“The guard eyes you suspiciously. What do you do?”
“I try to convince him that he’s sick.”
“You mean that you’re sick?”
“No, that he’s sick.”
“Fine. Roll to persuade.”
*Nat 20*
“Not only does this guard believe he’s sick, but several other guards see him and decide that they are also sick. Congratulations. You’ve made a fake disease fake contagious.”
Pfffffft… yeah and then not two minutes later Martin’s player is like “I roll to attack Badrang” and the DM is like “With your dagger?”
Next game (everybody else made new characters but Martin was like aw hell no this guy’s awesome I’m keeping him) right near the climax Martin’s fighting Tsarmina and he just keeps rolling to attack and the DM is like, “You have five broken ribs, your right hip is either dislocated or broken, you’re bleeding from fifteen places and your armor is crushed into your chest. You shouldn’t be standing anymore.”
Martin is like “I roll to attack Tsarmina” and gets a nat 20 like eight times in a row.
(Gonff and Rose are played by the same person, fight me on this.)
You know sometimes I wonder if Martin didn’t become a leader just so he’d never have to listen to another person in charge again.
Gonna take my dad’s sword and make me a slave? Fine, great, just know I’m gonna yell at you and try to kill your captain. And when your extremely creative execution plan fails, and you wind up offering me a job? Yeah, hope you weren’t too attached to that hand ‘cause you’re probably not gonna be able to use it too well after this.
Gonna have me arrested for minding my own business? Excuse me, that’s a stupid law, and you’re despotic. I’m gonna call you on it and insult you, knowing the entire time you’re deciding whether to kill me or imprison me. Oh, and instead of leaving, I’m gonna join the resistance and help overthrow your family line.
Gonna leave me at home instead of taking me with you on your vengeance quest? Fuck you, Dad, you can’t tell me what to do. ‘The first thing a Warrior must learn is obedience’–sure, okay, great idea in theory, but in practice… Let me know how that works out.
Martin “I don’t have an authority problem, I just think you’re doing it wrong” the Warrior.
i want to address the point that the redwall creatures seemed like protestants with the fact that this further implies a Mouse Reformation, featuring a mouse dissident and indeed.. a mouse pope
While it is indeed possible that the theology of Redwall had deviated from the dicta of the Mouse Pope (Pope Mus IV), Protestants don’t, as far as I or the internet knows, have much of a monastic tradition, thus proving that they are Catholic and fall under the jurisdiction of the Holy (Mouse) See. In this essay, I will show that Martin the Warrior should have been excommunicated for his heresies
No, you know what, let’s get into this, LET’S FUCKING GO *rolls up sleeves* BUCKLE UP I’M INFODUMPING
Okay, I’ve slept since I’ve read these books, but you get Abbots and Abbesses, right? And I think I remember Brother such-and-such, and Sister such-and-such, and these animals were invariably unmarried. As opposed to the official Abbey Warrior, who COULD be married if they wanted to.
There were definitely official roles within the abbey that let you marry and have children, like cellar master, cook, maybe gate-keeper? (Librarians don’t seem to have kids but I’ve never met a Redwall librarian who wasn’t really gay so jot that down).
Redwall Abbey seems to derive its monastic tradition from the abbey of Loamhedge, which suffered heavy losses during a great plague; the survivors moved into Mossflower Forest and became involved in the historic rebellion surrounding Martin the Warrior.
(There’s also a derelict church in the woods, called ‘Saint Ninian’s’, but this is revealed to be a misunderstanding involving a sign that originally said “This Ain’t Ninian’s.”)
Redwall Abbey functions as a cultural center for Mossflower, providing shelter, education, and historical documentation via their scribes and library. Interestingly, the abbots, abbesses, brothers, and sisters all seem to keep to a code of non-violence, with very few exceptions. Redwall Abbey may defend itself against direct attacks, but the brunt of the actual fighting is left to lay-beasts (I can’t believe I just typed that with my real hands) and the abbey warrior.
Politically and socially speaking, the abbey is a …. socialist commune? There’s food and drink and medical care for everyone, as long as you’re willing to pitch in. Children are raised communally.
