Vermin Abuse by Redwallers

I had no part in this scene but somehow I ended up logging it.

Two vermin decide to make authentic vermin meals in the kitchens...much to the chagrin of a certain Abbey Friar.

The abbey kitchens have a tendency to get rather busy as dinnertime draws nearer and nearer, every stove generally being put to some use or another in order to prepare a sumptuous meal for the denizens of Redwall. Yet it seems that one stove is bereft of a cluster of cooks surrounding it, and instead is manned entirely by a single fox, the beast likely having frightened away some beasts and ensured that his brandishing of a rather hefty kitchen knife keeps away anyone else who would try to reclaim the space. Verstet has stripped off his camoflauge outfit and is instead in his jerkin, trousers, and bandana, his boots laying forgotten by the stove to dry after tramping about in the wilderness for the woodpidgeon he's currently dicing up, bloodying a perfectly good vegetable cutting board in the process. Strangely, the fox mercenary seems to be in his element, and he's enjoying his task well enough to sing a jaunty little tune to himself, though the subject matter seems to be a bit more... coarse than what tender Redwall ears are accustomed to. The subject seems to be about the aftermath of a raid on a woodlander village, something that should normally have a gloomy, funereal pace, but that Verstet sings at an upbeat one with his clear tenor voice ringing out above the hubbub of the kitchen.

The fox isn't the only vermin to be found laying claim to part of the kitchens, Venetia's lankish form seated squarely on the countertop closest to the vulpine's cooking space. Truly, she looks almost too big to be allowed, the pine marten resting on one elbow while the toe of her boot scrapes against the floor. In the hand attached to her supporting arm she holds a rather small, aged looking book, the title visible as, "Insights into Transience and the Transmundane". Heavy reading, for such a small book. In her opposite paw is clutched a large wedge of white cheese, clearly meant to feed more than just this single marten, but so far no one has summoned the gall to ask her to relinquish it. Her woad-blue mane of headfur remains in its usual state of mixed braids and loose hairs, Venetia occasionally sweeping back the odd strand that falls between her and that wonderfully indiscernible text she reads from.

The door opens, and there is a hush over the room. The squirrel standing there is not overly imposing, but his demeanor says volumes without him even speaking. He glares daggers at the two interlopers. "Enjoying yourselves, hmm?" His voice is icy, but calm. "And may I ask, what you two think you are doing in *my* kitchen?"

Perhaps glaring daggers isn't such a clever thing to do to a beast who's literally /carrying/ something that could be used as a dagger. Verstet sweeps a pile of chopped woodpidgeon meat to the side of the co-opted cutting board and reaches into a satchel sitting near his boots, plucking out a new bird and laying it across the cutting board with a resounding THWACK, the woodpidgeon already plucked. Without paying much heed to the squirrel's temper, Verstet slams the knife into the bird and drags it from stem to stern until he has a nice, long gash to start ripping the guts from. He doesn't bother to answer immediately, but rather finishes off a stanza of his song, "Aye, but Ah tol' him, 'Ye can have her next, no need fer foul deeds/ there's not too much left o'her, but she has what ye neeeeeed!'" Finally, Verstet looks up from his work, cocking an eyebrow at the sight of some fluffed up squirrel trying to intimidate him while he's armed with a bloodied kitchen knife, deciding to respond with nuanced nuanced disregard, "Oh aye. Been quite some time since Ah was in a genuine kitchen, mate. Ah'm jes' cookin', obviously." Verstet gives a slight shrug, then goes back to work, dropping the viscera into a bucket in ugly handfuls.

Venetia seems quite content wit letting Verstet handle the please tries, sparing only the shortest of glances for the new arrival, her eyes settling back on "the Transmundane". Idly she waves the cheese around in the air, as if to silently indicate the other half of what she is obviously doing. Daggers might be in the process of being glared and swung about, but she seems quite at ease with her book and her food, and when the vulpine finishes his explanation she even chimes in on her own, speech muffled by a mouthful of cheese. "Mmm... aye. 'e makesh tha' besh woodpigeon ye ever tash'ed

Lacota frowns now. "Enjoying the cheese?" He remains in the door. "Wood pigeon is not allowed here. How did you two get in here?" He gestures for the novices to leave, should things go south. "Ok, I am going to be nice right now, and *politely" request you both to leave."

