion leader had been distracted (and not in the least happy) when three quarters of her troops' bodies fell on top of her. She had had to throw all 300 of them off, one by one. By the time this was finished, Songflower was already high in the sky, making out for . . . erm . . . well . . . she wasn't exactly sure what she was making out for. She just wanted to get out of those pines before she suffered the same fate as her family.

"My parents didn't give their lives for me to be killed like this!" Songflower thought, giving herself new strength to keep flying.

"Asdfjklasdfkasdfkl I cannot believe those buffoons under my control managed to be beaten by such an ugly little owl maiden. KIIIIILLLEEET!!!" thought Cajarah. The raven was seeing red, which was probably a good thing, because it affected her flying ability, and she nearly flew straight into a pine tree.

A new line of trees appeared on the horizon as the sun rose in a stunning array of gold, crimson, and violet. Songflower gasped in shock (an even larger gasp than the gasps for breath she had been making for the past ten minutes, if that is even possible). Seeing as owls have excellent night vision, she hadn't realized that the battle at Carrion Pine had gone on all night.

The trees were a type that Songflower had never seen before in her short but tragic life. This was because these trees were planted in not a forest, but a swamp. To the young maiden, however, trees meant safety. She had no idea what kind of dangers lurked in swamps, not only from plants, but from animals. Songflower dove into the nearest tree.

Cajarah was still attempting to chase her escaped quarry, but when the owl dived into a tree, it threw her off. There was also the fact that sunlight is blinding for ravens of pure evil such as her, which caused her to stop flying and bump into a boulder. In fact, bump would be an understatement. The raven warlord had cuts and bruises all over her wings, which is never a good thing if you are having an epic flying chase.


"Thank goodness that's over," Songflower thought with relief from where she had been watching from inside her tree. "But what did she mean, 'yous will bees paying for thiiis'?"

Then, Songflower noticed that, once again, she was not alone in her "safe haven".

How did she know? Well, it could have been the drums beginning to pound like elephants dancing the can-can, the in-animal screeches that sounded like someone was being tortured within an inch of their life, the disgusting smell of rotting carcass, or perhaps the fact that a bonfire had apparently been lit and was blazing orange a few trees down.

Songflower decided to investigate. After all, what good creature can stand listening to in-animal screeches of pain?

The owl-maiden fluttered quietly over to the next tree. From there, she had an excellent vantage point of what was going on on the swampy ground below her.

Some creature was being tortured, that was certain. In particular, a young otter was being tortured. Songflower winced as she heard more screams erupt from the unfortunate creature. Now she knew the real meaning of the old saying: "There is always some creature worse off than you."

Yet what sent shivers down the owl's spine was not the torturing itself, but what was doing the torturing. Lizards, snakes, frogs, and other reptilian creatures were dangling the otter from the branch of a tree into the bonfire. The poor otter didn't look as if she had been tortured so much as she had been pampered. She was quite plump to the eyes of one who hadn't had enough to eat as long as she could remember. If these reptiles were torturing the otter, then why were they feeding her?

Then, with a crash bang boom, it hit Songflower. These weren't ordinary reptiles, they were cannibal reptiles.

Songflower couldn't believe her thoughts. She couldn't comprehend how any creature, no matter how evil, could eat another creature. Especially such an unfortunate little otter . . .

The owlmaiden let out a gasp of shock.

"Well missie, never seen somethin' like that before, have you?" whispered a voice from behind her.

Chapter 3

Maryah moved in for the kill.

The hare had lost all sense of reason. All she could think was, "They killed him they killed him they killed him THEY KILLED HIM!!!"

Her vision was as red as red delicious apples.

The bloodwrath had come upon her.

The weasels that surrounded Maryah watched a change come over the hare, her face contracted into a furious scowl. They realized that this warrior, the last of the group of twoscore they had set out to ambush and murder, would prove too much. Slowly, the vermin backed away, hoping they would not have to face her . . .

They were wrong.

"EULALIAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!" screamed Maryah. The bloodwrathed hare charged straight at the weasels, swinging her slingshot so fast that it was nothing but a gray blur in the air. She let off five stones in rapid succession as she chased after the vermin that were fleeing her malevolent wrath. They ran as fast as the water shooting out of a hose, but Maryah was faster. She caught up to the vermin as easily as you can say "Aaah!!!", then began wreaking havoc. The weasels didn't stand a chance.

What followed were scenes of carnage, death, and destruction too deadly to even describe here. Definitely rated R.

Twenty minutes later, Maryah took a deep breath and looked around her. She had given new meaning to the Long Patrol saying, "Take no prisoners." Weasel bodies were strewn all over the ground. Nothing moved in the clearing except for the hare, whose eyes now darkened to their normal blue-green color. Surveying the weasels she had killed, Maryah became overcome by exhaustion. Wouldn't you be, if you had just fought a score of weasels on your own and killed them all?

