My Book

[Muse]

I writing a novel that is animal-personification. Here's a peek. Whaddya think?


   The waves lapped against the tawny sand of Bowsprit Bay, licking the minute grains gently before drawing away, exhausted from the effort. Then they summoned their strength and strained again, the ice-cold water hissing against the sun-warmed beach. Occasionally, a pelican, or puffin, or laughing gull would soar across the cloud-speckled summer sky before wheeling about hastily and flapping madly away. Sun-light reflected off the tin roofs of Bowsprit Bay's cluttered townhouses. The buildings were jumbled together in a cluttered, cheery mess, like some massive colossus had picked up a village and crumpled it together with his fist before lobbing it back to earth.  Holtgaurds patrolled the narrow streets, mingling with the other otters, hedgehogs, ferrets, and rabbits that called Bowsprit Bay home.
   Foam closed his eyes, soaking in the sun's heat. He wiggled in the sand, burrowing his body deeper . He let loose a sigh of ecstasy as the sand's warmth oozed into his skin, warming him from the tip of his rudder to his small, furry ears. He lay in silence for a little while longer. The salty sea air mingled with the sweet wood smoke from the cooking fires that dotted the sand. It was too dangerous to cook among the sun-dried, cramped timbers of the Bay residences, so all hot meals were prepared by the sea. It was really quite pleasant, boiling porridge as the sun rose and stabbed the heavens with thousands of rays of colored light, or roasting sea bass or even marlins with friends as night fell and the stars dusted above. Foam's mother, Seasprit, spent more time here than any other Coralian. She shared Foam's love of the shore, and came whenever she could.
   The beach chatter was cut off by a scream. Foam sat up abruptly, sand spraying everywhere. The source of the shriek was a young ferretbabe, a few yards away from Foam, accompanied by her mother and father. She pointed towards the gargantuan cliffs that enclosed the bay on either side and screamed again. Her father swept her up in his arms and gazed in the direction of her distress. Then his eyes widened.
   "Birds!" But his cry came too late. The beachgoers scattered as a mass of seabirds launched off their perches at the top of the left cliff launched themselves towards the unready Coralians. Their harsh calls split the air as they hit the panicking Coralians from above. Pelicans, gulls, albatrosses, puffins, and ospreys dived in and out of the crowd. It was chaos. A pelican scooped a leveret up in its beak pouch and flew high before flipping onto its back. The babe cannoned into the sand, limbs bent at odd angles. A huge albatross broke an otter's neck with a single sweep of its huge wing, the sharp CRACK! Ringing over the beach.
   Foam was already moving when the wave of birds lifted into the air. He grasped the only weapon he had brought, a dogwood staff, and readied himself. Not a moment too soon. An osprey, bedraggled and coated with sea salt, flew towards him, hooked beak open, ready to snap down on his flesh. But the young otter turned and battered its head twice with his heavy rudder as it shot past. The bird hit the beach and bounced before coming to a limp stop.
   With a shout, a nearby patrol of Holtguards threw themselves into the fray. The otter guards numbered only three, but they wielded their axes with skill, sending more than ten birds to earth after only a few moments. Foam recognized one as Limpet, his father's deputy, before they were lost in a whirling, swirling melee of flashing beaks and beating wings.
   Then, as quickly as the fight began, it stopped. The ragged remains of the raiding party lifted into the air, flapping exhaustedly over the cliff. The Holtguards hurriedly strung their bows and fired into their midst, but most shafts fell short, only two seabirds spiraling to earth.
   Foam panted, supporting himself with his staff. All around him lay the ravaged corpses of birds and Coralians alike. Limpet unstrung his bow and placed it in the oversized quiver slung to his back, grimacing angrily. "Blast. Timp! Run to the palace and warn the Praetors immediately. Don't stop for anyone!" One of the Holtguards nodded and took off into the townhouses. Limpet waved at the Coralians who had began to cautiously poke their heads out of their home windows.
   "Everyone, back inside! Don't leave your homes!" The window shutters closed with sharp clacking sounds. Then the hefty otter saw Foam. He waved him over.
   "Well done, kit," he said, clapping a heavy, scarred paw on his shoulder. "Are you hurt?"
   Foam shook his head. "'m fine."
   "Good lad." He kicked at a dead cormorant angrily. "Blasted rats-on-wings. Only good bir is a dead one, remember that, Foam. Now I have another job for you." He pointed his axe towards the Coralians, who were slowly rising, bewildered, dazed looks on their faces. "Help them. Get the living up and on their way, and...leave the dead. Let the tide carry them away."
   Foam drew himself up with pride, puffing out his chest and swinging his rudder from side to side. "You can count on me."
   The otter lieutenant grinned crookedly and ruffled his headfur. "I know I can. Now get to it."
   Foam and the other Holtguard, a rugged male named Grotto, moved through the crowd, helping Coralians to their feet, organzing parties to take the wounded to Laurel Grove, the medical university, and, in some instances, separating the dead and their grieving friends and family. Foam swept up a leveret who was pawing at her mother's still form and sobbing and passed her to a nearby hedgehog. The dull beast dutifully waddled away, patting the babe gingerly on the head as she screamed and sobbed. After tearing a hogwife from her totally mutilated husband, he felt his stomach grow queasy and sat down on the blood-stained sand, rubbing his forehead.
   Some time later, he felt a heavy paw on his shoulder. He looked up at Limpet, who smiled sadly. "Up you go, kit. Let's get you home."
   High above them, a lone cormorant squawked in triumph.