There must be SOME concept of saints, because of the whole misunderstanding surrounding St. Ninian’s. Notable abbots and abbesses may be given the saint treatment, becoming revered and maybe getting their deeds put into a tapestry. We see this with abbey warriors all the time.
Unfortunately, with the origins of Loamhedge obscured, it’s impossible to know where this whole monastic tradition comes from! We have no evidence of a wide-spread organized religion (I’m not counting the cults of enemy hordes, which are invariably one-offs). It could be that there once WERE more religious components to the way the abbey works, we get hints of them: the concept of the ‘Dark Forest’ where people go when they die, asking the spirit of Martin the Warrior for guidance, having celibate members of the monastery hierarchy, the devotion to non-violence … Did this originate in Loamhedge itself? Was there once a network of abbeys with a central authority? What I wouldn’t give to know.
(As for the author’s inspiration, he’s definitely pulling from medieval European monasteries, particularly the more service-and-community-oriented orders).
(and our first look at your Matthias, my soft little determined fanboy–looking so much like Martin but with such different expressions you can tell immediately perfection, such perfection)
Martin’s judgement face is just
I
I never want that face turned upon me I love it it’s so perfect
Disclaimer: I don’t own Redwall.
Author’s Note: Thanks for the inspiration for this story goes to @sanctuaryforascrivener and @wuddshipp for inspiration (please see This Post!) and @ladyoftheshield‘s amazing fic, “Cacophany”, as well as @sanctuaryforascrivener‘s equally amazing “Homecoming”. Both are must-reads and can be read in one sitting, but you’ll feel like you just watched an entire film with brightened eyes. This fic is a gift for all of you! :) I simply can’t thank you guys enough for inspiring me out of a writing rut! May all your dreams come true!
“Whose woods these are, I think I know…” -Robert Frost, “Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening”
Martin of Redwall stood before a single plain headstone that stood alone in a specific corner of Mossflower Wood. The headstone was purposefully placed there, to be honored by all who came upon it. It was beautifully carved out of the nearby quarry’s limestone rock and was already covered with a few patches of beautiful soft green moss. As Martin traced a single finger over the indent of the engraved letters, a gentle wind blew through the eaves of the trees above, seeming to bring with it an almost inaudible hum, a tune he strove to remember but did not recognize. Martin shivered a little as the wind brushed gently against soft fur that had long since turned from peppered strands of grey to shocks of white.
“For you, old Matey.” The Warrior mouse placed a single wooden tankard filled to the brim with sweet elderberry wine upon the ground beside the grave. “A token of our brotherhood and friendship."
The sunlight streaming throught the trees smiled upon the silent Brother of Redwall, landing peacefully at his sandaled footpaws nearly hidden by the green. Those same footpaws had traveled to many a distant shore, always returning home safe and sound, regardless of the dangers they had seen, but never ran from.
Those footpaws were growing wearier as the seasons traveled on. Martin had long since hid away his sword. The Abbey was safe from danger and if there was any hint of harm, many an Abbeybeast would be ready to protect it. For so many seasons he had kept his promise to his friend. He would keep a promise to himself now, to listen to the calling of the forest.
The old mouse placed a shaking paw upon the gravestone. "I gave you my word, once,” he whispered, “when I said that I would never leave again unless you knew it to be so….and so you see, my dearest friend, that I have kept my word. I will not go, nor will I follow, as long as I am with thee."
The robe-clad mouse then stood, gently brushed the remaining dirt from his knees, and turned at once to face the beckoning forest. Slowly, purposefully, he began to walk deeper into the Mossflower woods. The sun above was beginning its slow descent across the sky, gathering shadows as it went and distributing them playfully throughout the tall and darkening trees. After some time he came to a small hidden thicket of roses. Beyond the thicket there was a clearing, and in the clearing, a single, small weeping willow tree stood, brushing its tall graceful strands of hanging leaves gracefully along the beckoning moss-laden floor.
