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[Mouse Guard PbP] The Long Road to Copperwood [In Character]
milk ducks
High Mucky MuckBig Tits TownRegistered User regular
High Mucky MuckBig Tits TownRegistered User regular
Cast of Characters
Patrol Leader Roric @Marshmallow
We're only mice, nothing more.
Never miss a chance to rest and resupply.
Patrol Guard Lane @The Everyman
When it's do or die, you can only rely on yourself.
Always protect the weak and young, at any cost. *
Guardmouse Finn @NotoriusBEN
Exhausted, harrowed, and shattered, a guardmouse endures.
The Guard's name shall never be tarnished. *
Guardmouse Basil @the_jake_1973
Trust the Guard, never a politician.
Always provide for those in need. *
Tenderpaw Gareth @Rius
There is nothing so difficult that it cannot be overcome.
Never back down from a challenge.
* Indicates a slight change in wording, so that each Instinct contains absolute words like "never" or "always".
The Long Road to Copperwood
Our story begins, as stories are wont to do, in the city of Lockhaven, home to the Guard, and the nearest thing to a capital the territories have ever known. A full year has passed since the Axe shattered itself upon the cold walls of this fortress, and all its pieces scurried back to their homes in Barkstone, Elmoss, and Copperwood. The damage had been done, though. Midnight had proven to the territories that the Guard could bleed. And bleed it did: the number of dead and missing mice may well take years to tally ...
Spring has come again to the territories, yet even in the heart of this place -this fortress- surrounded by wood and stone and friends, there are places where a mouse can see the warmth of his breath. Gwendolyn's chambers, stocked full of maps and charts and written-promises far too valuable to risk exposing to an open flame, is one of those places. The Matriarch of the Mouse Guard is bent over a large table when you enter, flanked on either side by the Oldfurs -- captains, who have earned the honor of standing at the right paw of the Matriarch after years of devoted service to the Guard.
An intricately-designed map of the territories is carved upon the well-worn face of the table, and dozens of small wooden figurines checker its surface like the pieces of a child's game. As Gwendolyn turns to face your patrol, you notice that she's holding one final piece in the palm of her paw.
Outside, the first rains of spring are tap-tap-tapping upon the many-colored windows of Lockhaven, while a chill wind blows against its strong stone walls. Gwendolyn braces herself against the cold, pulling her heavy blue cloak tight about her pale blonde fur. There is a sadness in her eyes, as she looks to Roric and his patrol, but her voice is resolute:
"The Winter came sudden," she reminded them, "too sudden." The Matriarch of the Mouse Guard turned again toward the map table, and pointed to a marker on the long road to Copperwood. "Here lies Greyview, the finest observatory in the territories. Within its walls, you shall find a redfur by the name of 'Mayhew'."
She motions toward several large sacks, leaned up against the furthest wall, where a huge black axe hangs upon display. A chill run down your spine when you realize that you are standing in the exact spot where the treacherous Midnight met his defeat, only scarcely more than a year ago. "Within these packs", she explains, "Mayhew shall find a gift from the Guard: a fine new lens for his telescope, hand-crafted by the glaziers of Lockhaven, over the course of the long Winter."
Gwendolyn places a hand on Roric's shoulder, and meets his gaze with her own. "In return for this gift, he shall give you his weather recordings, along with a prediction of this year's activities. Let him know that, even as times are lean, he shall count upon more gifts of the Guard, should his predictions ring true. Return to me when the task is done, and you shall all be rewarded." The Matriarch smiles a small kind of smile, and places the last of her figurines upon the long road to Copperwood.
"Make haste, my friend." She turns toward the rest of the patrol.
"And remember your oaths."
[Now is the time for writing Mission Goals]
Patrol Leader Roric @Marshmallow
We're only mice, nothing more.
Never miss a chance to rest and resupply.
Patrol Guard Lane @The Everyman
When it's do or die, you can only rely on yourself.
Always protect the weak and young, at any cost. *
Guardmouse Finn @NotoriusBEN
Exhausted, harrowed, and shattered, a guardmouse endures.
The Guard's name shall never be tarnished. *
Guardmouse Basil @the_jake_1973
Trust the Guard, never a politician.
Always provide for those in need. *
Tenderpaw Gareth @Rius
There is nothing so difficult that it cannot be overcome.
Never back down from a challenge.
* Indicates a slight change in wording, so that each Instinct contains absolute words like "never" or "always".