The vulpine is still thoroughly unperturbed, quite focused in his task, finishing yanking out the guts of the bird and filling the bucket before he starts to carve off the meat with an expert hand, the hand of someone who's wielded a knife in the same capacity many times, though likely not only against woodpidgeons... "Settle down, me little mucker. Yer goin' t'have to forgive me if'n Ah didn't see tha big ole sign on tha door that said Ah couldn't cook what Ah pleased. We got in through tha gate jes' like anybeast else." Verstet chortles to himself as the pile of meat grows larger, a number of bones joining the guts in the bucket. His carving finished, Verstet retrieves a pan and scoops the woodpidgeon meat into it before adding some water, flour, a little bit of woodpidgeon fat, and a seasoning mixture he'd set aside and setting the entire concoction on the stove to cook. While he waits for the woodpidgeon to cook in its own gravy, he starts to work on making a thick dough, beating the ingredients in a round bowl and waiting for it to thicken. He hasn't let the knife get more than a foot away from him the entire time. "Now yer gettin' all upset 'bout tha woodpidgeon, but Ah know fer a fact ye et fish here. What was that line Ah found in that book ye showed me, Venetia? 'Silver fish whose life we take/only fer our meal t'make'? Hah! Ah didn't jes' kill tha little birdies fer a meal, Ah killed 'em 'cause they taste scumsuckin' good!"

"Somethin' like that." Venetia answers, a grin creeping across her lips with the thought that the fox actually paid attention to one of the many nuggets of wisdom to be found in her studies. As for the squirrel and his kindly demands, the marten pays little heed, not bothering to so much as give him a glare in reply to his quip about the cheese. Indeed, she is enjoying the simple taste immensely, but if Lacota intends to remove the wedge from her grasp he's going to need more than words. With a practices flick of the wrist she turns the page of her book, landing upon a new chapter and what would appear to be her choice of stopping place, since she closes the volume with a snap. Once freed of the depths of whatever deeply intellectual quandary present within the pages of "the Transmundane", Venetia's eyes find their way to the squirrel, giving him a quick look-over before sliding to the pan of cooking pigeon. "Ooh, I was hopin' ye'd be cookin' it like tha'." Mar 7, 2014 at 7:13 p.m.

Lacota keeps calm, for now. "I see politeness isn't going to cut it here. I had hoped to avoid a scene. If you two do not cease and desist right now, I'm afraid this room is going to be full of guards in moments. Do not think I won't call for the champion, as well. When they draw swords on you, I would appreciate it if yould both be so kind as to not make a mess in the fight that follows." To the marten, he says, "And another thing, just where in Hellgates are you from?"

Verstet lifts an eyebrow at the threat, "Ye mean ye'd call tha guards jes' t'accost a beast who's cookin' an' a beast who's readin'? Hardly tha way of peaceful beasts, Ah must say." The smirk that Verstet shoots Venetia says that he's quite clearly taking another unfair jab at the squirrel and the Redwallers' way of life, viewing such things as extremely restrictive to living a proper life. He reaches over and gives the pan a good shake, making the woodpidgeon meat stir a bit and cook evenly. The dough is ready soon enough, and Verstet begins to mold it into some rather hefty rolls, placing each on a pan, and then shoving the pan into the oven. "Ahhh... smells good, don't it?" He opens a jar of cranberry preserves and puts a spoonful into his mouth, pulling a face and shoving the jar to the side. "Ach! Garbage! Ah'll make me own..." The fox takes some fresh cranberries and puts them in a bowl, mashing them up finely until they're little more than juice before adding honey for some additional sweetness and as a thickening agent. All that's left to do is wait for the rest of the meal to cook... "D'ye really think yer jes' goin' to throw out beasts ye've invited into yer abbey?"

A strange look crosses the marten's features, caught somewhere between surprise and genuine hurt. "But... but don' ye know where I'm from? Ye jus' named tha' place!" Her expression shifts, turning from melancholy to a twisted wit. The marten slides off the counter and to her feet, straightening her spine so that the squirrel has to look up to meet her eyes. "So fer it don' look like this place is 'alf as hospitable as all them tales make it out tah be. Firs' yer guard demands a bride just tah let us in, an' now this littl' squeaker is tryin' tah make demands of other beasts like 'e runs tha' place."

