Another bitter winter day was almost at an end in northern Mossflower. The air was unsettlingly quiet as a light snow gently fell upon the forest country; no woodlander, bird, nor insect made a sound, only amplifying the quiet breezes that swayed the bare branches of the skyward trees. Snow blanketed the land without bias from the cloud-covered sky, reaching every branch, every inch of grass and dirt below the trees, and every rock, twig, and dead leaf that had once decorated the forest floor from the previous autumn. Amidst the dense woods that sprawled across the land, a large solitary forest clearing stuck out like an oasis in a desert. The snow had covered the patch of bare land in a thick blanket, draping over a large rock near the center, and across to a small wooden cottage nestled against the tree line.

The home was sturdily built with thick beams of redwood supporting the walls and roofing. Even under the weight of the snow, the roof held strong, not budging or showing any hint of buckling beneath it. The stone chimney had been coated in snow as well, with the exception of the uncovered flume. The log walls were just as strong as the snow piled as high as the first log. Three of the walls were solid, only the side facing the clearing had been carved and cut into to house a single door and window. Inside the cozy cottage laid a table, meant to seat four, with a bench on each side, opposite of the stone hearth of the fireplace.

Sitting alone at the table was a mousemaid, her head rested on her folded arms on the tabletop. The mousemaid was sleeping, still wearing her red sundress with cream colored sleeves, her rose colored head scarf had slipped from her ears and slumped over her eyes against her arms.

Eventually, she began to stir, lifting her head slowly and heavily from her arms, and pushing her scarf from her eyes back to her headfur with a paw, she blinked in a blissful ignorance as her thoughts slowly came to her. Her eyelids felt stuck closed and her vision was hazy somehow… Then her thoughts slowly dawned on her situation: She had cried herself to sleep again. She sighed and glanced over to the window before she quickly turned away from it. No, she couldn't bear to look outside.

This was her fifth day trapped in her home, and the second without her family. Her baby brother, the little troublemaker that he was, would have celebrated turning four seasons old. Her hard working mother, a stern, yet kind and smart housewife, would have been checking the family's stores of food and preparing supper at the fireplace. Her father, a big and tough figure of a mouse, would have returned from foraging and gathering timber for the fire, and with his daughter, would plan for the coming spring to plant their crops for the next harvest.

Her mother and father had travelled far from the harsh and often hostile northlands when she was very little, leaving their prior life of fighting with factions against vermin raiders behind them, and settled in Mossflower country to lead a new and peaceful life with their young daughter. Her mother had been a healer back then, and her father a sword fighting warrior. Her father would often tell stories about his and his wife's campaigns against terrifying foes from the northlands, to which his daughter would listen with fascination. She loved his retelling of his feats of daring and how he came to love and marry her mother.

Wiping her eyes, the mousemaid sat up and turned to the mantle of the fireplace, and gazed up at what decorated the mantle above the fire box: a black leather handled bastard sword, resting in its scabbard. Her father's own. Once used to fight evil, it now only served as the only possession he could remember her father by, and a reminder of her family's fate. Murdered. Killed in cold blood just outside of her cottage.

The clouds finally broke apart, allowing the sun's rays to peek through the small gaps in the roof, illuminating the otherwise dark den. A beam of sunlight shine on the mousemaid, bringing with it some welcome warmth, and to bring her mind back to the present. She became aware just how cold she was, and knew she had to get the fireplace going again. She took a breath, willing herself to stand up from the table, and began to stoke the smoldering embers of the almost dead fire, feeding it kindling to bring out the flames again, and stacked the last pieces of timber in the house on top of it. She stepped back and stared at the newly reborn fire for a moment, before fetching some food from the small pantry.

Supper would have been ready by now, she thought, as tears began to well up once more. There was no denying her plight. Her family was dead, and she would be too, one way or another, either by starvation, or by leaving the cottage and being at the mercy of what took her family from her. It seemed to the young mousemaid that she was doomed.



As the sun began to dip below the horizon, a lone marsh owl stood perched up in the dead branches of the trees on the opposite side of the clearing. His feathers unkempt and untidy, the bird of prey stood motionless against the gentle wind that blew across his tan-feathered outline of his face. His bloodshot red eyes seemed to glow in contrast to the dark plumage around them, and were focused intently on the cottage. Inside the house was his final target, the last of the trespassers that must be defeated, lest they continue to soil his kingdom with their presence.

Moriss was watching.


...

This is a piece of another story involving my Redwall mice, when Aaron met his wife Ilona, who was held captive in her own home by the mad marsh owl, Moriss (https://www.furaffinity.net/view/32491698/). More art and possibly a story to come.

Art by the supremely talented  nateday
The world of Redwall was created by Brian Jacques
Ilona is mine