The Long Road to Copperwood
Our story begins, as stories are wont to do, in the city of Lockhaven, home to the Guard, and the nearest thing to a capital the territories have ever known. A full year has passed since the Axe shattered itself upon the cold walls of this fortress, and all its pieces scurried back to their homes in Barkstone, Elmoss, and Copperwood. The damage had been done, though. Midnight had proven to the territories that the Guard could bleed. And bleed it did: the number of dead and missing mice may well take years to tally ...
Spring has come again to the territories, yet even in the heart of this place -this fortress- surrounded by wood and stone and friends, there are places where a mouse can see the warmth of his breath. Gwendolyn's chambers, stocked full of maps and charts and written-promises far too valuable to risk exposing to an open flame, is one of those places. The Matriarch of the Mouse Guard is bent over a large table when you enter, flanked on either side by the Oldfurs -- captains, who have earned the honor of standing at the right paw of the Matriarch after years of devoted service to the Guard.
An intricately-designed map of the territories is carved upon the well-worn face of the table, and dozens of small wooden figurines checker its surface like the pieces of a child's game. As Gwendolyn turns to face your patrol, you notice that she's holding one final piece in the palm of her paw.
Outside, the first rains of spring are tap-tap-tapping upon the many-colored windows of Lockhaven, while a chill wind blows against its strong stone walls. Gwendolyn braces herself against the cold, pulling her heavy blue cloak tight about her pale blonde fur. There is a sadness in her eyes, as she looks to Roric and his patrol, but her voice is resolute:
"The Winter came sudden," she reminded them, "too sudden." The Matriarch of the Mouse Guard turned again toward the map table, and pointed to a marker on the long road to Copperwood. "Here lies Greyview, the finest observatory in the territories. Within its walls, you shall find a redfur by the name of 'Mayhew'."
She motions toward several large sacks, leaned up against the furthest wall, where a huge black axe hangs upon display. A chill run down your spine when you realize that you are standing in the exact spot where the treacherous Midnight met his defeat, only scarcely more than a year ago. "Within these packs", she explains, "Mayhew shall find a gift from the Guard: a fine new lens for his telescope, hand-crafted by the glaziers of Lockhaven, over the course of the long Winter."
Gwendolyn places a hand on Roric's shoulder, and meets his gaze with her own. "In return for this gift, he shall give you his weather recordings, along with a prediction of this year's activities. Let him know that, even as times are lean, he shall count upon more gifts of the Guard, should his predictions ring true. Return to me when the task is done, and you shall all be rewarded." The Matriarch smiles a small kind of smile, and places the last of her figurines upon the long road to Copperwood.
"Make haste, my friend." She turns toward the rest of the patrol.
"And remember your oaths."
[Now is the time for writing Mission Goals]
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Observe: The few mice still serving must be preserved. When possible, avoid confronting predators except in self-defense.
Report: The secrets of Darkheather were among the greatest dangers during the war. The Guard must not keep secrets from each other or from settlement mice.
Goal: See Gareth the Tenderpaw safely through his first mission.
Gear: Hook and line, shield, light armor, pipe, territory map, papers and ink
"I'll ask you one time more Brandt, are you sure you haven't had enough of this stuffy library?" the oldfur questioned, buffeting the younger guardmouse on the shoulder roughly the way only friends do. "You should see the outdoors once or twice this year. The snows are melting, and when you feel that morning sun on your fur, why it's like winter was never here at all," he continued, allowing himself a small smile at the thought. Lane knew what the archivist's answer would be and didn't expect it to change but still, some good-natured teasing between he and Brandt was to be expected.
"I'll-" he started, before catching himself. "We will be out on the road to Copperwood, going by Greyview. The tenderpaw will be along with me and Roric is leading the patrol, but if there was anything you need done in that area, I'll see what I can do."
It seemed to Brandt that his old friend grew closer and closer to the likeness of his father every season. To look upon Lane was to look upon Captain Ambrose, and something about that fact made Brandt smile.
"Still," he continued, looking back toward a row of old books, "I must admit that my own seasonal records are somewhat lacking. I've a fair enough collection of first-hand accounts, to be sure, from mice all across the territories; Appleloft to Rustleaf. But nothing of the sort, nor the quality, that this Mayhew might."
He raised a paw to his chin for a moment, and thought. "If you're to collect Mayhew's records for Gwendolyn anyway, perhaps you could pen me some copies on the road home?"