[Krowdon]

Not bad.

What time period is this? Are there exotic animals or just woodland ones?

[Muse]

Ohh, really exotic.Squirrels, wolves, cormorants, puffins, alligators, komodos, newts, badgers, foxes, stoats, hermit crabs, lizards, moles, snakes, caimans....

The Empire of Coral is experiencing a Reniasance-type era, the rest of the world Dark Ages.

[Krowdon]

Sneak yourself some Maned Wolves in there instead of regualr old wolves.



Also, basic plot?

[Muse]

Ok. Coral is a massive Port empire. They are ruled by two praetors, bring light to the world, and create beautiful works of art. But they treat badgers as dumb steeds, enslave the squirrels, and believe in mammalian supremacy. Two groups, that of Akdad the gull and Zashad the komodo, are seeking to free their people from Coral's grasp. Foam meets a newt slave and is horrified at the tales of enslavement and evil. He tries to meet Zashad with the newt and an exiled Holtguard captain and his daughter. But Akdad's bird forces are destroying Coral. Foam brings Zashad to Coral in hopes of creating peace, and succeeds, but not before the fanatical wolf praetor is killed.

[Raggon]

*Claps*

Seems cool!

[Rakefur]

Not bad, I really enjoyed it. Post the rest soon?

[Muse]

Here es mucho.

Chapter Two
   "The birds have attacked Bowsprit Bay." The words trickled through the city of Coral. Ferret scribes clothed in dusty robes whispered them to each other in Scribe Quarter. They were shouted between Fang guards that patrolled atop the Great Praetor Wall. Hogwives gossiped about them amid the sawdust and sparks of Carpentry Street, and fat weasel merchants blithely mumbled them at luncheons.
   "The birds have attacked Bowsprit Bay. Oakum wants to go to war."

   Oakum, captain of the Coralian Holtguards and Third Senator, banged his fist against the heavy driftwood table, sending plates and glasses into the air to clatter back down, spilling their contents across the table. "Enough sitting! Enough fending off those sky-scum! It's time we took the fight to them!"
   Scapling, weasel merchant and Fifth Senator, sniffed disparagingly.  "Oh yes, let's! While we're at it, let's free the badgers and burn down the Tangles!"
   "Enough!" snapped Lady Opal, Second Praetor, as Oakum barked angrily and grabbed his axe-shaft threateningly. "Stop squabbling like a pair of babes or leave this meeting! Oakum, Scapling, you've made your positions clear, now both of you sit down!"
   They grudgingly complied. Lady Opal steepled her claws and ran her eyes over the remaining three Senators. The stoat Praetor cocked an eyebrow at Second Senator Hark Nastrew. "Now, we must proceed to a decision calmly and like true Coralians, exploring the current facts and possible effects of our choice. Nastrew, what's the damage?"
   The rabbit adjusted his sea-crystal spectacles. "Er, well, the total death count is twenty-seven, while a further fifty-one received varying injuries." He spoke from memory, without any apparent effort. "Three beasts are missing, presumed dead. Thirty-four seabirds have been recorded as dead."
   Lady Opal inclined her head. "Thank you. Oakum, I assume there were no Holtguard casualties?" The otter shook his head silently. "Very good. Fourth Senator Winkle?"
   The aging otter started. "Uhh? Oh, yes, my Lady?"
   "Could you track the surviving birds?"
   Winkle scratched his graying muzzle thoughtfully. "Hard t' say, my lady. If I could rustle up a good fleet o' ships and a, let's say, dozen Holtguards, I'd say so, my Lady."
   Lady Opal spread her paws. "There you have it. We have organized the facts, now we can make a responsible decision. All in favor of tracking down the birds, in hopes that they can finally lead us to Akdad and the Roost?"
   Oakum's paw shot up, followed by Winkle's and Hark Nastrew's at a less rapid pace. Lady Opal glanced at the two remaining, Scapling and First Senator Daktin Malcrast, captain of the Fangs, the Praetor Citadel's royal stoat guard. "I'm sorry, but you are outvoted, Senators."
   Daktin did not reply, but Scapling began to bluster. "Praetor, I must protest! Without Lord Lupis, this meeting is void! I insist that we postpone this voting until Lord Lupis can participate!"
   "I have the authority to decide that, don't forget," Opal said icily. Scapling shrank back and nodded hastily.
   Lady Opal glanced at the empty chair beside her. Where was Lupis?
   Blood.
   Lupis smelled blood, and it was his own. But that didn't matter. The pain was a sacrifice to the Pack.
   So was the gull's. So he kicked it's limp form again, partly because he enjoyed seeing it in anguish, but mostly because the Pack deserved it.
   The shoulder was aching from where its beak had stabbed him when he had bent down to wrap his claws around its throat, but he ignored the throbbing and focused on the shivering form before him.
   "I won't ask again. Where is the Roost? Where are all of you hiding?" He heard his own growl, but from far away. The bird didn't answer. The pain had obviously shocked it to silence. Lupis knelt down and slit its throat with a claw. Now he smelled more blood, and it wasn't his. It was for the Pack.
   As the bird gurgled and its lifeblood splashed against the marble floor, he remembered he was supposed to be in a meeting. He had promised Opal to be there, but the Pack had needed him to find the Roost's whereabouts' himself. But he had failed. So Lupis gathered up his turquoise Praetor robes and left the narrow cloak closet, heading to the Stateroom.
      
