Feisty's Tale
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Sun, 05/13/2012 - 14:20
My first attempt at fan fiction!
Enjoy, and please comment.
Many seasons ago…
Before Feisty ever set foot in Mossflower…
All that he ever knew was shattered forever…
In one epic battle in the far north…
Which I will tell of now.
Come with me. Wander through the mists of time…
And see what once was.
Feisty shifted his weight from one paw to the other impatiently. He was in a foul mood, and the biting cold, combined with his awkward perch behind a boulder, did nothing to improve it. The squirrel glanced to his brother, Brogue. “ ‘Ow much longer will we ‘ave tae sit oot on this bloody rock, freezin’ our tails off?”
Brogue, an older, more experienced squirrel, shrugged. “Howevair long it takes faer our mates to be ready tae attack.”
Feisty scowled. “And when, may Ah ask, will that be?”
Brogue sighed and sheathed his claymore. “Yer guess is as good as mahn.”
His companion smote the boulder in frustration. “Ah don’t mine war and fightin’, it’s the sittin’ around and doin’ naething that bothers me.”
Brogue didn’t bother replying. Sometimes you have to pick your battles.
It seemed like hours, but the word finally was passed around between the ranks of Highland warriors. Claymores were unsheathed, dirks were held between clenched teeth, and buckler straps were tightened on arms. Various good-luck rituals were performed, whether it was rubbing a lucky pebble in one’s paws, or whispering a charm under one’s breath, or donning a lucky pendant or some other sort of talisman. Hard, pitiless eyes met, glowing with determination and anticipation, passing on an unspoken message: Get ready.
Feisty had been in plenty of battles before, but he still shivered with anticipation at the thought of the coming clash. This battle was significant: They finally had caught up with the vermin that had destroyed their homes and villages so many seasons ago, and now the scum were going to pay. They’ll all pay, he thought with grim satisfaction.
A nudge from Brogue brought him back to reality. “Come on, mate, let’s go kill us some vermin.”
Feisty felt for the ends of the cord that served as a belt for his kilt, and tied them into an intricate knot: His own ritual for good fortune. Satisfied, he unsheathed his claymore from where it hung across his back.
Even all the lucky charms and talismans in the world wouldn’t be enough in the slaughter that was about to begin.
In a clearing below, surrounded by barren hillsides dotted with black boulders, a motley assortment of vermin huddled around several fires.
Suddenly a single deep, thunderous beat from a war drum sounded. In the cavernous natural arena formed by the hills, it echoed, seemingly endless, for several minutes.
The vermin froze as one, and turned to face the hills, some of them yelling at their unseen foes to reveal themselves.
The highland fighters obliged willingly, and the hilltops seemed to come alive with squirrel warriors, roaring out war cries and making the hillside bristle with steel.
Feisty felt adrenalin surge through him as he pounded down the hill. This is the best moment of my life. He was surrounded by comrades brave and true, lifelong friends and loyal family, and they would run, fight, and die together, inseparable to the last.
A mighty war cry ripped itself from his throat, echoing out into the bleak northern skies. “HAWAY THE BRAAAAAAAW!” As the last word faded on the air, the Highlanders reached the enemy’s front ranks, smashing into a forest of spears. Agonized shouts from squirrels mortally wounded by their ruthless foes pierced the air, but Feisty’s blood pounded with the energy of battle, and he kept going, cutting a swathe of whirling steel through the endless ranks of hordebeasts, laughing. “HAWAY THE BRAW! ‘Tis a fine night to die, eh? Och, ye cowards! Stand and fight!”
Suddenly he stopped, and realized he had penetrated their ranks so deeply that he had been cut off from the rest of his comrades. “Och, not so clever now, eh, Feisty me lad?” he grumbled to himself. “Weel, looks like Ah fought mah way in, and now Ah’m gonna have tae fight me way out.” He raised his claymore and began hacking his way through what seemed like an endless tide of foebeasts.
Then, in the distance, he saw something that nearly made him drop his sword.
Brogue was surrounded by vermin, about to go down beneath relentless waves of enemies.
Feisty’s blade whirled back and forth in a deadly dance of steel as he carved through vermin as if he were cutting through thick foliage in the wilderness. “BROGUE!”
His brother saw Feisty’s approach and began working his way toward the young squirrel. “Hold on, mate!”
Suddenly a young ferret, seeing an opportunity for glory, leaped at Brogue’s unprotected back, screeching triumphantly.