Martin smiled upon the site and at once he lay down. As he lay against the trunk of the tree, he exhaled and closed his eyes. Suddenly, there was the hushed whispered sound of voices:
"Shouldna we wake him ‘bout right now, Missie?"
"Hush, be still! Best let him rest for a wee spell, first, methinks.”
“By the fur! He didn’t take his sword!"
"Tis because he won’t need it where he’s going. Now, be patient for a bit, just like a good lil’ Dibbun, and let him sleep."
“ ‘Dibbun’!?! Why, Missie, I t'ain’t no 'Dibbun’, Missie! Yore worse ‘an a harmless liddle ‘Dibbun’, Missie, why, yore be actin’ like an old brittle, bitter an’ bickering Shrewmother—"
”Hush, Gonff—you’ll wake ‘im!”
“Oh, I can’t wait to see t'look on the Warrior’s face when he sees us! An’ all the rest–"
"Hush, now, will ye, ye dirty rotten Rogue! Be quiet, will ye! Will you kindly just let our Warrior sleep!"
The highly animated whispers rose and fell like a soft ocean wave, gently lulling Martin, laughing, effortlessly, into his dreams.
******
If one were to pass by this place that day, only past a few moments’ time, they would perhaps be startled by the sudden melodic, cheerful sound of flute playing to be heard easily beyond the breeze, the happy notes joined almost immediately by a glorious uproar of laughter—both sounds eventually mingling together and fading gradually with the gentle, soothing whispers of the wind. The same has happened to many a traveler since that happen upon this very spot, and elsewhere within the very same Wood. Some say the woods themselves are haunted by the many memories of travelers and their timeless bygone days. Others say the very same woods are oftentimes haunted with the strangely faint, however still sweet, scent of roses. Many say they always feel completely protected and, should they ever become tired or lost, are guided gently forwards by unseen hands.
Whichever reason, many a weary traveler has felt comforted along their journey through Mossflower wood. No matter what their adventures previously entailed, they are instantly and constantly reassured that only good will come to them this way. As if enchanted by an unbroken spell, they continue to trod determined down the hidden path. And, if they were to continue along that same path long enough, they will find it leads them directly to a tall and massive red brick structure, a sacred place located deep within the forest, known to all who are fortunate enough to lay their weary eyes upon it, as Redwall Abbey.
This is lovely, soft, and sweet, and I’m deeply impressed by your descriptions. They flow very naturally and are wonderfully evocative. There’s a story-telling element to this that’s so intrinsic to the source material as well, and I like the quiet nature of the moment at the grave as well. I expected this to be bittersweet and was surprised that it wasn’t at all, despite being death-centric! Well done.
Word Count: ~2.8k
Summary: Four new friends decide to celebrate their recent meeting by doing some light breaking-and-entering at the local cemetery. They're looking for a ghost. They accidentally come out with the seeds for a YouTube channel. In which Gonff has done research, Rose brought the video camera, Martin's a little too comfortable with this, and Columbine wonders how a pre-med like her wound up stuck with two theater geeks and an enigma.
read on ao3
Notes: Human AU, College AU. Un-beta’ed, all mistakes are my own. I’ve been sitting on this for like, over two years and the fact that the ‘verse is still bothering me and I still remember all the details to the set up means that I’m just going to have to exorcise it. Have a Halloween fic the day after Halloween.
The cemetery was on the western edge of town and looked not as a cemetery usually does, with neatly kept graves and graveled paths and mown lawns, but as a cemetery should. With the sun just below the horizon and night falling quickly, the overgrown graveyard with it’s off-kilter, lichen covered headstones and crumbling mausoleums looked like something right out of a horror movie.
“Hollywood called, they want their set back,” Rose said. All four friends were leaning against the iron gates at the entrance, nerving themselves up to go in.
“Oh, come on, this is B-list horror fodder at best,” Gonff countered. “More like Haunted Mansion or Hocus Pocus than—are you recording this?”
“Yep,” Rose said. She turned her phone towards him, zoomed in and out on his face, and stuck out her tongue. “You know how big a wimp my brother is about the spooky stuff, so I was going to send it to him. Congratulations, he just found out you’re a massive Disney geek.”