Goal: I will see the Guard's gift delivered unharmed to Greyview.
Gear: Sling, Satchel of Lead Bullets, Knife, Sewing Kit
The Patrol Leader quaffs the last few sips left in his mug, letting the watered down, but still bitter, ale sit on his tongue a few seconds before swallowing.
"Off to Copperwood," he states flatly, regarding the dour mouse sitting on the other side of the table. "Better that than scent border duty, I suppose. There's always that," Roric continues thoughtfully, absent-mindedly placing a paw over his mug when the tavern's server comes around refilling drinks, dismissing her with a friendly shake of his head.
"Well, fancy a new knife, Haddock? There's nothing quite like a Copperwood-smithed blade, and I can leave it with the armory if I miss your return from your patrol. Where are they sending you out to this season, anyway? Not Flintrust again, I hope."
Goal: The lenses will remain perfect for Mayhew.
Gwendolyn's office had a hallowed feel to it, more so with the cool temperature and the absent drone of the bees. During winter, Finn had busied himself with the depleted hives of Lockhaven. Even during winter, the activity of the hives were enough to keep the chill at bay. Harvests were lean for the delicious liquid, but wax from unused combs meant that the candlemakers and canneries would not be wanting. With a bit of haggling, Finn had a couple jars of each for the journey.
Finn remained silent as Gwendolyn gave their orders, but his nose twitched excessively at the sight of Midnight's Axe. The treasonous mouse should have been executed. It was eery to stand in the same spot as him, to know that history has and still being made in this room.
Steam - NotoriusBEN | Uplay - notoriusben | Xbox,Windows Live - ThatBEN
The patrol guard tugged idly on his grey-white whiskers as Brandt made his request. "Should be plenty of time on the trail for me to jot down a copy, so I don't see why not," he replied gladly. "My paw ain't the neatest when it comes to letters, but when I return I'm sure we can get through it."
Lane stepped over to the worktable he had been bent over when Brandt arrived. Unfurled and laid out with paperweights was a large parchment map of the territories. Lane knew better than to entirely trust the old trails detailed on this map, especially after this last winter, but even an outdated map could still be valuable on the road. With deft paws the oldfur carefully folded the parchment up and slid it into his pack.
"I need to be going. Don't want to keep Roric's patrol waiting," Lane explained with a hint annoyance in his voice. It had been ages since Lane had gone out with a patrol rather than on a solo mission, and clearly the mouse did not like working on someone else's time.
"Take care of yourself Brandt," the oldfur offered his paw. He hesitated, and added, "Keep an ear open for word from Port Sumac, if you would? Winters can be bad on the coast, and this last one was especially rough." Lane shook off the grim thoughts and forced a small smile. "Thank you, friend."
"Flintrust?" Haddock chuckled into his drink, a fine Southern red. "I wish. No, it's Port Sumac for me, I'm afraid. Too many rooms in Lockhaven remain empty, and Gwendolyn's of a mind fill 'em. I'm to broker a contract with the Council of Captains, my friend, and return with as many fresh-faced recruits as I can."
He took a long drink of his red, and wiped his mouth clean with the back of his paw. "No doubt they'll empty the bowels of their dungeons upon me; I'll walk the trails home alongside all manner of brigand and thief." Haddock chuckled and shrugged his shoulders. "And in the end, we'll call them 'brothers'. Tis a strange world we live in, Roric, but we do what we must. Perhaps this is the mission that will earn me a leadership."
The Patrol Guard gave Roric a friendly slap on the back and smiled. "Be careful out there, old friend."
"Keep an ear open for word from Port Sumac, if you would? Winters can be bad on the coast, and this last one was especially rough." Lane shook off the grim thoughts and forced a small smile. "Thank you, friend."
"Of course, my friend, of course." Brandt was not a young mouse; not on anyone's account: he had lost the strength of his limbs to the seasons long ago; lost his quickness of his hands to the Weasels, when they put an arrow through his paw. But with age comes wisdom; he could spot a false smile easily enough, and the one that now sat perched upon the face of his mentor's son was as plain as the Summer days were long.
"Listen, don't worry yourself over Port Sumac. For you? I'll keep two ears open."
"You be sure to do the same," Roric agrees with a yellow-toothed grin. "I'm not of an age to be seeking a new drinking partner, nor will it be easy to find another who can match me drink for drink." With a grunt, Roric gets to his feet, straightening his cloak. "Until next time, then. Take care."