   Foam was up in his room, what his mother called "the Eye of the Storm." Truly, unlike the rest of the cluttered, messy house, his room was neat and clean. His mother was far better at cooking and telling stories than cleaning and sewing. But, instead of using her husband's elevated status to hire a host of maids, she insisted on letting the house stay as it was.
   But Foam kept his room organized and tidy. The maps he had drawn were carefully threaded together and packed in a dry rosewood box, his scrolls and tomes were arranged on shelves dotting his wall, and he kept his most prized secret possessions - a cormorant feather, a snake scale, a lizard fang, a tuft of unidentifiable fur, and his father's old rudder plate, a series of iron plates welded together to serve as rudder armor - in a chest under his cot.
   Foam put the finishing touches of his map of the Tangles and surveyed his work. There was the squirrel encampment, just as Luna, the weasel scribe neighbor, had told him; a place where squirrels harvested nuts and fruits and collected lumber for Coral. And there was the fox den, where the shadiest of Coral's subjects would congregate to whisper in shadows and murmur in corners. And there was the Wild Haven, where bounty-hunters, enemies of Coral, and wild beasts would flock for sanctuary, maintained by the Brotherhood of the Fallen Moon, a "pack of nincompoops whose sole purpose is to make things harder for me and Daktin under the guise of "peaceful assistance" "as his father put it.
   Foam stowed the map away and took out the map of the Skull. He smoothed the crinkled, fraying parchment, covered in those scribbles he had made, long ago....
   "The Skull?" Oakum frowns and takes the seaweed pipe from his mouth. "Whyd'ye want to know about that?"
   Foam's very young, only a few years old, but already he's dreaming. He clutches the white, empty parchment in one chubby paw and a stick of powdery charcoal in the other and crinkles his whiskers, still spider-silk thin. "Pockle told me that's where the badbeasts are sent to die."
   He knocks the long pipe bowl against the armchair and sticks it back in his mouth. "That's not exactly true. Oh well, you've got a right t' know." He picks him up and perches him on his lap. "Pass me that charcoal stick, will ye? The Skull's far, far away, near where the sun bleeds as it sinks into the earth. It's a big desert, a place covered in sand."
   "Like the beach?" Foam asked.
   "Nay, the Skull has no water. It's just sand. Like this." He sketches a few rolling sand dunes on the parchment. "And here is the Badgery. It's where the stoats breed strong badgers to act as our Fangs' mounts."
   "So that's where they come from!" He gazes pleadingly at Oakum. "Tell me more, please!"
   Oakum chuckles. "Here, I'll talk, you draw." Foam grasps the charcoal stick. "Ready? So right here is a small pool called the Flower of the Skull. It's the only water for miles around. And right here," he points towards the border of the map, "here is where the desert ends and you find a few mole farms. No, no, they're not that big, draw them nice and small. That's better." He nods seriously at the babe's scrawling. "Well, I may need to send this to the scribes, Foam. They could really use this!" Foam utters squeak of dismay and hugs the map close. "All right, fine, you can keep it."
   "Pa?"
   "Hmm?"
   "Who's Zashad?"
   Oakum sat in silence for a moment, puffing furiously at his pipe. Then he slowly nods. "Kit, I'm not goin' t' ask where ye heard that name. I wish ye hadn't, though." He sighs. "Foam, there are bad beasts that aren't like us."
   "You mean like rabbits and wolves?"
   "Nay, I mean like things without fur."
   Foam screws his face up in disgust. "Eww! No fur?"
   "Aye. They have scales, like fish, or things called feathers. They're not good beasts, Foam. They don't like us and our city. Zashad is a scaly beast called a lizard. He lives in the Skull, somewhere, hidden so that we can't find him." His voice grows hard and trembles with ill-concealed anger. "He's a madbeast, a rebel against us and all we stand for: light, civilization, beauty. He has been killin' our beasts for years on end, slayin', massacrin', lootin'. Coral won't be safe until him and his filthy army are as dead as the innocents they've ravaged." He shakes his head as if startled out of some dark trance and smiles weakly. "C'mon now, kit. That's enough o' talk o' such evil things. Off ye go now."
   Foam traced the charcoal lines with a webbed claw. So long ago, yet so alive in his memory. He hadn't fully understood his father until years later, when the birds had first attacked.....