“Everyone likes Hocus Pocus—”
“Are you seriously going to do this?” Columbine interrupted, and rolled her eyes when Rose turned the camera on her.
“Scared?”
She sighed. “Of getting arrested for trespassing? Yes.” She reached out and made a swipe for the camera, but Rose avoided the grab. “Especially if you’re going to be recording us breaking the law—Martin!”
While they’d been talking, Martin had swung himself onto the top of the chest-high wall and sat straddling it with one leg to either side. “What?” he asked. “It’s not that high.”
“That’s not really her point, mate,” Gonff said. What was chest high on Martin was shoulder high on Gonff, and between that and a bit of extra pudge, it was a bit more of an undignified scramble up. Martin snagged the back of his shirt and heaved when it looked like he wouldn’t quite make it. “Thanks. C’mon, Columbine, you’re up next.”
She sighed again, but took both their hands and let them haul her up between them, with a neat little twist that left her sitting on the wall, feet on the outside.
“Here, catch,” Rose said. She tossed her phone up to Martin and waved off their assistance, bracing her hands on the top of the wall and hopping up, accepting her phone back with a grin. The group paused again on the top of the wall. “So,” Rose said, dragging out the vowel and turning the camera on each of them. “What do you think we’re going to find?”
“I was poking around in the library this afternoon,” Gonff volunteered, drumming his heels against the wall, “and turned up a couple of specifics. Apparently there was this chemist—and I use the term loosely, he wasn’t trained and it was the 1700s, I think—but when he died he said he’d be back.”
“And was he?”
“Well, he was exhumed at some point, and the body was unsettlingly preserved. Though I suppose saying the tomb was broken into would be more accurate; a curious medical student tried to cut off his head.”
“And you say it’s the theater geeks who’re weird,” Rose said. “When has a theater geek ever tried to cut off someone’s head in the name of science?”
Columbine just raised both eyebrows in Rose’s direction. “Really? We’re really going there?”
“Okay, but when has a medical student willed their skull to a theater so it can be used in a production of Hamlet?” Martin asked, and ignored how all three just looked at him in bewilderment. “Go on, Gonff. The body was unusually preserved, the student tried to take its head.”
“Which I contest, honestly,” Columbine interrupted. “You could get as good a sample without desecrating the corpse like that.”
“Anyway,” Gonff said. “As he was putting the head in the sack he’d brought with him, he heard whispers coming from the corners of the tomb.” He gestured, describing the scene with relish. “Whispers at the edges of reality, seeping through the cracks. When he turned around, there were shadows writhing and twining in the corners, reaching out as if they would pull him into the void itself.”
There was a beat of silence.
“And this tomb is in this graveyard?” Rose said, scanning the layout of the ground below them.
“Yep. The student ran, of course, and left the head behind. It’s probably still there, kicked into a corner by a panicked foot.”
Martin and Columbine exchanged skeptical looks. “Guilty conscience, obviously, and probably wind through the leaves,” Columbine said. “Look, there’s trees all along the wall, and there’s grass and stuff, too. When was this?”
Gonff blew out an exasperated breath. “I don’t really remember, a few years after the guy died?”
“So call it the 1810s at the latest,” Columbine said, crossing her arms. “Way before electricity was harnessed for things like flashlights. If he had a lantern or an oil lamp, those shadows were probably caused by the unsteady light source, and obviously an overactive imagination.”
“Speaking of which, anyone else have a flashlight?” Martin asked. “First quarter moon won’t be up for another few hours.”
There was another, longer silence.
“We are really bad at this,” Gonff said finally. “Martin’s the only person who brought a flashlight? Seriously?”
“I was just going to use my phone,” Rose said. “But that’s going to eat my battery, especially if I’m recording at the same time.”
“Lesson learned. When poking around old graveyards after dark, everyone in the crew brings a flashlight,” Columbine said, shaking her head.
“We’ll keep it mind for next time,” Rose decided, and hopped down into the graveyard without further commentary. “Come on, let’s go find this tomb. You remember which one it was, right, Gonff?”