"The Kernel would be proud of me . . . I took no prisoners, a true hare of the Long Patrol," Maryah thought to herself. "It's too bad that there isn't a Long Patrol any more."

But the hare-maiden was, above all else, jubilant. She was one step closer to her mission of vengeance. After all, a journey of a thousand miles begins with one step. The weasels who had killed her Falconey were dead and gone. Now all that remained was to kill every single other weasel, rat, ferret, stoat, or fox in the vermin army, and not only that, but their leader, and maybe even her leader . . . at the thought of killing Rockbottom the Cowardly, Maryah sighed contentedly. That whining brat had gotten her into this mess, and sure it would be against Long Patrol order to kill him, but if there was no more Long Patrol, then surely she could . . .

Maryah imagined a Salamandastron the way it used to be in the old days, when old Lord Bockers had been alive. She wished she could turn back time to stop everything from happening the way it did, but that was impossible. Every hare that she had known and loved on the mountain was dead.

All that remained to keep her from going insane with depression was to get revenge. Revenge on the horde, the horde's wildcat leader, the traitorous hares and badger . . . all of them would die.

"I swear on the memory of my mother that they will pay for this. I will make them pay," Maryah announced to the wind, the sky, the grass, and the bodies of the dead weasels.

And with that, she collapsed with exhaustion.

Robin Roarn had always tried to be a good fox. Even when he was beaten savagely by shrews for trespassing, nearly drowned by otters, scorned by mice, and made fun of by all other types of vermin . . . he had still tried to be a good fox. His ancient grandmother had told him, when she sent him off into the wild beyond his family's tiny village, that no matter what, good will prevail over evil, and if you are on the side of good when it happens, then you will be blessed for the rest of your life.

Now, though, Robin was questioning the truth of that statement. As he watched the little mouse and mole making their way towards where he hid in a bracken bush, his red-brown fur camouflaging perfectly with the early-morning sunlight, he contemplated what they would taste like. He couldn't remember what it felt like to have a full belly any more.

Of course, to be a "good fox", Robin would take the little tykes and show them the way back to the gigantic stone building he had been watching for the past five days, give or take a few. He had enviously listened to the joyful laughter and shrieks of happiness coming from inside the red-stone building. The fox longed to be part of it, but . . . he was a fox, after all.

So what to do? Return the young animals or use them? And thus commenced the inner struggle that came upon Robin at least once a week, sometimes plenty more than that.

Return them? And be true to your promise to your family?

No, eat them! Then you will finally be not hungry any more!

But that would be cruel!

What are you gaining from returning them?

Nothing . . . but . . .

But nothing! Don't be such a goody-two-shoes!

But Grandma would kill me if I wasn't!

She's not here to see you now, is she? I bet she's dead already!

Oh! How could you!

And so on and so forth. Eventually the two halves of the young fox reached a sort of compromise: he would return the little mouse and mole to the Stone Place of Happiness (as he had named it), but would demand to be let in and given a decent meal if he was to return them.

It was probably a good thing that he reached this decision, because just then the young mole crashed into the bush next to his, which happened to be full of prickers.

"Owooch! Eis is hurting, miz Voilet. Oive gotten pointy thingers stuck in moi bottom!" cried out the little mole.

"Don't you worry none, Zurn, I'll get you out of there," answered the mouse, apparently named Violet. She grabbed hold of Zurn's legs and attempted to pull him free of the pricker bush. But prickers are stronger than they look, and Violet was not making any progress.

Robin silently crept out of the bush he had been hiding in, so as not to startle the young ones. You get to be good at sneaking around when there is no animal that will take you in willingly. The fox sneaked to a spot behind Violet and Zurn, then walked up normally, stepping on twigs, crunching leaves, and all those other things that let other animals know that you are there.

"Hello there, what seems to be the problem?" he asked kindly.

"Oim stuck!!" replied the mole.

"Can you help get him out?" beseeched the mouse.

"Of course." Robin slowly and carefully pulled the thorns off of the pricker bush and through Zurn's fur. After a couple of minutes, the little mole began to fidget.

"Stay still!" Robin snapped. "Do you want me to pull out your fur with these thorns?"

"Oim gurtfully sorry zurr. Oill be still naow."

Soon enough, all the prickers were out of Zurn, and the fox was able to carefully lift him down onto the ground.

"Thankee gurtfully zurr! Oi was startin' toom be thinkin' that oi'd be oop thar forevar!" Zurn exclaimed.

"Thanks a lot!" echoed Violet, who had watched the entire thing.

"No problem, no problem at all," Robin replied. "Do you know of any place where I could get a meal?" To emphasize this question, a loud growl originated from his stomach.

