I Refuse To Believe That Any Hare Is Cishet

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The Best Lessons Are Taught With Blood

An unfinished Taggerung piece exploring the time Tagg spent with the Juska Clan and his relationships with them. In this scene, Tagg and Sawney discuss an opportunity for him to prove his mettle.

Rating: T

Words: 1186

Fourteen seasons on, and the Taggerung had yet to take a life.

Of course he had killed before, if all the clams and fish hauled back to their shoreline camp was proof of such proficiency. But it wasn't - not in the eyes of a Juska, at least. Though it proved one's self reliance, it did nothing to prove one's power. Hunting food would never be enough to prevent his adoptive father's growing pressure.

It appeared more frequently between them in the past few weeks. It would linger on the edges of silent lulls in the evening, those times when he and Sawney were sat around their own small fire apart from the rest of the clan, when Grissoul had nodded off still upright with her chin tucked into her scarves, leaving them alone. It would settle in thick discomfort, when the laughter and chatter between father and son trickled away, and when its wake had left prickly self-consciousness skittering across Tagg's neck. Sawney would stretch and sigh and pick food from his fangs, then, as though starting a casual new conversation, the topic would rear its ugly head. It always started with the same signs, and usually, Tagg could dodge out of its way. He would parry a distraction into his father's mind, then the cursed thing would fall to the wayside as some other priority took its place.

On this night, however, while the moon hung low and half-lidded in the night sky, Sawney again stretched and sighed and picked food from his fangs.

"Vallug's seen two Juska'tar fishers in the northern tidepools again today, did I tell y'already?" the stoat said.

"Oh? Don't believe y'have," Tagg replied. He too took the opportunity to stretch and sigh, only to lay back and stare at the moon instead of his father's gaze.

"Aye, awful impolite of 'em, I'd say! Sure got me thinking, should teach 'em some manners about being neighborly, don'tcha think?"

"Juska'tar aren't anything to fret over. We show up with somethin' sharp, pull a scary face, and they'll tuck their tail between their legs. Worked wonders last time."

"Gaw, sure did! Barely had to lift a paw! That's the problem, though. Since we only done that, the sneaky bastards are back at it again. It's 'cos they think we'll keep lettin' 'em off easy. See, they're testin' what they can get away with." Sawney leaned forward from where he sat on a driftwood log and roused the fire's embers with a stick. "Can't let beasts think we're all bark an' no bite, else they start gettin' uppity. D'ye get my meaning, Tagg?"

Tagg wrinkled his snout up towards the moon. His knife found itself twirling mindlessly between fidgety claws. Grissoul remained sound asleep a short distance away, though Tagg sometimes wondered if she was silently eavesdropping.

"Yea, yea, I get what you're saying, da. So we'll send 'em back bloodied and bruised for it this time. We can nick their nets too, they owe us payment for whatever fish they snatched, huh?" The otter feigned amusement. When he turned to look at Sawney though, his father's crinkled eyes peered discerningly through him.

"Heh, a fine idea for certain…but I think we should teach them a lesson that'll really stick," the stoat goaded. "An' don't I always say, the best lessons are taught with blood?"

Tagg's chuckle faded awkwardly as Sawney's brown eyes glinted in the firelight. Taking up the stick again, he fussed with the embers once more.

"Now, c'mere to me, I've an idea that'll lift yer spirits," he snickered. "Tomorrow, hide and wait for our trespassers at the pools afore sun-up…then, when they go out onto the rocks, nab one an' take 'em for a dip in the sea! Juska'tar rats can't swim worth shite, they'll drown fast an' easy. And all the while, their buddy gets to watch helplessly from the shore!" At this, Sawney barked out a rough laugh. "That'll teach 'em, guaranteed! Heheh! Oh, oh, bring the corpse back to me afterwards, I'll show y'how to chop the head and stick it on a pike. Real nice decor to spruce the place up, eh? Call it future poaching deterrent!"

Those keen eyes searched Tagg for a reaction. The otter gave his very best dark sneer.

"Heheh…aye, sounds like a good plan, that'll show 'em!" Even vague agreement felt strange and stilted as it left Tagg's tongue. Sawney on the other hand sighed with audible relief.

"G'wan, g'wan, that's the spirit! I'm glad to hear yer onboard!" His grin was wide and his eyes bright. "So, then it's settled, that's what we'll do."

Tagg didn't respond. He only listened to the distant crash of waves with knots in his guts over what he had just agreed to. The two fell silent again, each mulling their respective thoughts. Their small fire finally smoldered and snuffed itself without Sawney's insistent prodding. It was getting late after all. Even Juska still up chatting or cleaning blades around the main fire had started to tuck in for the night.

After a while, Sawney stood, grumbling a curse at his popping joints. He tugged his cloak tighter around his shoulders and ambled towards his tent.

"I know I been a nag lately, Tagg, but ye'll see," the stoat said quietly as he passed. "Once ye make yer first real kill tomorrow, nobeast will dare think low of ye. Trust me! No need to look so glum." He leaned to tweak his son's ears affectionately, and Tagg swatted him away in mock annoyance.

"Buzzy old fly," the otter laughed. This time the sound came effortlessly.

"Pah! Old, he says. This old fly can still bite ye to hell, watch it," Sawney huffed lazily. "Get some rest so ye can get the jump on them poachers bright 'n early."

"Yea, yea."

"G'night, Tagg."

"G'night, da."

Sawney disappeared into his tent, leaving Tagg alone with the moon and his thoughts.

Bristling anxiety began to find its home inside the otter's chest. He could understand that behind Sawney's recent pressure, there was surely only a father trying to encourage his son. The stoat wanted to see Tagg fit in, and of course Tagg wanted that too. Wandering Juskan eyes and hidden sneers were always stray reminders that he didn't.

Above that, he wanted to make his father proud. The stoat was the only family he knew, one who had done so much for him. Tagg couldn't remember his early days as a pup, but Grissoul had once told him the story of how his father took him in. He had quickly gathered that it was scandalous for the Juska chief. That inspired gratitude within him, but just beneath laid a growing layer of guilt for the debt. To pay it, surely one murderous task shouldn't be too heavy a burden. And maybe once Tagg crested that hill, he would look back and realize it wasn't so scary.

Those reassurances did little to dash away his worries, though. Throughout the night, they instead swelled with the sound of waves crashing over his dreams.

Redwall doodles

Martin is learning how to rizz

"Good sirs, I'm called Trimp the Rover." "Marm, I'm called Ferdy an' that fat 'un's my brother Coggs, both of Redwall Abbey." Coggs snorted, pointing at Ferdy's ample stomach. "I ain't as fat as ole Ferdy, am I, miz Trimp?" She giggled. "You're as tubby as one another."

MY COWORKERS CAN CONFIRM THE SCREAM I SCREMPT

I am finally out of art block!!! Thank you @thesablequear for letting me draw your epic ocs they are so silly

When I saw that Rugla was a squirrel thief I immediately thought of this