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."

---

Two different mice stood in the courtyard, although they were of the same blood. One was standing with the greenbands who hadn't fled, one foot on the head of a tremendous warhammer, standing a touch above everyone else in the courtyard. Her fur almost shimmered in the dull light, copper fur shifting around as she shifted the weight from her gambeson from one shoulder to the other. Compared to the other recruits, she looked overdressed and over-equipped, but she wasn't about to enter the redguard without having anything to her name. She would have preferred some gauntlets as well- and almost certainly a helmet, but she supposed this would have to do for now. Not like anyone else had anything better.

When the... She supposed he was a Watch Captain? He certainly held himself like that- like he knew how to fight, and even though his body has forgotten, his brain still remembered. He seemed like the kind of person that in his youth could have picked up a sword and felt at home with it. Not that that mattered now. She doubted he could still sprint, let alone fight a gnasher.

She wasn't intimidated though. There was a black mark over her heart. Dying in a den was never going to be her fate. Kicking the warhammer's head up and swinging it at the same time, she used the momentum to brace it over her shoulder and began following him, looking back at the other recruits as if to ask them if they were coming.

---

Meanwhile, Myrtle was laying out the plan to Flint.

"It'ld dus be us dis time. 'Parrently we'll be ge'ting a greenie after dis, but dey still need to go t'rough de trial. We'll be going af'er a badger, so bring your nastiest stuff. I know you like your 'on'o'tions. A few bombs wou'n't hurt, and someting dat would cause him to run or be distra'ted. Maybe some kind of flash-y, bang-y ting, or chilli maybe. We need to go tout do, so don't dilly too long on this."

Oliver looked over his shoulder as small groups of mice began to leave the courtyard- following the older watchmouse who addressed them. The idea of a bloody death didn't sit well with most mice, Oliver included, and not least of all including those who turned tail and left. Oliver himself stood his ground, surprisingly enough, his paws grasping tightly at the strap of the satchel over his shoulder, and breathing deeply to help steel himself. Another day, Oliver probably would have left as well. He never proclaimed himself to be a particularly stout or lion-hearted mouse, and a couple of the other recruits, fully expecting him to turn off and run sneered at him when they saw he didn't.

Oly glanced around at the other watchmice who stood, staring them down, and found himself making eye contact with Aran Badgerslayer, whom, despite having his arm in a sling, stood as tall and as proud as the rest of the watchmice. The veteran watchguard nodded subtly, but approvingly, and Oly felt more confident in his decision to stay- if only slightly.

Returning his attention to the head watchmouse, the aging mouse beckoned for them to follow him, saying that it was time for them to take the trials- whatever they were. Oly and a few of the other mice looked at each other, nervous. The mouse standing next to him gestured forward with his head, implying that Oly should walk first. Oly shook his head and did a similar gesture, indicating that that mouse should go first instead. Despite the silent arguing, it would appear that it didn't matter which of the two went forward before the other, as another mouse decided to take the lead.

A female mouse, a good bit taller than Oly and many of the other mice in the courtyard walked forward first. She wore a gambeson and balanced a warhammer over her shoulder- two bits of equipment more than almost every other mouse in the courtyard. Were they supposed to bring their own weapons, Oly wondered. He had never really held a sword before- outside of his childhood days where him and his brothers would run around with sticks, whacking eachother. The other recruits watched her in a sort of stunned stupor before she turned again, looking at them as if beckoning them to follow.

Oly took a deep gulp and forced himself to step forward. The mouse standing next to him took a deep breath and followed a second later. A general shuffle of footsteps behind them indicated that a few more had began to follow.

As the last of the Greenbands entered the fort, the Watchmice shepherding them followed steadily, metal doors slamming behind them with an eerie finality. The hall they walked was brightly lit on either side with torches, reflecting light off of the many shields, axes, and swords displayed on the walls between tapestries and portraits of Redfield's past monarchs. All around them, Watchmice scurried between halls and doorways, as if every mouse present was late. Some hurriedly made their way through the halls single file, carrying cauldrons of stew or trays of bread, while some slowly carried construction materials or stretchers of the infirmed in groups of two. The Redfort buzzed with sights and sounds of work, which appeared fairly routine to the Greenbands. Despite the cacophony of entire armies of mice trotting up and down the halls, none of the Watchmice surrounding them seemed like there was anything out of the ordinary. The greywhisker leading their group seemed less formal than he did during his speech, trotting along with his walking stick at a smoother cadence, waddling to and fro as he discussed some private matter to the ear of a Watcher beside him. The Watcher nodded, and without missing a beat, turned the next corner and broke off from the group of Greenbands.