Placing a few corroded coins on the table next to his emptied cup, he nods a final farewell to his brother-in-arms and takes his leave of the tavern, stepping out into the quiet hallways of Lockhaven. Mumbling an old marching tune under his breath, he strides towards the city gate, eager, despite his complaints, to see who in his patrol will show up early, and what manner of preparations they've made for their upcoming journey.
The oldfur's dubious smile was replaced with something more genuine at Brandt's reassurance. "Keep safe then," Lane instructed as they parted, gathering his things and marching out from the Library and to the main gates. Roric was already there Lane saw, and the old patrol guard wandered over towards him.
"Roric," he nodded to the mouse. Lane retrieved a long, drooping pipe from inside his cloak, clenching the well worn oak stem between his teeth out of habit. The greying ranger glanced about the gates and yard, noting the absence of Roric's guardmice and his tenderpaw. "Daylight's burning," he stated dryly, tapping the pipe against his chin.
Gear: Dagger, iron-capped staff, satchel (blank parchment, inks and quill pens), backpack (small cookpot, wooden spoon and salt)
Gareth bursts out of his room, running down the hall towards the main yard. Can't believe I almost forgot my quills, he thinks with a grin, staff in one hand and satchel hanging from the other. Other mice jump to clear his path, startled by the young tenderpaw's unseemly speed. As he runs he slings the satchel's strap over his shoulder, letting the bag hang to jostle against his hip.
He slows as he approaches the main gates, checking that the satchel's flap is secured and his dagger hasn't fallen off somewhere. The contents of his backpack rattle around against each other though the iron pot is wrapped in leaves to cut down on the noise. His slower stride gives him enough time to recover from the short run and he strides out into the yard, quickly identifying Roric and Lane, his Mentor. He walks over to them and nods at the pair, turning up his hands at Lane's questioning glance.
"So; when do we leave?"
Inquisitor77: Rius, you are Sisyphus and melee Wizard is your boulder
Tube: This must be what it felt like to be an Iraqi when Saddam was killed
Bookish Stickers - Mrs. Rius' Etsy shop with bumper stickers and vinyl decals.
Gear: War scythe (spear), Smith's Hammer, Flint and Steel, 2 Jars of Honey, 2 Jars of Bees Wax, Properly Packed Lenses
(Not sure how big the lenses are)
Finn frowns at the tenderpaw that runs down the street to meet them. I hope I was never that green. Then again, he remembered Uncle Acre giving him the same looks he must have on his face now. Acre was now with some of the newer recruits. Many of the older mice were need training them, and Acre voiced how unhappy he was with it at dinner a few times. He wasnt a bad teacher, the old mouse just preferred to be on the road, and with a tenderpaw that at least knew which end of the sword to hold.
He used his war scythe as a walking stick, then shouldered and adjusted himself with the backpack of lenses he was alotted, the rest of his supplies in pouches on the pack. The lenses were protected from rubbing each other with soft blankets of cotton packed between.
"Don't worry, New Blood. It's a lot of hurry up and wait."
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Gear:Two daggers, spider silk rope
Goal: I will ensure my patrol finds the safest route to Greyview.
This is prior to the meeting described above:
Basil is enjoying the spring of his fourth season in Lockhaven. Between patrols, he assists his former Artisan in the bug nurseries. The care and feeding of the various larvae, along with reviving the herds from hibernation is very calming. It is also a way to avoid some of the structure that is part and parcel in the Guard. Basil enjoys the challenge of patroling and keeping his fellow guardsmice out of harm's way. The best battle is the one you don't have to fight, they say. Although Basil can't quite remember who actually said it. He was not very studious when it came to matters of Guard history, a sore point with his mentor. This recent revolt is one matter of historical record, Basil will not have trouble remembering.
During the winter lull, the funereal feeling that pervaded Lockhaven was suffocating. While he did not have many friends that perished, his mentor did. So many ceremonies and dirges and speeches begin to cloud over a mouse's gregarious disposition. The good friends that Basil had made during his short career made the dull months endurable. Basil was not the only mouse in the territories give the choice of jail or the Guard. Gambling with these same friends, however, has taken it's toll on Basil's wealth. He is back to his pauper status, but he is sure the next big score is around the corner. Now he has to get out on patrol to scavenge up a little scratch for the table.
Basil is curious who he will be teamed up with for the spring season. His former patrol was disbanded to replace fallen mice in other patrols. He is sure Gwendolyn has her reasons. Whatever.