“Yeah, it’s in the north corner. I’ll lead the way.”
“If it makes you feel any better,” Martin said as he helped Columbine down off the wall, “I swung by earlier today to talk to the groundskeeper. Ghost hunters aren’t new to him, and we’ve got permission. As long as we don’t break anything, leave trash around, make too much noise, etcetera, he’s fine with it, if a little resigned.”
“I’m beginning to think you’ve done this before,” Columbine said, half joking, half accusing.
Martin shook his head. “No, I just don’t see any reason to take unnecessary risks.”
Gonff laughed from in front of them, and turned around to walk backwards and still face them. “Matey, I’ve known you for a week and I can already say with full confidence that that’s the biggest lie you’ve ever told.”
“I did say unnecessary risks,” Martin said with complete calm. “Besides, I haven’t been that reckless around any of you.”
“Yes, because jumping two flights of concrete steps is perfectly reasonable,” Rose said, giving him a very disappointed look.
“I was running late and took the landing on my shoulder like you’re supposed to.”
The deeper the four friends passed into the graveyard, the older the headstones became. What names and dates had survived the years were obscured by green-gray or orange lichen. At the very back were a row of small marble buildings, some with long fractures in their walls, some with craggy domes, some in eerily perfect repair but with the iron grate hanging askew. The casual back and forth banter grew quieter as they approached, until at last the muffled sound of shoes upon gravel swallowed it up entirely.
“That’s it,” Gonff whispered, nodding towards a mausoleum built into a low hill, the dark space where its door should have been framed by ivy and brambles.
Rose took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Break my phone and I’ll curse you,” she said, and thrust it into Gonff’s hands.
“Wait, what are you doing?”He fumbled it, checking the camera and keeping it trained on Rose. The image was becoming grainier as the light faded, but it was still enough to film, for now.
“I’m going inside,” Rose said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”
“Oh, no, not without me you’re not,” Gonff said, shoving the phone at Martin. “Here, you hold this.”
“I’m pretty sure this violates the 'don’t break anything' request we got from the groundskeeper,” Columbine said, rubbing at her forehead.
“Do you want to go in to explain every ‘experience’ they have, or shall I?” Martin asked. The video wouldn’t show the fond grin he wore, but it was clear enough in his voice as he trained the camera on Columbine, equally fond for all her exasperation.
“You’ve got the flashlight,” Columbine pointed out, waving him on. “I’ll stand guard on the off chance someone comes to run us out.”
“We can jump the wall and make for downtown if that happens,” Martin said. “Always have an exit strategy.”
“You’ve definitely done this before.”
“No, that’s just general life advice.”
They were interrupted by a low call from Gonff from inside the mausoleum. “Martin! Flashlight?!”
Martin fished the penlight out of one pocket with one hand, keeping the camera steady on the door as he approached. He knocked on the jamb with it. “Hello? Sorry for the disturbance, but we were just hoping to look around for a little bit, if you don’t mind the company. We’ll leave you in peace again soon.”
He flicked the light on, and startled back when it illuminated Rose, who was far closer than he’d expected. She also backed off with a pained protest. “Warn a girl before you do that, will you?”
“Sorry, sorry,” Martin said, angling the light a bit lower.
She rubbed at her eyes. “Were you talking to the ghost just now?”
“Look, if there is someone in here, just because he’s dead doesn’t mean we have to be rude,” Martin pointed out, following Rose into the crypt. “How’d you feel if someone came poking around your room without even apologizing for it?”
“You don’t even believe in ghosts,” Gonff pointed out, squinting around. The three of them drew closer together—ghost or no, they were in a small space with a dead body after dark, circumstances creepy enough to raise the hair on the back of anyone’s neck.
“I prefer to hedge my bets,” Martin said, sweeping the penlight slowly around. It was mostly empty, but for a few dead leaves in the corner and a low, rectangular construction in the middle of the room—the tomb itself. “I don’t see anything in here. Should we go a bit deeper?” They were huddled near the door, the blue-bright LED penlight aided by the distant starlight and the sickly yellow glow of a nearby streetlight.