Lacota frowns. "I said no such thing. Are you from the south? I heard there's a dangerous slave city there. Are you slavers?" He looks up at the marten. "We do not serve wood pigeon here, I am sorry." He starts to back up, yelling now, "GUARDS! THIEVES IN THE KITCHEN! HELP!!! SLAVERS, TOO!!!"

Flicktail comes thru the Kitchen doors, his sword in hand but still in tehscabbord "Wot be alla racket in ere?

With the meal in the oven and on the stove, there's very little else for Verstet to do other than watch the woodpidgeon brown and the buns take on a nice, golden color, occassionally checking the food just to make sure that nothing is going horribly wrong at the last second. In fact, he seems so preoccupied with his meal that he pays little heed to Lacota's outcries other than rolling his eyes, and he doesn't even bother acknowledging that the champion has burst into the room, though his ears give an irritated twitch when he notices that the champion is a fox. Traitor. Instead, he decides to just start cleaning the utensils so he can continue to use them later, wiping the gore off of the kitchen knife and commenting to Venetia, idly leaning against the countertop. "Oi, Venetia. Tha book ye told me t'read. Tha one that's s'posed t'have some Marlfox history in it? It ain't very good at all, mucker. Lots of it's outright wrong an' gives tha Redwallers too much credit fer killin' them, if even they did."

Irritation flashes across Venetia's features, not so much at the squirrel's sudden shrieking as his failure to make the connection between her words and his use of the term "hellgates." With her attempt at dramatic flair fallen flat on its face, she turns her back to the woodlander and the newly arrived fox, peering over Verstet's shoulder and licking her lips at the sight and scent of roasting wood-pigeon. The marten reaches over his head and hooks a small hunk of the meat with her claw, tearing it free and plopping it in her mouth. "Mmm. Tha's beautiful." She then echoes his posture, leaning against the counter next to him and tucking the book still held in her hand into an inside pocket of her "uniform". "Well, I did tell ye tha' book was written by woodlanders. S'not my fault if they change some of tha' details tah suit themselves."

Lacota is nearly livid. "Flick, eject them! I want them out! This is MY KITCHEN!!! And I want to know who they are, where they came from, and how they got here!!! They have ruined one of my cutting boards with blood!"

Flicktail grabs the top of his muzzle with his paw and sighs "Easy Lacota" he approaches the 2 beasts "Ello.. Welcome to Redwall abbey.....I am Flicktail T. Fox, and while that DOES smell verra good... Lacoata there is roight, it really IS his kitchen, if you like I have a small kitchen in my Cottage... Sorry we didn't make some of our Rules more clear.. but I'd like tomake it up to ye two if I could....but can we take yer meal overto our Caven Hole... um...Please?

No sooner has Venetia tried to grab one of the pieces of woodpidgeon than Verstet aims a blow with a wooden spoon at her paw, "Dig yer claws into me cookin' again an' Ah'll chop yer paws off! Ye'll never get yer food in yer mouth wid yer toes!" A little bit more grumbling and another check to his buns, and Verstet's grabbing up some cloths to safely pull the pan out. He let the buns bake a little longer than necessary, giving them a fine golden crust almost like a pie. "Changin' details nothin', Venetia. Tha book's fulla outright lies! Jes' a cryin' shame that woodlanders can't admit when they've been bested an'-" Verstet's diatribe is interrupted by Flicktail, and the burnt fox turns to him with nothing short of an absolutely withering glance. "Ah've been workin' at this stove fer quite some time. Ah'm sure tha underlin's woulda said somethin' if they had a problem with it." Nevermind that they probably wouldn't want to cross a battlescarred fox. "As fer ye, can't ye see we're havin' a conversation here? Push off an' stop botherin' me, an' take yer friend too." Again, Verstet turns away from Flicktail and Lacota, and instead starts carving open the buns and stuffing them with a hefty portion of woodpidgeon and gravy.

