Dult Hewes
“A good plan isn't one where someone wins; it's where nobody thinks they've lost.”
― Terry Pratchett, the Amazing Maurice and His Educated Rodents
Biography: Life when you are three feet tall is damned odd. Everyone looks down on you (except actual mice), a short breeze is hurricane force, and occasionally a hedgehog sneezes and you are down twelve nieces.
It is not all bad, though. Someone’s leftovers can feed you for days, you get from A to B without having to say hello, get your head kicked in, or have to answer awkward questions. Best of all cats run away at the sight of you (pissin’ cats!)
Corone is full of people like us. Ask anybody who lives there and they will deny it. You do not tell people you saw a three-foot animal talking to you in a polite tone of voice and avoid an asylum for too long. Yet, here we are, making our own stories.
I grew up in the under croft of the Citadel. We look after the real-mice and keep the city clean. The monks let us rummage through contestants satchels whilst they are busy bothering one another, and the world goes on.
My dad died in the war, part of a cadre of swashbuckling marsupials that pledged to defend the citizens against the growing tyranny of the Empire’s regime. He is not a hero, just an unlucky old chap with a penchant for breastplates.
My mum still molly coddles the brood, keeping the orphans fed and clothed and out of the proverbial gutter (though she does try to stop them going in the sewers. We are not common). She is defacto, pinafore clad, messiah ‘Mousetriarch’.
Now that things are more peaceful, the Rangers gone back to the woods and the ‘people’ have gotten used to the idea of having a say in how they live, people like me have gone back to being corner-of-the-eye shadows.
Me, my cloak (my mum made it, it is dapper), and my dad’s sword are put to the task of supporting the City Watch. We go to places big people cannot, squeak and growl at the shitheads, and keep the spirit of my dad’s like alive.
Of course, when I say we make our own stories, I mean the sort we share by candlelight over cheese fondue and not enough gin. You will not have heard of us, nobody outside of the military recalls the Redwall Brigade (my dad’s unit).
One day, perhaps somebody will look down from their hustle and bustle and actually, really bloody notice the mice, owls, rats, and rabbits in golden doublets and woollen gloves made with needles small as splinters – freak out, and question everything.
One day, we might stand on street corners, recount the tales of our own unsung heroes, with terrible puns and too much singing, and come to realise what it feels like to be six feet tall. One day, I will be the mouse my dad was.
Description: Dult is three foot tall, charismatic, and has what you might call ginger fur. (Do not call it mouse brown, though). Dark brown feet and forearms protrude from light, loose fitting clothing in hues of brown and light green, and he is never without the cloak his mother made him. It is half-red and half-white, never seems to dirty or snag, and falls down to his ankles. (Do mice have ankles?)
A belt hung loosely off the hip carries a leather scabbard with cream fur lining. His steel short sword, which is, let us call it what it is, a dagger to anyone else has a snazzy bronze cross guard and pommel. He never wears shoes, cannot tolerate hats, and keeps his tufts of hair swept to one side to avoid bed hair Mohawks. A patch of white fur covers his mouth, which surprisingly is still full of pearly white teeth.
Skills: Dult is an attentive son, and all mice in the Citadel and across Radasanth can muster some sort of domestic menagerie. He can cook, clean, repair simple tears and holes in clothing, work leather enough to keep his sword hung and his siblings in coif and chest plates. He has an instinctual sense of direction, able to memories vast swathes of city with perfect recall. He is an excellent sword fighter, given his size, and is well-spoken and educated about current affairs, politics, and the traditions and quirks of Coronian citizenry (because talking your way out of a fight with a seven foot orc is considerably less lethal than an impromptu splatting with an axe).
Abilities:
Prehensile Tail: Dult can hang from his tail and use it to lift things up to his body weight. It is durable and regrows if completely removed at the rate of 25% per week. Dult can use it to avoid knockdowns and impacts provided there is enough time to react to it. He is very protective of it.
Agile: Light on his feet, Dult can run at three times his walking speed for long periods, and can leap, dodge, and maneavour with inhuman (unmouse like?) speed and dexterity. He has learnt to use this speed as a defence, because armour on a 3ft man is about as much use as a chocolate teapot.
Magic: Nobody is sure why some of the smaller citizens of Radasanth develop strange abilities. Perhaps a dragon took a liking to a rabbit centuries ago, or the magic of the Ai’bron seeps into the nests and wombs of marsupial broods when they are still squeaking and rolling in their own shit.
Most call it magic. However, ever since Dult was able to wear boots and not trip up, he has been able to do his thing without training or understanding. He and the other small folk do not spend too long thinking about why. A practical people, they use whatever they get to do good – most of the time it does not end up with them blowing up or a rival sorcerer stabbing you in the bag because you have a bigger, pointier hat.
Mouse Hole: Dult can create small portals, for mice only, that are two feet wide and three foot tall. These only form on reasonably flat surfaces, and only ‘become’ portals if there are two. An entrance and an exit. One end is more often than not on the ceiling of his bedroom in the Underdrift of the Citadel. It takes little effort to conjure. Abilities that negate or dispel magic affect it, and if it is flooded with water or similar, it will violently eject anything in it then snap shut.
Equipment:
Dult has only two items of note. His cloak, which is ensorcelled by his mother to never dull, rip, or snag. He does not know it is magical. He will never sell it, because he would only part with it when dead. Its colours can inspire other small folk and City Watch in Radasanth and across Corone to braver deeds with the right choice of words.
The second is a steel short sword, a dagger or knife to anyone else with a double-edged blade designed to pierce armour on the thrust and cause tear damage when twisted. Again, he will never willingly part with it. Against like sized opponents, it is sturdy and reliable, but fighting anything with adult male strength reduces its durability greatly.
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