“Yeah, why not,” Gonff said. His voice was a bit higher than normal, but he slid one foot forward, then another. Rose trailed behind him, looking closely around the room.
“Are you sure I shouldn’t go in front?” Martin asked.
“You’ve got the camera,” Rose said.
“Right,” Martin muttered, not sounding too pleased with that. “Of course.”
“I’ll curse you, too, if you break my phone—” Rose started, only to cut herself off with a gasp. “Did you hear that?”
“No?”
Another long moment of tense silence, before all three heard a rustling sound from beyond the tomb.
“I heard that,” Gonff said, this time with an almost manic sounding giggle. “It sounds like he doesn’t like curses. Maybe don’t talk about that right now?”
“Right,” Rose said. She swallowed. “Sorry.”
“There’re a lot of dead leaves in here,” Martin said, directing the penlight towards the corners. “It was probably the wind, or an animal. Something like—huh.”
The light illuminated a misshapen lump closer to the entrance, a bundle of something that looked like it might be cloth. The trio stared at it for a moment.
“Do you think that’s the head?” Rose whispered.
“It’s definitely something,” Gonff said. All three drew closer together until their shoulders were touching.
“You know, I sort of thought the head would’ve been moved, or missing, or eaten by now,” Martin said.
Gonff blanched. “Eaten?”
“Well, yeah. Animals, scavengers, that sort of thing. What, did you think I meant cannibalism?”
“No…”
“Well, only one way to find out,” Rose said. She squared her shoulders. Each step forward echoed hollowly in the empty mausoleum, and when she spoke, both Gonff and Martin couldn’t quite suppress a jump. “Martin, will you stop moving the light around? I’m nervous enough as it is.”
“I’m not moving the light, Rose. And my hands are steady, before you ask,” Martin protested, eyes on the video to make sure this was the case.
Rose halted without turning around. When she spoke, her voice was forcibly calm. “If it’s not the light, what’s making the shadows move?”
“Martin, are you getting that?”
“I’m recording the shadows acting like shadows, yes,” Martin said patiently. “They’re moving because you’re moving, Rose, and you’re between the light and the—oh,” he said, as the shadows trembled again and moved up the wall.
There was a crash of stone on stone from behind them, loud in the sudden stillness. All three screamed, Gonff and Rose both latching onto Martin’s arms. Martin had dropped the penlight to free one hand, and the light swung wildly about the mausoleum, chasing spiky shadows and weird shapes up the walls.
“I think we should get out of here,” Gonff said, already backing out and dragging Martin along with him.
“Good idea,” Rose agreed, matching Gonff pace for pace. “Great time and all, really interesting, but we ought to, you know, go analyze the footage, see if we got an EVP—”
“Not find out what that was?”
“A ghost angry about a joke about curses.”
“Don’t joke about curses, I was cursed once and it offends me,” Gonff agreed with another high pitched giggle.
“This is just for practice anyway, next time we’ll go investigate,” Rose said.
There was another rustling, and the penlight caught the reflective gleam of eyes at the other end of the room.
They broke and ran, bursting out of the mausoleum and almost bowling over Columbine.
“What, what did you—”
“Eyes, dark, something—”
“Just run!” Rose said, pushing the both of them ahead of her.
“Over the wall?” Martin asked the group.
“Yes, fine, just away!”
This wall was conquered far more easily than the first, the fear adding extra speed to all four friends’s flight.
“You really saw a ghost?” Columbine panted.
“No,” Martin said, at the same time Gonff said “Yes!”
“There were eyes, mate, actual, glowing eyes!” Gonff continued. “And the shadows, you saw the shadows!”
“I saw shadows move that weren’t caused by Rose,” Martin said.
“And the crash? And the rustling?”
“Coincidence. Dead leaves. There wasn’t a ghost in there.”
They stopped a dozen blocks away, Rose clutching a stitch in her side, Gonff with his hands braced on his knees, gasping for breath.
“Then what was it?” Rose asked, leaning her head against the wall of the closed coffee shop.
“I don’t know,” Martin said. He was breathing deeply, deliberately slowing his breathing back to normal. “But it wasn’t a ghost.”