Current:
Well, this is a larger patrol than normal. Protection in numbers, Basil supposes. We shall see when it comes time to skirt an alert foe.
Basil makes his introductions to the rest of the patrol as they leave Gwendolyn's office. He knows that the two older mice are likely to have heard the stories of how Basil came to be in the Guard, but hopes they don't place too much value on it. In any case, he won't be the first to bring the subject up. The air of the mouse born to soldier hangs about the other Guardmouse, Finn, and set Basil's fur on edge. He can almost hear his mentor reminding him not to judge to harshly on appearances. The Tenderpaw, Gareth, seems to be a trifle untamed. He must be from the outer territories. Basil wonders how he will adjust to the strictures of the Guard.
While waiting for the patrol to depart, Basil takes time to replenish his supply of spider silk rope and ensure his daggers are in good order. He tries to avoid Haddock Sorel and his ilk and visits his former artisan.
"Joachim," calls out Basil, moving through the insectrist's cluttered workshop. Books of insect biology are opened on the long desk and Basil can see fresh notes in the margin. "Johnny's gone for soldier, so I need to gather some silk rope. We are headed to Copperwood by way of Greyview if you need something. Something not in a larval state, that is."
Not getting an answer from Joachim, Basil scrawls out an IOU pins it to the desk with a wasp stinger.
He strolls up the group waiting at the gate. Basil jokingly calls out, "going my way?"
Roric nods amiably at Lane's solar observation but offers little else in the way of reply. Nothing unusual, the Patrol Leader is always a bit quiet before hitting the trail.
As the rest of the patrol trickles in, he cracks his neck and adjusts the heft of his belt. "That'd be all of us, time to start beating feet, lads." He meets the eyes of each member of the patrol in turn.
"I reckon our very own Patrol Guard Lane will be wanting to take the lead with his Tenderpaw, young master Gareth. Anyone wanting to learn how to make moss grow on the right side of a tree and what leaves are safe for wiping your bum are welcome to join 'em. Everyone else is on rear guard, watching backs, keeping eyes peeled, and standing by to lend a hand while the trailblazers get on with it. Any questions?"
With Basil's help, he mapped out a path that would take them South and East for two days and two nights, then curve round and take them South and West for the same amount of time. At least, that's what they hoped. Spring was a beautiful season, full of hope and life and renewal, but it was also a treacherous time for the mice of the territories. Their way would be overgrown, most like; choked and narrowed by thorny brush, just beginning to flower. And they would not be alone: all manner of animals were returning home to the territories, to preen and boast and search for mates. At no other time were they so incredibly dangerous.
The first day was slow, but relatively uneventful. Lane and Basil blazed ahead and charted their progress, while Rorik, Finn and Gareth guarded the rear. The rain was relentless. It soaked everything and everyone. And the cold cut straight to the bone of every mouse among them. When the first night fell upon them, the guardmouse Basil spotted the light of a small fire beneath an enormous, grey-rock outcropping. Upon inspection, the patrol found that it had been created by a friendly mouse called Whitley - a traveler, they learned, from Ivydale, on his way to Copperwood to visit his sister, Greta.
The patrol made camp that night beneath the great grey slab, and were glad to share Whitley's company. When the morning came, Rorik offered to escort the mouse as far along the way as Greyview, and he was eager to accept. In appreciation of the Guard's generosity, he sang songs to his new friends as they traveled: a bawdy sailor's tune or two for Lane, who came from Port Sumac; a tale of the Guard's honor, for Finn, who came from Lockhaven; and many others. As the patrol made its way slowly through a particularly thorn-choked path, he sang The Ballad of the Ivory Lass.
On a long journey to Glenn-Stone,
I sailed right into its shade.
There, before me, she proudly shone.
My decision was already made.
Lane and Gareth cut their way through the brush, leading the patrol under thorned hedges whenever possible. The rain continued to pour, and the skies were darkening, despite being early in the day. In the shadows overhead, something moved through the branches, unseen and unheard by the mice on the ground below.
A lass who bore the light of town,
her fur of ivory thread.
How she danced is stuck in my crown,
and back to this glen, my boat led.
Lightning flashes, and Basil looks to the sky, just in time to see a swift grey shadow descending from the branches, above.
A shrike.
He calls out to his companions, warning them of the danger just moments before the bird snaps its grasping talons just above their heads. The shrike turns back toward the branches, wheels around about the darkness, and swoops back down toward the patrol.
