| Subject: I realized that this is also about 2 years old. I'm sure I culd completely revamp this to make it better, but I'm too lazy *grin*...CHAPTER TWO inside... |
Author:
Dakkan
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Date Posted: 17:59:27 06/09/04 Wed
In reply to:
Dakkan
's message, "More revivals!" on 03:12:28 06/08/04 Tue
CHAPTER TWO: FIVE SEASONS PASS
The still morning was broken in Mossflower by laughing and shouting as the young otters in the holt spilled outside to play. While most made a beeline for the stream, three remained on the sandy bank. The brothers Warthorn, Bargud, and Riverwyte had planned to play a battle game that morning and were now choosing parts.
“I want to be Deathrudder, otter champion and axe fighter!” Warthorn called quickly. Being the biggest and most assertive, he often got to play the hero. “Who’s going to be the vermin?”
“Not me!” Bargud and Riverwyte called in perfect unison. They spun quickly to face each other.
“You be the vermin!” Riverwyte insisted.
Bargud protested, “No way, I had to be vermin last time. It’s your turn!”
“Oh, all right,” Riverwyte acquiesced reluctantly. “I’ll be, uh…Brokefang the Ferret King!”
“Then I’m Streamwrath the Spear Master!” proclaimed Bargud. “Let’s get our battlegear an’ play!”
It was a perilous situation. The Ferret King stood over Streamwrath, cackling wickedly as he held a long stick to his neck. “Heh heh heh, make one move an’ I cutcha throat, otter!”
Suddenly Deathrudder ran up with a wooden toy hatchet, striking a gallant pose. Don’t worry, Bar- er, Streamwrath! I’ll kill that vermin for you! Give me a second and I’ll get ‘im with my axe!”
The pretended ferret lifted his stick to confront Deathrudder. “Have a taste o’ me saber, why don’t ye?!”
Streamwrath suddenly snatched his “spear” and jumped on Brokefang. “Attaaaaaaack!” he cried, and all three creatures dropped their make-believe weapons and wrestled furiously.
For an instant, Riverwyte felt himself pinned by Bargud and Warthorn, and it was almost as if a switch was flipped in his head. Forgetting that being the vermin he was supposed to “lose” the battle and “die,” the young otter began fighting back. His spirit was suddenly dead set against the thought of defeat. Thrashing savagely, Riverwyte freed himself from his brothers’ grasp and set them both on their tails. Laughing, he jumped into the fray again. “C’mon guys, let’s wrestle some more! Grr, the Ferret King isn’t dead yet!” Thoroughly enjoying himself, the gray otter wrestled with all his might until his brothers escaped.
Breathing heavily, Bargud commented, “Whew! I’m exhausted. Let’s go for a swim to cool off.” Warthorn nodded his agreement.
“All right, but let’s play some more later, and I get to be Deathrudder!” Riverwyte slid into the river with his siblings.
Riverpike stood at the holt entrance with his wife. “Riverwyte sure loves fighting, doesn’t he?”
Icespring watched her sons laughing and splashing in the shallows. “Yes, but I wonder if there’s, you know, anything wrong with him. I’ve never seen a young one so fixated on war and violence in a time of peace.”
Riverpike put an arm around Icespring’s shoulders. “There may be something wrong with the way his mind works, or perhaps he has more warrior spirit than is usual for such a young beast. No matter what, it’s important that we stand by him.”
The female otter nodded, then called out, “Make sure you don’t get too dirty. There’s watershrimp for breakfast an’ you three won’t get any if unless you’ve got clean paws!”
Riverwyte, Warthorn, and Bargud chorused, “Yes, Mum,” and didn’t roll their eyes and groan until she’d turned around.
“When I’m a bigbeast I’m never gonna wash! I’m gonna do everything my way!” announced Warthorn confidentially.
After washing, the three young otters made their way back to the holt, where the smell of watershrimp saturated the air. All three breathed deeply and hurried in, licking their lips. They’d filled their plates and were ready to dig in when there was a loud clatter. Knocking over a stack of javelins, a burly scarred otter fell through the holt entrance, panting heavily. A bloodstained rag was bound about one arm and his legs were badly scratched from running through undergrowth. He seemed about to say something when he moaned and lost consciousness.
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