Eventually, the old Watchmouse led them to a door, dismissing the rest of the Watchers with a clenched fist in the air, signalling them to scatter themselves down different hallways, marching to some other obligation.

"First thing's first. There'll be no talking while I'm talking, so shut the hell up." The Watchmouse said to the crowd of silent Greenbands. He unlocked the door, opening it to reveal an empty room -- no tapestries or swords adorned its walls, or anything else for that matter. On one end of the room was a set of wooden double doors, with two mice stationed at either side. In front of them was a large crank built into the floor like a millstone, and in the center of the room, a pile of weapons and armor.

"Those of you who weren't dropped off with pappy's sword and a kiss on the cheek should arm yourself here." The old Watchmouse said, making his way to the double doors with a steady tap of his cane. "If you fight over a sword, fight with your hands. You don't want to start the trials with a gash, believe me." He chuckled softly. Reaching the double doors, he swung them open to reveal not a room, but a wooden platform. If the Greenbands had seen an elevator, they would know what it was, though there were still only two of its kind in Gnaw.

"When you're done, come over here, and don't dilly-dally."

---

I’m sure glad I came here prepared. Can’t imagine sortin’ through a pile of rubbish weapons with dozens of oth’rs would feel very fun. Then again, ain’t here to have fun much; here to join and serve the watch so shite like that raid back home don’t happen to anymouse if I can help it. Fuck’n take a lot more than harsh words and a pointed glare to get me to turn tail. I ain’t no coward. I ain’t.

Athelstan of Cottonmouth’s rightmost paw moved to the harness that held his clawed sword in place. As confident as he may have been, he would be lying to himself if he tried to make the claim that he wasn’t anxious or nervous. But after witnessing squirrels drop down from the sky and slit the necks of the good people of Cottonmouth, he was absolutely certain that whatever he saw and had to contend with in the trials wouldn’t faze him. But given by the step of the senior watchmouse and the look of the strange platform Athelstan wasn’t sure to make of anything. Was it some sort of battle circle? A trapdoor that would drop them into some sort of gauntlet? It was hard to guess given his lack of experience with fancy things designed by builders and masons. He wasn’t smart with such things, but when it came to iron and steel, anvil and hammer, cloth and needle? That was something he knew.

He moved closer to the platform and the senior watchmouse. He gave him a respectful nod. “Ser.”

The initiative in being ready was one thing he had over the brood of recruits… well, outside of a girl that held a hammer with confidence; a hammer that appeared masterwork in design. Athelstan wasn’t sure if the girl or the hammer interested him more. He didn’t allow himself to be distracted by the thought however and kept his attention to the senior watchmouse.

“I’m ready.”

Flint's brow was creased as he tried to decipher Myrtle's words. He didn't dislike his superioir- she was pretty pleasant most of the time, bu the damnable accent made her bloody difficult to understand. He got the gist though. They were going to fight a badger. Just the two of them. Against a badger. He sighed deeply. They would certainly need something to assist them. He hadn't heard of how effective his explosives would be against them, but their size would mean that he would need to be lucky. It seemed like chilli would be his best bet. He nodded at Myrtle. "I'll go and get some chilli ready."

He turned with a flourish of his cloak and fumbled around in his pocket for his gloves. They were sturdy things, and since he had a few cuts on his paws, he really didn't want to have to deal with the stinging, burning sensation that came with the powder.

---

Sitting down at the desk in his room, he reached up and took the huge chilli he had down. He might need this much. Perhaps not. Taking his scalpel, he made a slit along the middle of it, then, with a little effort, parted the two sides. Reaching inside, he pulled out the seeds- where the spice was concentrated- and placed them down. The flesh tasted pretty good when you cut it right. That wasn't his concern now however.