The blow across her knuckles is indeed painful, but Venetia doesn't give the fox the satisfaction of seeing her nurse it. The morsel of pigeon was well worth it besides, and she knows better than to put any real stock in his threats of dismemberment. She lets Verstet do the talking for the both of them, feeling it quite unnecessary to add her own voice when he so eloquently conveyed a shared sentiment, herself filling the time during his tirade by running her fingers through her woad stained hair, keeping it teased up so that it adds an additional couple of inches to her already impressive height. When Verstet has said his piece she turns the conversation back to the woodlander book and Marlfoxes. "Hey, don' be gettin' all ruffled wit' me, I jus' lent ye the book. If these Redwallers wanted tah take more glory fer themselves by claimin' tah kill all them Marklefox-what's-its, then ye got tah read tha' book with an understandin' of who wrote it."

Lacota has meanwhile grabbed up a particularly heavy frying pan, taking the chance to slip up behind the marten, with the intent of bashing her across the back of her head with it.

Flicktail exclaims, "Lacota STOP!" the fox's fur Bristles "and he addresses Venetia and Verstet "Ok Look, yer obviously VERRA good cooks, but that don't give ya the roight to use Lacota's equipment.. I am the Carpenter, I will be appy to make you wot ya need, and Lacota I will replace yer ruined cutting board.....and you tow, yer gests ere, ya don't own the lace and this IS lacota's kitchen"

With a snort, Verstet shakes his head at Venetia's rather poor pronunciation, correcting her by sounding the word out for her, "That's Mar-ul-focks. An' Ah shouldn't have t'keep that in mind. Woodlanders should jes' not write books that they aren't fit t'write." Ah, the ever-practical Verstet. No need for him to change his frame of mind to look into something when that something can just be discarded. "Anyhow, Ah'm goin' t'try t'find a-" Verstet is again cut off by Flicktail, the explanation causing Verstet to spin about and catch Lacota with the upraised frying pan and blurt out, "Oi! Venetia! Behind ye!" Again grabbing up the kitchen knife, the now-stuffed buns entirely forgotten, Verstet drops into a crouch, pulling up the knife as though he's ready to stab the first beast who takes a step towards him with a frying pan in the gut no fewer than fifteen times. He's quite certain that Venetia can rout her attacker by himself. "Ohh, attackin' from behind! An' here Ah thought Ah was tha vermin!

All this sudden shouting, and then Verstet yelling, practically in her ear, about something behind her? She winces at the pitched sound, but turns about to face whatever incoming threat that's worth all this ruckus. She's met with a frying pan at her eye level, and her hand latches onto the first solid object it can find: the bloodied cutting board. The marten swipes the board not at the beast holding the pan, but at the cooking utensil itself, sending flecks of blood scattering across the room and no doubt hitting the pan hard enough to cause the squirrel's grip to at least fail. "So this is 'ow he treat her guests then, eh? By rights, I should throttle ye, brush tail!" Anger sears her expression as she looks down at the woodlander, drawing herself to her full height as to appear all the more imposing.

Lacota the pan is indeed knocked from his paws, but the squirrel is no less enraged. "I ORDER YOU OUT OF MY KITCHEN! You think me a weak, defenseless creature, eh? My old Master made that fatal mistake as well." A crowd is likely gathering outside the kitchen, as the novices Lacota previously dismissed have no doubt alerted a guard or two by now, plus the fact that Lacota is practically screeching in rage.

At this point, Lacota has certainly pushed the pair a little too far, and Verstet has every intention of giving Lacota just what any vermin who tried such nonsense inside a camp would deserve: a few good stabs between the ribs so all the hot air can drain out. Still, Verstet's quite cozy in the abbey and doesn't much fancy getting kicked out just yet, so he mitigates his response. He smoothly sidles up to Lacota, innocent as can be, then aims a forceful blow at the squirrel's skull with the hilt of the knife blade, intending to floor him just as he Lacota intended to do with Venetia, a good stunning blow so the pair can leave and have their food in peace. Just after the blow is carried out, Verstet grumbles. "Fer Vulpuz's sake, shaddap."

One of the many benefits of maintaining a long friendship with someone is an awareness for when they're about to carry out some action or another, and with just a glance Venetia understands the vulpine's intentions before he's even scooped up the rolls, and like any good partner in crime she puts on a show to keep the mark distracted. With an indignation shake of the woad-blue mane she extends her arms like a ramrod and points squarely at the squirrel's chest. "I'd be within' me right tah stow yer 'ead up one of these stoves, blaggard! But where I come from, guests are appreciative oh their 'osts, so fer now all I'll do is-." But exactly what Venetia would do the the cook shall remain a mystery, because Verstet has already sidled up and struck out at the squirrel's head. Good old Verstet, always stepping in with calm, concise action when the marten would rather start breaking furniture over someone's head. With a hearty guffaw she starts off in the vulpine's wake, paying extra attention to jab her toe into Lacota's side on her way out.