Violet giggled. "Yes, you can come back to the Abbey with us! I know the way!" She started off in the opposite direction of where the Stone Place of Happiness lay.

"Are you sure it isn't this way?" Robin questioned, pointing in the right direction.

"Er . . . um . . . maybe . . ." the mousebabe mumbled. So the trio of a mousebabe, a molebabe, and a young fox started off towards the Stone Place of Happiness, otherwise known as Redwall Abbey.

"What??!!" Songflower nearly screeched in alarm as she whipped around to glare at the mouse who had just emerged out of nowhere behind her.

"I SAID, never seen somethin' like that before, have you?" the mouse whispered back. The mouse was snow-white, and almost as terrifying a sight as the cannibal lizards. She carried so many weapons that Songflower could barely count them all, although there seemed to be at least four. And for the record, a couple looked suspiciously similar to the crude, tree-branch daggers that the reptiles were parading with. Now Songflower really was scared. It didn't help that all you could see of the strange mouse was his head (her head? Songflower couldn't be sure) because the rest of his (her?) body was covered by a mottled green, brown, gray, and generally tree-colored traveling cloak that swirled ominously around him. His eyes were not so much eyes as the sky on a blindingly sunny day compacting into two minuscule points of light and embedding themselves in the mouse's face. This face could only be described as dangerous. Covered in scars, mud-splotches, and was that . . . cake?, it was carved into either a scowl, a grimace, or an evil smirk. Songflower couldn't tell. Not that she was an expert in evil. All she knew about was maps, recording, flying, and wise owl jokes.

"What're you gawkin' at?" asked the stranger.

"What do you think? Did you choose to be an evil bandit or were you raised up to it?" the little owl found her tongue in a hurry, then swiftly held it again for fear of what a dangerous mouse such as this might do to her for insulting him.

The stranger's mouth was definetly holding a scowl now. He advanced quickly forward, eyes on Songflower . . . but before Songflower could let out a scream of panic, this dangerous-looking mouse was warmly shaking her paw, a grin like that of a dibbun with a giant beaker of strawberry fizz spread across his (her?) face.

“The name’s Snowfall Snowflight Snowflurie Strongtail Sinistri Threebeast Fivepaws Fleetfoot. Call me Snowy for short. Now as soon as you tell me your name and apologize for calling me an evil bandit, which I most certainly am NOT, I will be off to smack those flesh-eating worm-faced cowards into next season!”

The little owl was filled with consternation. She was not about to reveal herself to this Snowy-character until she could make a logical decision about the motives of the mouse.

“What’s it to you?” Songflower replied obstinately.

Snowy smiled slightly and shrugged. “Nothing really, just curious and a mite insulted. REEEEDWAAAAAAAALLLLLLLL!!!!!!” the mouse added, charging at the lizards more swiftly than a hare that sees a Redwall feast left abandoned on the lawn.

Songflower gasped. Is this mouse out of her (I guess it is a her) mind?! Those lizards will devour her faster than if she were a fresh carcass, even if she is a bloodwrathed maniac! Wait a moment . . . fresh . . . carcass . . . aha! That’s it! This all ran through the clever young owl’s mind in less time than it takes to say “Redwall’s awesome!” She placed herself between the charging Snowy and the opening in the birch trees to the reptile’s clearing.

This strange mouse, whose eyes had turned a shade of blood-red when she charged, stopped in her tracks. Her eyes slowly faded back to their normal blinding blue, and her face adopted a look of great annoyance. Imagine somebody you don’t even know holding you back from fighting your worst enemy. Well, maybe not your worst enemy, but you still hate them with all your might, and . . . oh, never mind. You get my point. Not fun, eh?

“What did’ja do that for?” Snowy asked, irritated.

“Surely there’s a better way to kill cannibal lizards than just charging full-speed in bloodwrath at them?” Songflower whispered beseechingly. “And do keep quiet, or they will hear us, and that would ruin everything!”

“Hmph. If you’re so smart, what do you suggest, O Extremely Wise and Sagacious Owl Whose Name I Sill Do Not Know?” Snowy retorted, rolling her eyes.

“It’s Songflower. Now, here’s what we do . . .” The owlmaiden explained her plan in a whisper to her new ally, who listened increasingly intently and whose eyes were wider than the bottoms of Redwall’s bells by the time Songflower finished.

“Goodness, that is a good plan! Sorry for scaring you.” Snowy exclaimed.

“And I’m sorry for thinking you were an evil bandit. Now let’s go kill a mockingbird! Or something of the sort . . .” was the reply.

Sorry it took me so long to update, everyone, it's just that I've been working on my new Redwall-Warriors crossover, Darkness Merges. You get to appear in the story if you can guess some of Songflower's plan before she and Snowy execute it in Chapter 4 or 5! Happy birthday Snowy (as of yesterday!) and I hope you aren't mad at me any more!

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