[Muse]

And more....please comment...
Foam is a strong otterkit now, years older. He's putting the finishing touches on his map of Bowsprit Bay, with the Holtguard Cavern, Swot the Weasel's seedy tavern, the fishing port, the guard towers, all with a stick of chalky golden coral, when the first scream comes. Then a jumbled mass, like a pierced pillow, shedding feathers, slams into his window overlooking Lobster Street. Then there is a rough sqwuak, and the figure slams again, again, and breaks through the window –blue-tinted glass flying everywhere – and tumbles onto the pinewood floorboards.
   There are alarm bells ringing now, but Foam is focused only on the bedraggled beast before him. It's covered in feathers, and its arms have huge flaps hanging from them. Its nose is hard, long, yellow, and slightly hooked at the end. One of its bright orange legs is bleeding profusely, and both beady black eyes are clenched shut, the surrounding area lacerated with cuts. The thing opens its nose – which seems to be a mouth as well, Foam notices, horrified – and another keening cry bursts out of its narrow heaving chest. Foam shrinks back against his narrow cot as it heaves itself up and spreads its arms. They are almost twice the size of Foam's, and they begin to beat wildly. The thing then begins to lift into the air, higher and higher.         
   It drops out of the air, banging the floor hard, and then Foam finds his voice. He screams, and he hears pawsteps on the stairs. His mother's calling him, but the thing has gotten back into the air and is eyeing him, its mouth open, eyes narrowed....
   The door bursts open just as the thing speeds towards him. His mother is in the doorway, her toffee eyes flecked with gold and rage, her rudder swinging, a heavy iron pan in her paw. She swings and the thing collides with the lethal instrument with such force that it flies back out the window silently to fall to the street below.
   There are more screams outside now, and horrible cries and bellows and the sickening crunch of Holtguard axe meeting bone and flesh, but Foam sinks to the floor, trembling. His mother sweeps him up in her lithe arms, her heavy gold-and-conch bracelets and armbands jingling. She holds him close as he sobs in fear, whispering comfortingly in that strange accent from beyond the sea......
   Foam had never been so afraid before, or since. His mother had barricaded the doors and windows after that and they had sat in the family kitchen, sipping steaming cider around the oak table while the screams and clangs of battle sounded around them. Night fell, and only then did the noises cease and Oakum returned home, bruised and bleeding from dozens of gashes and scratches. The next morning, he had taken Foam onto his knee and told him a tale of an evil skua king, who ruled a horde of seabirds from his hidden fortress in the sea, and sought only the destruction of Coral, civilization, and every mammal in the world. Lokki, he said his name was, a vile demon that preyed on defenseless otter conch fishers and seaweed gatherers.
   "Foam?" Foam heard the door below open. He carefully placed the map back in its place and trotted down the narrow, winding stairs to their kitchen. Bera smiled gently and closed the door behind her. "Hello, saya hadiah," she said, catching him in a brief hug before stepping back and looking into his eyes. Foam wasn't a large otter, but his mother was unnaturally tiny, smaller than every other otter in Coral. She was slender, too, and she could speak a strange, husky language unheard of on this side of the world. All those had lent to the common idea that she was not a normal otter at all, but some strange breed from the Unknown Land beyond the sea. She never confirmed nor denied this idea, not even to her husband or Foam, the apple of her eye. When asked, she would only turn up the corners of her small mouth and shake her head silently.
   "Arrre you hurt, saya hadiah?" she said, patting his fur anxiously. "Madame Hardinay kept me laterrr than I wissed, or I would have come as quick as I could."
   "I'm fine, Ma," he said, shrugging off her searching paws. "Just a little shaken, that's all."
   She smiled again. "Good. Now hurrry outside to play, while I cook dinner." She glanced at the spotless stove in the corner, unused since summer had begun. "I suppose I'll have to use that old thing. Hmmf. Yourrr fatherrr will be home late. Opal called an urrrgent meeting, and he had to go." Bera refused to use any of Coral's leaders' titles, foregoing Senator, Praetor, and even Lord, Lady, or Captain. It wasn't natural, she maintained. Most people shrugged it off along with her other odd quirks, like refusing to eat any meat other than fish, or wearing heavy jewelry everywhere, no matter what company.