Lacota was just about to yell for the blasted guards again, they must be on vacation, when without warning he is out like a light, having been taken completely by surprise. He collapses in a heap on the floor, unconscious.

Seeing that Venetia once again read his movements, Verstet can't help but favor her with a genuinely fond smirk. Ah, sometimes he just absolutely loves that marten. Sheathing the knife in the belt of his jerkin, Verstet plucks up the tray of woodpidgeon meat stuffed buns, the cranberry sauce, and a glob of butter. He'll the toppings on once the pair of them are off somewhere where they won't be disturbed. "Ah, Venetia. Yer a jill after me own heart. T'tha library then? We'll catch up on some readin' while this wretch sleeps off his bad temper." A simple toe jab? Hah. Verstet aims an outright kick at Lacota's ribs on the way out, just barely remembering to sling his boots over his shoulder by the laces as he retreats to a less irritating environment. He can't help but feel terribly pleased with himself that he won't have to clean the utensils. Practically trotting back, he decides to leave just one more departing gift, and with the barest touch of his toe, he tips over the bucket he was keeping all the bird guts and bones in all over the floor, shooting Venetia a mock-sorry glace, his ears plastered down in fake demureness. "Oopsie! Ah jes' don't know what went wrong." And with that, he's out the kitchen door.

_______________________

Verstet

Two razor sharp, ever-calculating, absinthe-green eyes peer out from within the hood of a cloak, most likely the only part of Verstet that is even remotely visible. This fox has mastered both the arts of remaining unseen and striking from afar with lethal accuracy, and there's not an article of clothing on his body that hasn't been carefully selected to suit these skills, the end result being that this beast appears to be a bundle of cloth rather than a fox. A dark grey smock covers both front and back of Verstet's body, and seems to have had ragged strips of green cloth sewn to it to. Over that is a hooded cloak, of the same color with the same strips of green sewn to it, but to this is added real sticks and leaves, woven into the material and replaced regularly so the leaves always match the colors of the season. Completing his unusual camouflage suit is a kilt following the same design as the smock.

In order to hide the color of his fur, which is an almost silver-grey color with longer black "socks" on all his limbs, Verstet employs furpaint, splotched over his face in green, brown, and black, helping him to blend in with the verdant terrain in Mossflower, and his muzzle is guarded by a cloth wrap. What's more, he's also wrapped his arms in green cloth, and on his right hand he wears a leather finger protector, while his right arm is guarded against the string of his weapon by a bracer. No doubt his choice of ensemble combined with his skill to patiently sit motionless for hours ensures that he can remain more or less invisible to all but the most diligent of searches. Yet below all this cloth does, in fact, reside a fox, whose tastes involve the far more simple outfit of a jerkin, black trousers, knee-high leather boots, and a bandana.

Physically, Verstet falls into that dubious category of "almost handsome". Being a mercenary archer, his build is lithe and sinuous, with well muscled arms from seasons upon seasons of drawing a heavy bowstring. But his face has been ruined beyond repair, ugly burn scarring marring his features, his fur not having grown back over the marked skin. Its path flows from above his right brow, running down in gnarled flesh all the way down his neck and to his collarbone and part of his upper chest. The right ear looks like it was shredded by something raking over it, but miraculously, his right eye is untouched and the lid still functions. Furthermore, the oftentimes untrustworthy and cruel smile that plays across his lips hardly enhances his remaining good features.

Naturally, as a warbeast, Verstet is well armed, and his favored weapon is a rather powerful-looking longbow, a bit thicker than the norm of its kind, and bearing a rather unusual fixture: a telescope riveted to the frame of the bow which Verstet uses to assist in the murder of distant targets. The long arrows required for this weapon are stashed in a quiver, which is slung at the hip and can be adjusted so that it sits high on his chest. A simple belt and buckle bundle the arrows within the quiver so they don't rattle about when Verstet moves. The final war accouterment is a hefty, curved skinning knife, almost long enough to be considered a short sword, and its craftsmanship seems to suggest that its favored function is to cause pain. Verstet looks every bit like the seasoned mercenary he is.