He took his largest pestle and motar and placed three of the seeds in, before setting to work, his goggles affixed to his eyes. He really didn't want to go blind here. Potion making was distinctively hard when one could not see their ingredients, nor source them,

At the tail end of the crowd of potential recruits, a shadowy form scurried along behind. Small and unassuming, one wouldn't be remiss not to notice it. The dark shape hid itself partially between the bodies of two larger, more capable mice; they looked like farming boys, given their ridiculous mass and distinct lack of brain cells. These were the next generation of Watchmice? Seriously? Passing underneath the light of a torch, the dark furred rodent was briefly made visible to those around him. The young mouse, apparently eager to blend into the crowd of recruits, looked like the recent victim of a violent mugging. Tired, beady eyes had slight swelling around small, wretched scars that dotted his face. The few times the mouse opened his mouth, one likely caught a glimpse of his chipped front tooth. Even average mice nearly towered over the stunted young rodent. Short, scrawny and worse for wear, his presence- when eventually noted- had brought more than one shaking head or silent chuckle. Sleepy Eyes Erian didn't look like he belonged. He wasn't built like a warrior mouse, nor did he carry himself like one. Erian was always crouched over, making himself even smaller than he naturally was.

Erian kept a close eye on those around him, sizing up the competition. He was easily among the smallest of the mice in the group, many of them outright towering over him. The grey whiskered rodent leading their group forward wasn't exactly a picture of strength either, but Sleepy Eyes could tell the old mouse was still plenty dangerous in his age; though likely not in the same way he was in his youth. He hadn't minced words with the crowd of new to soon be greenbands. Passing through the front gate was their way of signing on for death. It had...nearly shaken Erian's resolve, if he was wholly honest. He almost turned back with the other cowards. But his inner patriot spurred him forward. Erian had always looked up to the Redwatch; and with his personal situation as it was, the tiny mouse all but had to, if he didn't want to starve to death or spend the rest of his life as a needy dependent. Erian wasn't gonna run with his tail between his legs. That wasn't even an option. Jaw set, and filled with uneasy determination, the black furred fighter slipped into the back of the group and proceeded forward into the Redfort's dimly lit halls.

Their Watchguard led the band of misfits into an almost barren room, save for what looked like a door, a crank and...a pile of weapons. That made Erian wonder. Were they being thrown into the action straight away, then? No orientation? No getting settled or basic health tests? A trial by fire was certainly one way to do things. Not knowing the ways of the Redwatch, Erian was glad his aunt had the charity to purchase the bow that rested over his shoulder. It's craftsmanship wasn't masterful, but it was sturdy and would certainly get the job done. Erian had been practicing with it behind the house for a couple of weeks already. He was far from a real marksman, being mostly self taught and still fairly clumsy- Erian had a long way to go before he'd ever be able to shoot with the same skill as a full blown Watcher. If his shaky archery skills failed him, the mouse had the blade on his hip to fall back on. Less than half the length of a normal sword, and a bit shoddy in his construction, Sleepy Eyes's hunting knife was a last resort sort of thing. He almost wanted to replace it with something from the pile of weapons in the center of the room, but the other Greenbands had already taken the good stuff.

Shifting on his feet, Erian scurried across the room, slowly tracing his eyes over some of the more interesting characters. There was one mouse, with lighter fur and a brawnier build, that looked particularly intimidating. He had scars that made Erian's look like scuff marks and a sword that could probably cleave the tiny mouse in half. Not far from him was another particularly large mouse that caught Erian's eye, though this rodent was a she. Wielding a warhammer that was probably heavier than Erian's whole body and actual armor unlike anyone else in the room, she was a sight to behold for a mere recruit. Had to be nobility; or a veteran's daughter, at the very least, to show up with that kind of equipment. What really caught his eye, though, was the familiar patch of black fur around her heart. It actually made the rodent smile, though it wasn't a happy or humored one. It matched his own matted coat in it's darkness, and likely burdened her with the same tired superstitious looks that Erian received. Sleepy Eyes hovered closer to the two largest mice in the room paw clenching at the bow over his shoulder. He'd use the big guys as cover for when shit inevitably hit the fan.

'Keep your head down, Eri. Dunno where this elevator thing leads or why, but this is lookin' like it'll get bad quick.'