“That’s… because… it was a fox,” Columbine said, also bent double and panting for breath. She waved her phone, which the other three only just noticed in her hand. “I saw it come out about two seconds before you did,” she said, straightening as her breath came back. “Snapped a few pictures. He’s a cutie, you probably scared him.”
“We scared him?” Rose repeated, scandalized.
“Oh, let me see,” Gonff said, leaning over her shoulder as she swiped through the handful of pictures.
“Wait, let me get a shot of this,” Martin said, a grin beginning to steal over his face. He raised Rose’s phone again, getting a good angle on Columbine’s. “Aw, he is cute.”
“What about the eyes—?”
“Probably a family,” Columbine said. “I mean, that’d be a great place for a den, wouldn’t it? Sensible people don’t go in.”
“Did I ever claim I was sensible?” Gonff asked her, turning to look at her indignantly with his chin still propped on her shoulder. “Did Rose? Did Martin?”
Rose shook her head, beginning to laugh. “So our first ghost… was actually a family of foxes,” she said.
“Apparently,” Gonff said.
“Stepping through leaves, knocking something over, moving around so that there were shadows,” Martin listed. “And our imaginations did the rest.”
Columbine shot them all a grin. “Good thing I didn’t come in with you guys, then, or I wouldn’t have evidence,” she said, waving her phone in Gonff’s face.
“Well, you’ll have to figure out a way to get evidence from the inside next time,” Rose decided. She put out a hand and wiggled her fingers. Martin passed her the phone.
“Next time?” Columbine repeated.
“Absolutely,” Rose said, and panned the camera around the group. “After tonight, we’ve got to find a real ghost. This is too embarrassing a note to leave on, don’t you think?”
Thinking about Marshank being Martin’s real first opponent, (seeing as how Badrang himself didn’t turn out to be much a real challenge), it probably vastly influenced how Redwall Abbey was designed. I know Abbess Germaine suggested its construction, but Martin was the one who had previously dealt with overtaking a fortress (and by the end of Mossflower, had dealt with two) and therefore would have had a lot to say.
Like:
Very Tall Walls.
Very Sturdy Gate.
Smaller gates to come and go by (Something Marshank notably lacked and led to Badrang’s direct encounter with Rose).
Non-flammable main building construction.
Plenty of space within the walls for farming, allowing for survival of long sieges.
A pond within the walls for ready water access.
The only thing I can think of that the Abbey really doesn’t have, but potentially could have benefited from (in general) is covered areas on top of the walls, so a watch could be easily maintained even in bad weather. But, Redwall is also technically Not a Fortress. Meaning it lacks things specifically useful in wartime like cells, escape tunnels, an armory, an actual guard manned gatehouse with a view to the outside of the walls and that sort.
At first the topic of this article may seem weirdly specific … well … because it is. But guys. As human beings, we eat. A lot. And I’ve read a lot of scenes that involve food (probably more of them than I should have). If you are writing a novel, food is naturally going to come up, as it should. But there are dos and don'ts about how it is handled.
So yes, this is a post dedicated solely to food scenes.
(You might want to have a meal already planned that you can eat once you finish reading this.)
Let’s talk about food in fiction.
Be Specific
Meals are often (too often, in fact) used as backdrops for character conversations. This makes perfect sense. Cause that’s what people do. They eat. And they talk. (Hopefully not at the exact same time.) And it’s better than having people talk with nothing to do.
But sometimes what happens, when the food is really the backdrop for a dialogue scene, is the writer forgets to mention what the food is. The characters are just “eating dinner” or what have you.
When working with food in a scene, be specific. Often the more specific, the better (well, okay, to a degree–use common sense).
If they are eating breakfast, what are they eating for breakfast? Cereal? Oats? a protein shake? Muffins? Fruit and yogurt? That’s more specific than “breakfast.” But, you can get more specific still. What kind of cereal? Or oats? Or shake? Or muffin? Or fruit and yogurt? Maple and brown sugar oats? A chocolate protein shake? Strawberries and raspberries? You can be specific in only a few words, so for most scenes, that shouldn’t ruin the pacing.
