It is a cold, grey day in Redfield. September's end has brought an unseasonably bitter rain, blanketing Gnaw overnight in a thin layer of frost. In the great courtyard of the Redfort, there is little respite to be found from the cold -- As if the fort itself were softly breathing, a low wind whistles from the arrowslits of the courtyard's sole red wall. The "courtyard", despite its leisurely name, was the darkest part of the Redfort, with roots breaking through the stony ceiling and coiling around the meager stalactites that could be seen in the dim light. The only parts of the courtyard that seemed to have been touched by the hands of mice were the floor, which was smoothed and tiled with great grey stones, and the wall containing the Redfort's iron doors, which were the same faded red as the bits of the fort visible from the outside. The steps leading up to it were not stone slabs, but uncarved indentations made by the journeys of thousands of Watchmice through its tunnel entrance.
A congregation of mice gathered at the courtyard, though they were not mice of the Redwatch. They were mice of villages, towns, and families. Today was the day they had been told, either by recruiters, posters, or appointment, that they were to arrive at Redfort's courtyard. Dozens of mice still made their way up the steep cavern by the light of torches on iron holders bolted to the wall, footsteps echoing against the soft rainfall outside the resonant cave. After a few minutes, it seemed even the slowest of stragglers made their way to the courtyard, and the low silence was replaced by hushed murmurs of conversation. The shadows of young mice cast themselves against the flickering orange light on the cave walls, stretching outwards and over the fortress's doors. Suddenly, a loud metal CLANG echoed throughout the cave, followed by the creaking of Redfort's doors beginning to move. Yellow light poured from the fort, blinding the mice for a few moments as Watchmice began to pour out the door in single file, quickly marching to a cadence marked by their collective "hut-hut-hut". Each wore the red armbands of the Redwatch, and each wore a colored cloak over their shoulders, flourishing behind them like the capes of fabled heroes.
As the Watchmice exited the fort, they formed two lines of six, one behind the recruits at the top of the stairs, and one in front of the recruits in front of the doors. The line of mice by the door split into two groups of three as the doors fully opened, forming rows pointed towards the doors, as if to funnel the crowd in. Within seconds, they had wordlessly corralled the recruits into the most efficient mass of wide-eyed, crowded mice possible. From the doors entered an old brown mouse, slowly dragging himself along with a short cane. Mice eagerly looked over him at the inside of the Redfort, though the next room seemed to be as empty as the court, with only banners and a few pacing Watchmice visible. Without clearing his throat or having the recruits stand at attention, the old mouse looked at the crowd and spoke up.
"You pups stand in the hallowed courtyard of the Redfort of Redfield." He began in a hoarse bark of a voice, as if speaking through a mouthful of rusty nails. "For millenia, this courtyard has seen generations of the Redwatch pass through, and generations of those who wish to invade. You walk on the graves of thousands of Gnawers and Gnashers who died in the name of securing Gnaw, whose bones have sank into the earth, who both died a death most foul." He began pacing across the front line of recruits, looking them over with dull grey eyes. His voice shook as he spoke, as if the grave matters he was speaking of were meant to be whispered.
"Know this; the first time you go through these doors will be the last day you wonder how you might die. By conscripting, you solemnly agree to die the bloody death of the thousands of mice before you, just as future recruits will agree to face the same fate as yours." The mouse paused his pacing, looking the mice over once more as his statement sank in. By now, two mice had understood the point of his speech, and began to silently make their way down the steps. A soft chuckle was heard from a small group of mice in the back of the crowd as the mice they had been discussing recruitment with moments ago had turned tail and fled. The old mouse took notice of this immediately, hissing and slamming the end of his cane -- which was either filled with lead or struck against an entirely hollow floor -- with a crack resonating throughout the cave walls like an explosion.
"This is no laughing matter. Those mice know they are not ready to make this commitment, and they are right to leave. They are not cowards. They are wise. Some of you in this crowd will ignore my warning and conscript with doubt yet in your hearts. A doubt that will grow into the fear that leads to a coward's death, dishonoring your ancestors as you are hunted down and killed for desertion. To those who wish to die in a den, this is your final chance to turn back."