Oliver jumped as the metal doors slammed behind him. He looked around furtively to see if anyone noticed. Somemouse probably did, though no one seemed to pay him any mind. He shuddered to himself and adjusted the strap on his medicine bag as he followed the watchmice down the hallway. The hallway was lined with the legacy of the Redwatch and the Redfort. Shiny swords and shields- just out of reach for the more... entrepreneurially minded sort. The next room by comparison was drab and dreary- there were still swords and shields- just in a big unorganized pile in the center of the room. Spear racks stood there, decrepit, half empty. Unsheathed swords and knives lay in a mess on the floor. Cloth vests and tattered scraps of chainmail was heaped unceremoniously nearby.

The recruits were told to arm themselves.

At the front of the pack, Oliver found himself less walking to the pile, and more pushed towards it, as the mice behind him silently surged forward, intent on claiming the best weapons for themselves. Oliver himself stood unsteadily at the edge of the pile- he'd never fought a mouse before, never swung a sword or chopped with an axe. He had been under the impression that the Redwatch would teach him how to fight over time, though the foreboding look of the elevator in front of them gave Oliver the sinking feeling that he was going to have to get experienced with his choice of weapons quickly.

Most of the mice around him grabbed at swords and axes- swords being the weapon of choice for mice, a noble and brave weapon. Many stories were told of brave Watchmice slaying vicious gnashers with their trusty and legendary swords, so it was no surprise that that was what most mice defaulted to. Reaching into the pile and avoiding the bare blades, Oliver grasped at the handle of the closest sword he could find and pulled it out. The result was one of the few swords that still had a sheath, and even a belt to go along with it.

He quickly fastened the belt around him and drew the sword, examining it. It was short. It was barely longer than his forearm, an oversized knife if anything. While it seemed to be made well enough, Oliver had never used such a weapon, and had the sinking feeling he'd just as easily cut himself as he would accidentally drop the bit of steel. Glancing at a nearby spear rack, he hesitantly reached out and grabbed one.

This weapon was long- much longer than the sword, easily his height with a steel point affixed to the end of it. It was almost as light as the sword too. Light enough to hold out and easy enough to poke somemouse with. Oly opted to carry this weapon as well, and walked towards the elevator. Carrying any more weapons would probably be too cumbersome of him, not to mention greedy. That, and all the good weapons seemed to have been taken by this point.

Walking to the elevator and nervously glancing over the precipice, he stood next to a bigger mouse with a shield and sword with a claw for a pommel. He was too scared to say anything.

Willow found no issue with picking out equipment from the pile. Being one of the larger mice in the group, she moved to the front with relative ease, and cast a careful eye over the gear. She put a foot down on the head of her hammer and reached down, pulling up a pair of thick metal gloves. Gauntlets. They were splinted- her father had made them before and she recognised them. There was a metal 'spine' that ran down it, which the rest of the armour was then attached to.

They fit on her paws relatively well, but then she spotted something a bit more useful. A helmet. Mice didn't tend to wear these, but there was no denying that a gnasher would have a harder time of it when you had good steel around your skull. She would have taken a buckler that she had also seen in the pile, but that had been snatched up. Oh well.

When all that was done, she picked her axe up again, giving her helmet a quick rap with her new gauntlets to make sure it was all fitted at least somewhat well.

She ended up in the elevator next to a large mouse carrying a sword and shield, and a shorter one with a spear. "'areful. 'ou 'ould poke me eye out wit dat."

@Vietmyke

There was something wondrous about the mighty Redfort. Growing up so far beneath the titular fortress, the gem of Redfield, the hallowed halls were synonymous with the high life lived by those fortunate enough to be close to the surface. For years, since she could remember, Bernia had dreamt of the castle and its splendor. How many starved days had she fantasized living in the excess of the inner keep? How many shivering nights did she pray desperately to be swept away to a plush straw nest inside the safety of its red walls? The idea that one day, just maybe, the comforts of the grandiose fortress so high above her head could be hers kept the pup struggling. It was a fantasy, something she could hook her paws into when hopelessness sought to drown her alive in the slums.

Now she padded silently within its cavernous chambers, no longer a mere pinkie deluded by illusions of grandeur. She would be no noblewoman, no unlikely peasant romanced by some royal prince and swept from worries. She would be a Watcher, one meant to maintain the peace she craved so badly in the piss ridden darkness of Mite Manger. One destined to bleed and die so others could live in her fantasy world. There was a bitterness in her at that idea, more prevalent than usual. Why did they get to live so comfortably? Why did they get to enjoy the benefits of the blood shed by mice like her, mice like those shuffling towards the catacombs with her? It wasn't fair... But she had learned long ago, before those pretty little dreams formed in her young mind, that life wasn't fair.