   Foam nodded and ducked out onto Lobster Street, where the elite of Bowsprit Bay set up their large homes: ship captains; rich sea merchants; wealthy old Holtguards, long retired from the force; boat sellers, and many others. But Oakum's four-story home was by far the largest and busiest. A score of Holtguards patrolled up and down the entire street, and a dozen more guarded its many doors and windows. A host of hedgehog drudges and weasel and otter maids swept, mopped, scoured, dusted, and organized all but the family suite.
   In the whole seventeen-room house, the four rooms – both bedrooms, kitchen, and washing room – were off limits to the staff, by command of Bera. Higgel, the rabbit butler, would go at loggerheads with her. His whiskers twitching angrily, he would straighten his turquoise-and-black uniform and stamp his footpaw. "Misstress Bera," he would splutter out, "I must insist that you allow me to clean the family suite! You are paying me to do my job, and I will do it fully and wholly."
   "I'm sorry Higgel," she'd reply, "but broom, mop, or duster will touch my floorrr unless it is wielded by me."
   "At least allow me to order a maid in to clean the dishes," he'd beg, but to no avail. Then he'd storm off dramatically, scut bouncing furiously, and order the first maid he saw to sweep the grand foyer again, or weed the flower garden, or soap the already sparkling windows.
   Besides Foam, only two other children populated the street. Ramina, the granddaughter of Fourth Senator Winkle, had lived with her grandfather ever since a bird raid took her parents away. She and Foam had become the closest of friends, going on all sorts of adventures as children, sailing the bay in a tiny coracle, hunting for bird spies that lurked from their imagination to the alleys of Bowsprit Bay, camping out on the sands of the beachhead, gazing up at the stars dashed across the heavens. But lately, Ramina had spent more time indoors with her grandmother, learning how to knit cowry buttons onto jackets, or the various ways to cook a soft-shelled crab. The time they spent together was growing smaller and smaller as they grew older and older.
   Tryan Sortle and Foam had feuded since before they could remember. The otter had taken an instant dislike to the fat ferretbabe, son of Blok Sortle, Bowsprit Bay's wealthiest and most infamous merchant. Tyran ordered his servants about mercilessly, screaming for cakes, new toys, and other goodies. Even Blok looked upon his son with distate during the scant times they were together, hurrying to escape his overweight son via his work. Tyran did all he could to land Ramina and Foam in trouble, ratting them out when they snuck out to the bay or market. He soon learned, however, that it was useless to snitch to either of the otter cubs' parents, for he was met with derision and ill-disguised contempt by the two otter couples. He never gave up though, even now that he was in training to take over his father's business.
   So Foam was greeted by a virtually empty Lobster Street, with a few Holtguards or business beasts visiting Winkle or Sortle the only life present. Foam sat on the front steps of the suite, amid the flower garden so meticulously tended by Bera, the only part of the house she to care in. He absent-mindedly plucked the petals from a rose, waiting for anything to break the boring monotony.
The diversion arrived in the form of Sophia, the weasel head Gardener. Well into her late seasons and with a plumpness to show it, Sophia ruled the scant gardens that surrounded the mansion. Her domain began with house walls, spanning rose bushes, small apple trees, and rows upon rows of lilies, Bera's favorite blossom, and ended with the cobbled street. Her three assistants feared her iron tongue and iron rake, both which she wielded with skill.
   
   

[cloud]

take this to the roleplaying section or something.

[Muse]

But its not an rp, and has nothing to do with RWL or Redwall.

[Genevieve]

You should get a blog or something.

[Krowdon]

I'm not sure it's the best thing to be posting all your chapters on the Internet like this.

[Muse]

....Sigh.Common sense wins out.
Very well! The posting shall end.

[Rakefur]

Why, if you don't mind? It's interesting.