Venetia

A certain dimorphism in size exists between mustelid species, the uncommon pine marten being no exception. Venetia, however, towers above the status quo. Whereas females are almost always shorter than their male counterparts, Venetia stands almost a full head and shoulders above any of her kin, to an extent that it would be no great stretch to label her one of nature's freak accidents. In further defiance of normality, the marten's fur is a departure from the normal mixture of earth and cream, instead a shade whitish grey reminiscent of the ash of a smoldering fire. Beetle-black eyes are set into thin and angular features, more than pleasing to look upon and containing a roguish, perhaps even reckless air. The only blemish to her appearance are three thin scars, claw marks that emerge from her header and trace in thin straight lines onto her right temple and almost to the corner of her eye.

As striking as her appearance may already be, Venetia has taken an artificial step in order to give herself an even more bizarre visage. Utilizing the naturally occurring dye found in woad, the marten has stained her hair a very noticeable shade of deep blue, the color precisely contained to her headfur without spilling out onto the rest of her. Three long braids sprout from each of her temples, keeping her headfur off of the sides of her neck and ears. The volume left unbraiding is swept back out of her eyes, and tied off with the braids into a loose pony-tail they together form more of a mane than any definite style. Overall, the effect produced by the woad dyed hair is most impressive, and combined with her height it makes Venetia almost impossible to overlook.

The jacket she wears has a definite militaristic flair to it, the insignias and rank displayed upon the sleeve betraying its origin to have been a hare of the Long Patrol, a dark stain surrounding a patch on the front of the garment hinting at the original wearer's fate. Her "uniform" is primarily black in color, trimmed with fading gold embroidery. The double-breasted front is left unbuttoned, revealing a thick grey tunic beneath. Since coming to posses the Patroler's uniform, Venetia has made quite a few alterations, some for ornamentation and others for function. One of the practical alterations done to her uniform was the removal of the right sleeve at the elbow, allowing her arms a greater level of comfort when shouldering her chosen weapon. The remaining sleeve and overall length of the jacket have been taken out to compensate for her height, which exceeds that of the previous owner.

Medals and ribbons of all sorts adorn the left breast of the uniform, no two alike and a few appearing to be tarnished enough to be older than the creature wearing them. An Order of Merit from Colinsel, valorous ribbons of the Long Patrol, even the acorn cluster denoting a Brother of the Order of Redwall Abbey, all would appear to be trophies on display. Upon her right shoulder is a red and black epaulette, the crest of Ruingate's ruling family visible in the center, likely a prize taken from a dead officer of the city's military. A brown belt is fastened with a polished brass buckle around her waist, cinching a pair of slim black trousers trimmed along the outer thighs with gold thread in an x-like pattern. Both her feet are tucked into black marching boots.

Venetia's favored weapon is a crossbow, typically carried over her shoulder or slung by a leather strap across her back. The overall length of the weapon is longer than average, the tiller predictably lengthened to accommodate her size. The horn, sinew and wood composite limbs require a lever to span, which clatters around from a loop on her belt. A rather delicate looking leaf and blade sight is riveted to the tiller of the crossbow, lending Venetia greater potential for landing an accurate hit at distance. A quiver of bolts is fastened at her right side. Sheathed at her left hip is a falchion with a slightly longer blade and a two-handed grip protected by a straight cross-bar.

Lacota

A squirrel with light brown fur and brown eyes. He is dressed simply, and has scars on his wrists.

flicktail

You see before you a Tall Muscular arctic fox. His fur is almost a blue white and is quite lush, thick and warm, except for his "Boots and Gloves" . Soft short velvety black fur coverers his paws to his elbows and his foot paws to his knees. Behind him, in almost constant motion is a thick lush brushy white tail, his pride and joy, tipped with some black fur, while large white ears tipped in black rotate on his head to catch different sounds. Rich golden eyes regard you warmly. Flick wears a simple red tunic made of thin cotton for the summer, and a blue tunic with a green belt, held together with a silver belt buckle shaped like an acorn. The Cloak is held with an Acorn Clasp, symbol of Redwall Abbey