She'd just have to do what she could to make it more fair. For herself, that was. The ornate crossbow hanging loosely from her back by hastily woven fibers was a testament to her willingness to equal the odds, even if it disadvantaged others. That pretty faced noble boy would have to win his glory without daddy's precious weapon. She wasn't exactly sure how it worked, sure, but it was an advantage. Bernia would seize any advantage she could get. She would need every one of them, if she was going to carve out a better life in this damned Watch. With that in mind, the little rodent made to the weaponry so haphazardly thrown around the chamber she and her fellow initiates were led into. It was all old, rusted or outright broken. She'd need better. Something better...

The general crowd, as a result of her insistence on hanging back, had shuffled ahead of her. If anything, those at the head of the crowd would've had the best weaponry. That's where she'd find the best equipment. Like a rat to slaughter, the cutpurse exercised some quickness of foot and began weaving her way through the unwashed masses. Eyes well adapted for the pitch blackness scanned every nook and cranny as the underfed youngling bobbed and weaved under elbows and arms. She needed something good and shiny, something that wasn't rotted to the core with red rust.

Like that nice looking blade just ahead of her. A meek looking lad with a spear and a sword? He even had the fortune of nabbing a belt for it. It was probably mint condition inside that oiled up scabbard. A good find. To make natters even better, he seemed distracted, looking around, having his neighbor speak with him. She'd have to be careful, make sure not to tug the belt as she worked the clasp holding the sword to it undone. Without pomp, shame, or ceremony, Bernia saw fit to tip toe her way to this poor sod and, angling herself as to not be easily viewed by the she-mouse talking with him, reach out to untie the tethers that kept his weapon to his hip so she could make off with it.

@vietmyke

_{Watchguard Fenn - @Deadbeatwalking
Watcher Cedric - @Sloth
Greenband Bernia - @Asura
Greenband Oliver - @vietmyke
Greenband Willow - @Lady Selune
Greenband Athelstan - @Inkarnate
Greenband Erian - @Superboy}

The recruits descended through the elevator shaft with a deep rumbling, going past the face of a long stone chasm in complete darkness, and then past torchlit levels of the Redfort, so far numbered up to nine; The Hall of Watchers, The Redwatch Bureaucratic Chamber, The Redfort Maintenance Floor, The Kitchen, and several progressively less well-lit levels after the aging Watchmouse decided he wasn't going to name all of the floors for "a bunch of green-boned recruits". They seemed mostly residential, with varying degrees of affluence. The recruits passed another stone wall, enshrouding them in darkness yet again, before opening up to another level. This one was dark red stone, barely kept lit by the torches along the uncarved cavernous walls. Dripping stalactites hung from the ceiling, shimmering in the torchlight. This was the only floor where the nearby Watchmice bothered to acknowledge them -- Mice in boiled leather helmets, brandishing pickaxes and shovels, waved at the mice as they passed.

"Those are the miners of the Redfort. You'll see those smiling faces again if you survive."

There was a hush of whispered talking at the furthest corners of the elevator platform, which were hushed by the Watchmouse slamming his canetip on the floor with a low thud

"Aye, survive. Here is not the place for questions. You'll be asking them when you reach The Deep."

The elevator remained surrounded by nothing but stone for some time, longer than the elevator had taken to reach any floor. They continued descending in silence for minutes, until the platform opened up not to another doorway, but a rush of cold air. The elevator platform had descended into a massive, pitch-black cavern -- The untrained ears and adjusting eyes of the recruits were still attuning themselves to their surroundings, though it was the cold, dank cave winds that caused them to instinctively step away from the unfenced platform edge. The recruits who bothered to sniff out their surroundings would notice a faint stench of meat clinging to the air.

The platform slowly descended down, hundreds of feet to the cave floor, where they reached a set of stone steps. At both sides of the platform, there were teams of Greenbands surrounded by several torchwielding Watchmice, all holding onto great wooden cranks like the one the Greenbands in the armory room had turned.

"You'll be met by Watcher Cedric at the bottom of the stairs. Best of luck to you, go for the eyes when you can."