Wolf, hawk, fox, and snake,
can't stand in my way.
My body is weak, and it may break.
Though, not today.
[Refer to the OOC post to split into teams, plan actions, etc.]
As swift and silent as a shadow, the shrike descended upon them. For a few long moments, chaos erupted all around as the bird raked and tore at them with its knife-like talons. The patrol scrambled away from the sudden assault as best it could, heading briefly in opposite directions, through the mud and leaves and thorny brush.
The shrike tore back up toward the branches as the mice scurried about. In a few more moments, it would be back down upon them. The guardsmouse Basil, as cunning and quick a mouse as they come, knew that he had to act fast! He drew a rope from his pack, and began to set a trap ...
-@the_jake_1973- wrote:
Time slows for Basil as he focuses on the diving shrike. He can see every ridge on the deadly talons and the nasty beak waiting to rend him in two. You shall not take us, my feathered friend. Not today. Basil adjusts his stance, digging his small paws into the moist dirt. He tugs on the line to ensure it is knotted tight to the branch. Forcing himself to stand firm in the face of the diving bird, Basil waits until the last moment to cast the lasso and roll to the safety of the bushes. He comes to his paws in time to see the shrike stretch the rope taut against the branch. A sudden, loud snap startles Basil and his covering branch is ripped away by the speeding bird. As it climbs skyward, the branch ricochets off of a rock and wraps the shrike's talons together. The bird shrieks in anger as it struggles to free it's claws.
----
As the shrike struggles to free itself from the rope, shrieking and furiously flapping its wings, the mice of the patrol descend upon it with weapons drawn. The bird snaps at them with its wickedly hooked beak, and manages to free itself from Basil's bindings, but not before a fierce attack from Lane cuts it deeply.
It scrambles back toward the shadows above, dripping blood across the wet forest floor, and wheels about for another attack with vengeance in its eyes.
-@NotoriusBEN- wrote:
Finn drops the lenses on the trail by Roric and the bard. What he had in mind was rough and tumble, and might break bones. Basil and Roric had the Shrike occupied as he scurried to a nearby sapling. In quick little bounds, the red mouse scaled the green bark to a suitable height, he waited for his moment. When the wretched bird swooped down, Finn pounced and drove his long spear towards the earth only to realize his folly as the shrike twisted and presented its claws to catch Finn...
---
Once again, the mice descended upon the shrike, hacking and stabbing with their weapons. The bird grasped and raked at Finn with broken talons, but could not keep hold of him. The beast heaved and launched itself about in a final panicked assault, buffeting the patrol with its wings, and snapping with its bloodied beak.
Finally, it's able to wrench itself free of the mice and burst forth again towards the sky.
For half-a-heartbeat, the bird is gone, and the forest goes eerily quiet.
Then Hell breaks loose again, when Basil spots the bird breaking from the shadows to make a final murderous dive toward the patrol.
-@the_jake_1973- wrote:
"Incoming, Lane, look alive!" Basil becomes depressingly aware of how small his daggers are compared to the bird hurtling towards them.
-@The Everyman- wrote:
Lane snatches up his line and coils it deftpawed to the hook. The greyfur digs his feet in, determined to tear down the shrike at all costs.
---
The bird tears down toward them one final time, snatching up Lane in its powerful, yet broken, talons. It carries the patrol guard several meters, above the rest of the mice, and begins to rise up once more toward the branches.
-@the_jake_1973- wrote:
Basil knows that [Whitley and the lens] need to be protected, yet the thought of bold action being put to song and verse is much too tempting. Scampering from behind the sheltering bushes and onto a outlying branch, he prepares to pounce onto the foe as it rushes by. He hopes that his daggers will be enough to anchor him to the shrike's back and ride him to the ground.
---
Basil leaps onto the shrike's back, digging in with his daggers, and tearing down into the soft pink flesh beneath its feathers. The bird shrieks in agony, releasing Lane and sending him hurtling toward Gareth. The two mice connect with incredible force, and are smashed into some nearby thorny brush.
A few moments later, Basil is flung from the shrike's back, as it wheels about some trees at break-neck speeds. The guardsmouse lands in the mud near Roric and Finn, who quickly rush to his aid.
The shrike tears up toward the trees, shrieking in pain.
This time, it does not return.
He walked to the lenses and checked them... good... they were still ok. "Roric? Lane? Where you at? Say something if your dead."
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"Has anyone seen mint plants around here?"