"Open your eyes, child."
Nyran opened his eyes slowly, raising a paw against the tearing winds. In the dark world spread out before and below him, all he could see were bare spires of stone, an empty abyss and wind-borne debris. Somewhere, a vulture screamed.
"What do you see?"
"Deadness." Nyran replied mechanically. "Our world is gone. It is all dark."
"The hearts of all beasts, even the brave or stolid, can corrupt. As our world was corrupted by the goodbeasts of Syla, the minds of all are too easily corrupted by greed and power.
"But do not fear, Nyranias, for we are the stolid. We cannot fall to evil. It is not our calling." The old otter placed a hand on his adopted son's shoulder. "I wish that I could see the destruction myself, that my wrath would be kindled." He growled. Then he relaxed and sighed. "Alas, I am blind."
"I can see." Nyran looked up at his father with stony eyes. "You know I will avenge our land, father."
At first, there was silence, then there a slow smile spread across Talafang's face. "You remember our beliefs, then."
"We are the meek, we are the silent." Nyran intoned, staring out across the desolation, to the deserts north of the Lonely Tower. "The earth is our mother. We would die for her sake, for she was first. We owe her all."
The father knelt beside him, searching his face with his blind, milky eyes. "Do you understand what you must do, my child?"
"The hearts of all may be corrupted. Trust no one. And then destroy all. War will wage while the earth bears us as her burden. We must wage the last and greatest war, to cleanse the south of beastkind. Our world is lost, but the world of Mossflower may be saved."
"It exists, then?" Nyran asked in some wonder.
"Yes, Mossflower exists, my child. She is the last of the great woods. And you will be her savior."
"Has he awoken yet?"
"No. He mumbled once in his sleep, calling a name, perhaps his own. Jayden." Sister Amberspike replied. Then he said sadly, "The poor mouse may never wake at all, I'm afraid. The dear creature took such a blow." She dabbed the gruesome wound with a damp cloth. "I fear that if he does not wake on the morrow, he will not wake at all."
Rosen was quiet for a moment, staring at the wounded mouse child. A cruel gash from a studded mace had slashed one side of his skull, now wrapped in bandages. Oh, the poor child… He was so young...
"If he does live?" The squirrel inquired cautiously. "Will he be alright?"
"We have no way of telling how long he will live. He could fine one hour, then dying the next. It might take no more than an instant, even. We cannot be certain. His head was damaged terribly. And it permanent."
Rosen put out her hand. "Come and eat. There is nothing we can do for him now."
Amberspike shook her head, smiling sweetly at her. "Thank you my dear, but I could not live with myself if he passed in his sleep, alone."
"Then I will bring you something to eat. In the meantime, I will do my best to keep away the inquisitive dibbuns."
When Rosen had left, Amberspike reached out and took the tiny creature's hand. A warm breeze washed through the open window and somewhere a bird called.
The soft wind ran through the child's ragged whiskers. He stirred. Amberspike's breath caught in her throat. The child stirred again.
Then the eyes slowly opened. One was a pale, innocent blue, like the waters of a cold stream. On the side of his face, affected by the injury, his other eye was dead and milky white. It did not move. He was part blind.
"Where am I?" The mouse tried to sit up, dizzyness washing away, panic slowly taking hold. "What happened?" He called, staring about the room. Everything was blurry.
"You are at Redwall, my child."Amberspike placed her paws on his shoulders and held him gently until he began to calm. "There is nothing for you to fear here. We are creatures of peace."
"Wh..." He faltered. "What happened?" Tears of frustration poured down his cheeks. He tried so hard to remember... but all that he saw was a frightening wash of strange colors. His memory so close and yet so far away, some indecipherable painting so called on deep and stirring emotions. It as strange and frightening as it might have been, had he awoken completely blind.
"You were found not far from our gates by an otter clan. He were being assailed by some vermin, who took all of your belongings. You've been asleep since then, injured."
The mouse took in his surroundings, curious and sharp-eyed. The this near-dibbun, light washed into the window as if from a pointing. Everything ray of light, every shadow, was a smile on the face of beauty, awaiting to be noticed and drawn from behind the curtain of a waking dream. The world was art.
"This is Redwall." He whispered, taking it in as he might take in a mother's face.
"What is your name, young sir?"
The mouse looked uncertain at first. "I- I'm not sure I remember. It was Jay- Jayden, perhaps." He said. Then he concentrated very hard. "No... that's not quite it."
The Sister looked heartbroken for the lad. She had not considered that his memory might be affected. "I am so sorry, my dear child."
"I'll be fine." He mumbled. "I just need to get well." He said confidently. "I'll remember."
"What would you have us call you until then? Jayden? You called it once in your sleep."
"I think..." He looked thoughtful. "I think I like name. Wait, no." He went silent, raising a paw slowly, requesting silence. "I remember now." He looked up into the face of the kindly hedgehog, his haunting eyes finding hers. " Nyran... My name was Nyran."
The Sister extended her paw to him. "Then I welcome you to Redwall, Nyran. And may your days here see no sorrow, only great peace." Then she smiled. "And may you bless our Abbey and bring us greater peace still."
Full Name: Nyran Jadaki
Description: A young adult (By the time I start RPing). He wore the typical green tunic that all dibbuns wore until he reached his teenage years, when he opted for a green jerkin instead. He is a normal high, only slight built and pretty plain-looking. He has light brown fur, one pale blue eye and the other is milky white, dead and blind. The wound on his skull has faded from sight over the years.
Possessions: He has no possessions to speak of, except a stack of parchment and a collection of fine ink quills lent him by his friend, the Abbey Recorder. He also has a blank book, to be filled with "Nyran's tale. For whatever day it might be remembered," as the old creature said. It has remained blank, collecting dust.
- Penmanship and cooking
- In secret, he paints and sings
- Instruments of every kind, but especially the flute (amazing with it, but has to borrow it from the gardener, whom he has taken a very strange liking to)
- In secret, he developed his own system for recording and creating music. He has fallen so entirely in love with the beauty of sound that he locks himself away for hours, working.
- Someday, if he were to hold a sword again (not likely within the Abbey), he might remember his training. He is not fantastic, but he was very good.
- Inexplicably good climber and swimmer
- He is frightened of girls his own age (to be explained
- He has never been any good at herbology
- He hates dust (sneezes a lot)
- Cannot judge distances because of his ruined eye
- Has dizzy spells
Nyran has a very strange dilemma: He could die at any instant. He wants to live a full and honest life, find a wife and raise a family. And then he would like to write music for the Abbey, praising peace, beauty and nature. He even fancies one that he might marry.
And yet, for all his hidden musical talent, all his magic with words and his love of beauty, he cannot bring himself to approach her. He is not frightened that he might not be loved. He is terrified that he might be.
He does not want to marry, or find love, because he knows that he might drop into a grave an hour later. In fact, he has been approached many times by the mouse who stole his heart, but she thinks that he is shy because he turns and leaves when she see him staring. If she follows, he hides in the attic, with all his masterpieces.
And then, every rare once in a while, when he feels the wind in his fur and hears the call of a sparrow, he remembers, in some distant corner of his mind, the distant call of a vulture. Then the sky seems to darken and a shadow and stolid indifference shadows his heart. And he fears to remember what he was. He fears the the shadow he feels in the shadow of what he will be.
Once, in the dark hours of the night, the shadow tortured him to terribly. In desperation, he took the book gifted to him and threw it into the fire.
And he watched it turn to ashes.