These were the final words of encouragement offered by the Watcher, as the platform began to rise with the turn of the cranks. The recruits descending the stairs, even in the feint torchlight provided by the crank-guarding Watchers, failed to see the end of the stairs in the darkness, or the beast that loomed therein.

---

_{Watchguard Myrtle - @Lady Selune
Watcher Flint - @Irredeemable}

True to its name, Stormreach seemed to be the rainiest place the two Watchmice had traveled to, despite it only being a two-day travel up into Westercroft. In lieu of a forest path, as many they traveled were, the path to Stormreach was mostly through cold, swampy meadows. Early that morning, their second day of travel, it had only been drizzling a weak mist of rain, which Flint had assured Myrtle would die off as the day progressed, or remain a drizzle at worst. This was no drizzle, but a downpour that threatened to wash the mice off their feet and into a roadside gulch. Fortunately, they had passed the Stormreach border minutes before, and seemed to be at the end of the dirt road leading up to the village. They reached not a stone wall, or even a wooden border, but a shallow, knee-high moat around the town. From a distance, it looked like someone had simply drawn a line around the town in the soil with a stick. To be fair, the town did not look ripe with resources that would make them want to build a wall. If the town were any fruit-based descriptor, ripe would be the last. Perhaps low-hanging, or bespoilt, but certainly not ripe.

The village was made up of dozens of dirty looking thatch-roofed cottages, with a sole tower at the other end of the town, visible due to the sharp left curve around a forest of untamed thyme -- The Watchmice assumed it to be the Redwatch outpost, which was their destination. Despite being a bordertown, no guard stopped them at their arrival, nor did a stationed Watchmouse greet them. The luxury of the Spoorwall kept out predators, though it seemed this village's strategy to avoid Gnasher raids was to be, as the mouse who chose to greet them,

"Shiiiiiiiiit!" shouted an aging tawny mouse. "Muck! Scum! Bullies and shit-mongers!" He approached them from around the corner of a cracking building's frame, staring them down with one blind eye, wiggling a cane at the Watchmice. He hurried towards them at a meager pace. "We have enough Watchers in this town! No more! To hell with the both of you, and bugger the Redwatch!" By now, he had drawn a small crowd of three, who had poked out of a nearby pub to see the commotion.

---

_{Watcher Ramekins - @71452K
Watcher Aleria - @Inkarnate
Watcher Godric - @Captain Jenno}

There were few castles more unimpressive than Taproot. It was surrounded by four short walls, just taller than a mouse on a second mouse's shoulders, with two Watchmice guarding its one entrance -- On this day, Watcher Aleria and Watcher Godric. They had been stationed at the gates not to protect the castle, but to properly greet, guide, instruct, and quarantine the caravan of young mice arriving. These were not the Greenbands the castle was overdue for, but the last of the survivors from a small, plague-ridden village in Westercroft. It was not their place to treat them at least. That duty fell on the furry shoulders of one Watcher Ramekins, who had been hard at work preparing the castle's infirmary for the influx of patients. Along the horizon, the two Watchers saw two lizards emerge over the hill, wrapped in leathery reigns. A few moments later, the wagon they were pulling came into sight over the horizon as well. An orange-cloaked Watchmouse whipped them onward. From the looks of it, the wagon was big enough for a dozen, perhaps even two dozen mice. Soon, the wagon was not a bump on the horizon, but close enough to the castle for the Watchmice to call for the gates to be opened. Lizards, after all, did not pull wagons like beetles or turtles, who each tarried along as if on their way to tea. Lizards pulled wagons like the wagons were chasing them.

"Hail! I am Watcher Edwin of Thatcherton. I have been assigned with the transport of the survivors of Vinehold to the nearest village with a Redwatch outpost. Is this the castle Taproot?" He asked, giving the meager fort a befuddled look, as if halfway unsure as to whether or not he stood before a heavily fortified barn. One of his lizards grumbled a disagreeable whine, as if to concur with his master.

The newest Watcher of the Redfort couldn't tell just how long he'd been stuck down in the Deep. It had become exponentially more difficult to tell the time since he found himself surrounded by nothing but pure darkness save for the lit torch in his hand and the faint glow eminating from the cavern behind him. To pass the time, he'd begun whistling a cheery tune, echoing eerily throughout the chamber. Not a song of his own creation, but an old tune popular in Redfield. He had learned it as a boy because the beat of the song paired with his own labored footsteps on the fields of the family farm, and now he stood in the caverns of the Redfort whistling it as if to warm himself.