Sure enough, more mice did just that, including two of the mice that had jeered the first to leave. In the end, the courtyard of recruits was made up of approximately a dozen or so mice. When the last of the newly-unassured mice had left, the old mouse turned, with a flourish of his dark red cloak.
"Follow me. It is time to take the trials."
A congregation of mice gathered at the courtyard, though they were not mice of the Redwatch. They were mice of villages, towns, and families. Today was the day they had been told, either by recruiters, posters, or appointment, that they were to arrive at Redfort's courtyard. Dozens of mice still made their way up the steep cavern by the light of torches on iron holders bolted to the wall, footsteps echoing against the soft rainfall outside the resonant cave. After a few minutes, it seemed even the slowest of stragglers made their way to the courtyard, and the low silence was replaced by hushed murmurs of conversation. The shadows of young mice cast themselves against the flickering orange light on the cave walls, stretching outwards and over the fortress's doors. Suddenly, a loud metal CLANG echoed throughout the cave, followed by the creaking of Redfort's doors beginning to move. Yellow light poured from the fort, blinding the mice for a few moments as Watchmice began to pour out the door in single file, quickly marching to a cadence marked by their collective "hut-hut-hut". Each wore the red armbands of the Redwatch, and each wore a colored cloak over their shoulders, flourishing behind them like the capes of fabled heroes.
As the Watchmice exited the fort, they formed two lines of six, one behind the recruits at the top of the stairs, and one in front of the recruits in front of the doors. The line of mice by the door split into two groups of three as the doors fully opened, forming rows pointed towards the doors, as if to funnel the crowd in. Within seconds, they had wordlessly corralled the recruits into the most efficient mass of wide-eyed, crowded mice possible. From the doors entered an old brown mouse, slowly dragging himself along with a short cane. Mice eagerly looked over him at the inside of the Redfort, though the next room seemed to be as empty as the court, with only banners and a few pacing Watchmice visible. Without clearing his throat or having the recruits stand at attention, the old mouse looked at the crowd and spoke up.
"You pups stand in the hallowed courtyard of the Redfort of Redfield." He began in a hoarse bark of a voice, as if speaking through a mouthful of rusty nails. "For millenia, this courtyard has seen generations of the Redwatch pass through, and generations of those who wish to invade. You walk on the graves of thousands of Gnawers and Gnashers who died in the name of securing Gnaw, whose bones have sank into the earth, who both died a death most foul." He began pacing across the front line of recruits, looking them over with dull grey eyes. His voice shook as he spoke, as if the grave matters he was speaking of were meant to be whispered.
"Know this; the first time you go through these doors will be the last day you wonder how you might die. By conscripting, you solemnly agree to die the bloody death of the thousands of mice before you, just as future recruits will agree to face the same fate as yours." The mouse paused his pacing, looking the mice over once more as his statement sank in. By now, two mice had understood the point of his speech, and began to silently make their way down the steps. A soft chuckle was heard from a small group of mice in the back of the crowd as the mice they had been discussing recruitment with moments ago had turned tail and fled. The old mouse took notice of this immediately, hissing and slamming the end of his cane -- which was either filled with lead or struck against an entirely hollow floor -- with a crack resonating throughout the cave walls like an explosion.
"This is no laughing matter. Those mice know they are not ready to make this commitment, and they are right to leave. They are not cowards. They are wise. Some of you in this crowd will ignore my warning and conscript with doubt yet in your hearts. A doubt that will grow into the fear that leads to a coward's death, dishonoring your ancestors as you are hunted down and killed for desertion. To those who wish to die in a den, this is your final chance to turn back."
Sure enough, more mice did just that, including two of the mice that had jeered the first to leave. In the end, the courtyard of recruits was made up of approximately a dozen or so mice. When the last of the newly-unassured mice had left, the old mouse turned, with a flourish of his dark red cloak.
"Follow me. It is time to take the trials."