Feisty yelled, and Brogue turned, but too late. The ferret’s spear took the Highlander through the back. Brogue wheeled about, preparing to slay the ferret with a thrust from his claymore, but then he froze as his knees buckled, and he slumped to the ground without a sound.
“BROGUE! NO!” Feisty screamed, and he knew, right then, that that image of a spear suddenly appearing through Brogue’s chest, and his brother turning and falling, would be burned forever into his memory. Sobbing and calling his brother’s name over and over at the same time, struggling to draw breath, Feisty was a whirlwind of steel vengeance as he brutally slaughtered beast after beast. “RRRAAAAAGGH!” A weasel loomed before him, wielding a deadly mace; Feisty cut him down without even slowing. Through the red mist clouding his vision, the young squirrel only saw one thing: The ferret who slew his brother. Though they were separated by rank after rank of fighters, Feisty fought like a madbeast, ripping the vermin to shreds, dealing out jawbreaking punches when he didn’t have room to swing his claymore. Something struck his back with a metallic WHANG, he turned, and saw a broken arrow fall to the ground, deflected by the buckler Feisty was still wearing on his back. It would only dawn on him later that he would have died had the buckler not been on his back, but for now, he simply continued his mad rampage through the sea of foes. “Brogue, Brogue, I’m coming!” However, he knew in his heart it was too late. He saw the ferret fleeing his wrath, dropping his spear and running, but too late. Feisty was upon him. Not bothering to make room to swing his claymore, the squirrel simply dived upon his brother’s killer and hit. All he remembered of the next few minutes was hitting, and hitting, and hitting, unleashing his already legendary fistfighting skills upon the scum that murdered his brother and friend. Feisty heard the ferret’s screams for mercy as if from a great distance, but paid them no heed. The crack of bone and wet thump of boney fists on bare flesh echoed like a symphony in the Highlander’s ears. Finally, the ferret sat up halfway, dazed, blood trickling from his mouth, spat out something hard that pinged against Feisty’s claymore, and slumped on the ground with a strangled gurgle.
Feisty stood up, blood running from his fists, and, heedless of the battle raging around him, wandered as if in a dream to the spot where his brother’s corpse lay upon the ground. “Brogue,” he whispered, the tears flowing afresh, as he kneeled down beside his brother’s still form. “Brogue.” He ran his paw gently across his dead friend’s brow, crossing his brother’s paws across his chest with the spear still protruding from it. Feisty removed the spear and snapped it upon his knee, then neatly laid his brother’s buckler beneath the corpse, Brogue’s claymore between his paws, and tucked his brother’s dirk behind the feather in Brogue’s cap. “Brogue…” He shuddered and his knees buckled as he realized that this was real. “Brogue…no…please…Please don’t die…Brogue…BROGUE!” Feisty drew his claymore, buckled his shield on his right arm, and held his dirk in his right paw. “BROGUE!” Hot tears coursed down the young squirrel’s face. Brogue was gone…He was never coming back…Never going to laugh, never going to smile, never going to playfully tackle his brother, the two of them tumbling over the frozen ground laughing, never going to see the sunrise…Never.
“BROGUE!”
He looked at the vermin running and fighting, ignoring the Highland squirrel kneeling beside his friend’s body, and he threw back his head and screamed into the endless skies. “BROGUE!” As the last echo faded, he turned around and slew a surprised weasel with a single thrust, battering the crumpling body aside with his buckler, kicked a stoat to the ground and finished him with a jab from his dirk, ripped his blade across a rat’s back, smashed a ferret’s head with the face of the buckler, shattered a fox’s jaw with his fists, all the time screaming, “BROGUE!”
He whirled his claymore through the neck of another beast, taking an ermine through the stomach on the backswing, reversed his grip and finished a downed rat with a brutal thrust. “BROGUE!”
He looked around, panting, and realized he was the only squirrel in the midst of the horde. “Where in blazes is everybeast?”
As he scanned the area, he realized something that made his heart drop into his gut.
He was the last Highlander left alive on the battlefield.
Though he longed for vengeance, he knew he could not survive against the horde around him. He resorted to a trick he’d seen used in other battles.
He gave a sharp groan, collapsed, and closed his eyes, pretending to be dead.
For hours the vermin milled around, but he dared not look up and see if they were leaving.
Finally, many hours later, they left the clearing one by one.
Feisty stood up and a few final tears spilled down his face as he went about the task of burying the remains of the 89th Highland Defenders Regiment.
Then, his work done, he slung his buckler over his shoulder and headed south.
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