A lass who bore the light of the town
Her fur of ivory thread
How she danced is stuck in my crown
And back to the Glen my boat led

Cedric reached only the end of the first stanza before it was drowned out by the ominous rumbling of the Fort's elevator and the subsequent cascade of footsteps descending into the Deep. Cedric couldn't help but smile to himself.

"Show time."

It took a good few minutes for all of the recruits to amass themselves into such an admittedly tight passageway. Luckily enough they'd found it in them to remain mostly silent. That made things marginally easier. A group of a dozen or so recruits stood before him in moments. Which was a fair bit less than the members of his own recruiting class.

"First thing's first, welcome to the Watch." Cedric gave the group a courteous nod before continuing. It wasn't a phrase from the speech he was assigned to memorize, but then, Cedric was not a mouse for following instructions by the letter in the first place.

"As my superior has no doubt told you, my name is Cedric. Being the junior member of the order, it's my job to introduce you lot to the perils of your own initiation." he turned sideways and moved towards a sconce at the base of the cavern.

"Follow me."

He led the mice down a short stone pathway, descending further into the darkness of the caverns. Around them, though not close enough to help illuminate their path, were clusters of phosphorescent green mushrooms, casting a dim light in the shadows. The stench of meat grew closer.

"The jist is that I'm going to go further into this big old cavern right here and light a number of torches. You're going to follow those torches back to the top of the Deep. You have until the final torch goes out to complete the trials. Simple enough, right?" he turned back towards the recruits, pulling an unlit torch from the ground and sparking it with a piece of flint.

"If you ignore the cannibals, spiders and pitfalls, at least."

Cedric expected a couple of the recruits would've laughed at that if not for the immediate screech that filled the chamber before they had the opportunity to do so. Instead, he was met with gasps and shrieks when his newly acquired mount made her entrance, emerging from the darkness like a (thinking up mouse metaphors is hard okay). All in all she was a beautiful thing to behold, as were the reactions she was getting. How lucky was he that the Deep was large enough to fly a kestrel through relatively unobstructed?

"Sadly enough, this magnificient bird of prey is not one of your trials."

Cedric approached the beast with all the nonchalance that came with being an experienced pilot. He stroked her beak before putting his left foot in one of the stirrups at her side and pulling himself into the saddle, which was tricky considering the lit torch in his hand. No doubt fear had blinded the majority of the recruits to that little detail, let alone all the unlit torches in a pair of saddlebags. He decided to keep the goodbye short and simple.

"Remember: Follow the torches."

And just like that, he was off.

Godric tried his best to keep the airs of civility about him, as Edwin’s lizards thundered their way towards Taproot: but he couldn’t hide from himself the wariness their sudden appearance inspired. Although decidedly different from their savage amphibious cousins, lizards- those flashes of furless flesh moving quick and steady towards him- still made his heart pound behind his eyes. He shifted restlessly from one foot to the next, and left a ginger-cuffed paw hovering over the pommel of his sabre as Edwin’s wagon rolled towards the castle gates. Still, however, he made the effort to smile politely as the new arrival talked, although said smile was rehearsed, stale and not all too comforting – as oft Godric’s smiles were. It grew a little warmer once he caught sight of the doubt in the other mouse’s face, though, and he was marginally endeared – at least he wasn’t alone, in thinking that this was hardly a place befitting a title so grand as castle.

”Aye, and well met, Watcher: you’ve found Taproot, small but stubborn.”
Or so, at least, he was told. He took a moment to scan the wagon, eyes narrowed slightly – in that way he narrowed them whilst trying to gauge a distant terrain. This assignment had been an unfortunate one, because Godric found himself fiercely out of his element: he was a man of the trails, and preferred to face dangers he could scout out, first. Disease was a whole different beast, which oozed puss and spread invisibly – he might never see it coming, eyes narrowed or no. It made his fur stand on end.

”Watcher Godric of Glenstone, glad to meet you. I suppose we better get your people inside, hadn’t we?”, he proposed, although the gesture only made his anxieties worse. What was it he was about to bring upon himself?

He made moves towards opening the gate, but spoke as he did so: ”First, though, is that wagon air tight? How are you feeling?”