If the food is more than just a backdrop, you can get more specific, which leads me to the next point.
How Much Description You Include is Proportional to How Important the Food is in the Scene (Or How Unfamiliar it is to the Audience)
If the meal is literally a backdrop to a dialogue scene, you don’t need to get too carried away describing the food. Be specific. But probably be brief. If this is an intense or heated conversation, you probably shouldn’t spend several paragraphs describing in detail what the chicken cordon bleu is like.
On the other hand, if the food itself is part of the experience and point of the scene, it should get more detail. If this is the first time Katniss Everdeen has tasted Capitol food, then we should have that food and experience described more fully. If this is Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory, I need to taste every flavor of the gobstopper. If this is a novel about a chef trying to succeed, the reader should visualize and touch and taste every key meal.
The more important the food, the more description it merits.
But whatever the case, taste is one of our five senses, which we should be appealing to regularly in our stories. Since we literally can’t appeal to taste in every scene, we should take advantage of moments when we can. (Also, don’t forget to describe food’s smells, textures, or temperatures.)
Readers love experiencing delicious food.
But it’s okay to describe the gross food when it’s necessary.
Also, how familiar the food is to the audience also plays a part in how much description it deserves. We’ve probably all had potato chips, so it’s going to take less words to create that experience for the audience. But a lot of us haven’t had octopus salad, so that may require more description to capture the experience.
When Appropriate, Mention Your Character’s Likes and Dislikes
We all have preferences when it comes to food–even me who is known to like literally almost everything. Mentioning your character’s likes or dislikes or preferences can add an element of authenticity to the story. Katniss loves the Capitol’s hot chocolate. Violet Beauregarde loves chewing gum. Ron Weasley hates corned beef sandwiches. Buddy the elf loves maple syrup. On everything.
And part of what we do, is compare what we are eating to other things we have eaten. I can tell you right now, that the Cafe Rio in my hometown (*cough, cough* the original *cough*) has the best taco salad I’ve ever tasted, and I compare it to every other taco salad. Heck, when I order, I even compare it to past orders of the same dish (sadly, as Cafe Rio expands over the U.S., I have noticed the quality in my hometown start to diminish). If we are eating something new, we’ll compare it to other foods, tastes, or textures. Have you ever noticed how shrimp kind of pops in your mouth when you bite into it? If you’ve never been around cooked liver, I can tell you the smell reminds me of something like gym socks.
Don’t Make Food Your Only Backdrop
Food as a backdrop to a scene gets overused. A lot. It’s sorta how writers start stories with characters waking up in the morning. It just feels like a natural concept to grab when you haven’t given the scene much thought. It takes less effort than brainstorming a different backdrop. But the reader doesn’t want to read about meals every time there is a conversation (well, most readers don’t). Give us some variety. What else do people do while they talk? Can they be playing a game? Working on a hobby? Cleaning? Exercising? Shopping? Doing homework? Playing with the dog? Take a few minutes and consider what else could be used as a backdrop. Everyone eats. But what your character does besides that can tell us more about him or her.
Sure, there should probably be some meals present in the story. But make sure you aren’t using every meal as part of the story.
cats don’t know what words mean and i love that about them. i can say “you are a beautiful little angel child and i love you more than anything else in the entire world” but also “you wretched little clown bastard. you’ve created such a big mess and now i have to clean it because i have hands and you don’t. this is god’s cruelest joke.” and they don’t care they just say :3 and put their little paws on me
hot take: aziraphale says "you go too fast for me crowley" because he can sense love and he's still kind of shook that it only took him saying he gave his flaming sword away for the biggest purest wave of love he's ever felt to start emanating from some random demon
#i forgot about this post #i love it #good Omens #good omens text #imagine telling some stranger you fucked up #and seeing it in their eyes as they decide then and there that they will love you for the rest of all time and existence #too fast...
@ fanartists drawing fjord who don’t care about making him look like his official art but do care about making him look as hot as possible: I owe you my life
Writings of Mossflower Country @scrivenerofmossflower - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
