A/N: A month and a half after promising weekly updates... *NOW!* I can promise weekly updates :D Procrastination is a cruel mistress, what can I say? But anyways, it's here now. I want to get back into the publishing game. Time to update this fic! And hopefully, while updating and editting this one, I can update and edit some other ones so that I can continue updating weekly... for as long as possible anyways :P

Thank you One-Eye for giving one of your Rare and Legendary Garlic Bread Reviews ;)

Waycaster: Yeeeeees you probably have an intimate understanding of the fic as a whole. Noooot sure if that will temper your enjoyment of it- that remains to be seen. Harlapple's Narrative Voice is an experiment I'm glad you think is successful. Might do plenty more of it because it is quite fun to get into his head, as much as I hate first person tense.

Yup, new to the business and with a horde of nutjobs and fruitcakes. Fun premise. I am not sure if I'm the first woodlander warlord (Redwall Fanfiction has been around for longer than I am, so it stands to reason that someone has done it before), but I am pretty sure I am the only one doing it as of noooow.

I think it's unfair to say Disibod and Rye are less interesting. For one thing they are viewed from Harlapple's perspective and they don't interest him, but as far as characters go Disibod is well rounded. Good amount of character development too! Just not all at once :P

That was how we arrived in Mossflower, but I didn't just want the woodlands. I wanted the Abbey and any good warlord gets what he wants. I knew I was outnumbered, underarmed, and lacking in supernatural assistance. But I was also the only one who knew who I was and what I wanted. I had the element of surprise on my side. Naturally, my first order of business was to get rid of the abbey warrior.

The sun rose over a bright spring morning. Dewdrops glistened in the light, the bells were rung for morning prayer, and a terrible cry rent the air outside the abbey.

"HELP! My cart's stuck!"

A small, bedraggled mouse, clad in a bright green costume, with a lemon yellow mask, and clearly in distress, came running from the woodlands to bang at the abbey door.

"All my soap's spilled! And the barrels are broken! And the wheel won't come loose! Won't somebeast heeeelp!?"

I know, I'm a phenomenal actor.

A friendly-looking old mouse opened the gates. He was chubby, clad in the habit of the order and grey-furred from age. "Why hello! Come in. come in! " he said, pushing the gate open wider. "Whatever seems to be the problem?"

Before the distressed mouse could respond, the door to the gatehouse burst open above them and a wrinkled old vole shuffled out the door, snuffling. "Oh, yiss yiss, of course some beast comes to the door when I'm trying t'get me beauty sleep, yiss yiss!"

Both mice ignored the interruption, the frantic one grabbing the elderly one by the front. "My cart got stuck!"

"Well… that's no reason to be so melancho-"

"No, nonono, you don't understand!" the green mouse stifled a sob. "I have a performance in the grasslands next week! And I'll be late for it!"

"A week is plenty of time-"

"Oh if only a brave, strong warrior would come and pull the cart loose!" he exclaimed for all to hear, collapsing into a sobbing mess against the ground.

Rattigan blinked. "…...Warrior…" he mused. "We haven't had one of those in years. I could send for the twins to get it for you," the mouse offered, offering his paw.

"No warrior?" the mouse exclaimed, doing a kind of empty-mouthed spittake. "WHAT?"

He blinked, the older mouse's confusion palpable. Smiling, the mouse brushed aside his own question. "Glad to know I came here in times of peace. Thank you for your help, kind sir." he said, taking the offered paw up. "Lenny Leftwit, soap-maker, actor, entertainer!"

"Brother Rattigan, pleasure to meet you!" the mice shook paws.

"Times of peace, indeed, yiss yiss!" the old vole burbled on as he came down to greet the newcomer.. "If ye count us havin' the grumpiest Abbot of all time runnin' the place, yiss yiss!" the ancient water vole waved his odd, green-stone topped walking stick at the newcomer. "Stay on his good side, so ye should, yiss yiss!"

"This is Taif, he's Abbey Recorder," Rattigan said, gesturing towards the vole. "Say Lenny, it's almost breakfast time! You should join us."

"Don't mind if I do!" Lenny chuckled, patting his belly. "Mother always said I had the mouth and stomach of a hare!"

"Clovis is going to love you…" Rattigan continued, gesturing for Lenny to follow as he led the way towards Cavern Hole.

Chuckling to himself, Taif closed the gate behind them. "We haven't had a harebeast here in many a season, yiss yiss. Poor Friar Clovis, poor, poor Clovis, yiss yiss."

"I'm sure the two of us will get along swimmingly." As they walked, Lenny's eyes, wide in wonder, were everywhere at once, trying to swallow the abbey with his vision. To take in every little detail.

Well, my plan didn't go exactly as planned… but it worked! I was inside the abbey. Already better than a significant portion of would-be-warlords. And I was going to make the best use of my newfound positioning!

I was going to throw a play.

Later that same day...

In Cavern Hole, the tables had been rearranged and a platform erected along one of the walls. Food was being set out on the tables, as well as drinks. Friar Clovis had outdone himself in creating a wonderful, buffet style afternoon tea. Upon the long tables sat baskets piled high with steaming baked potatoes, salted and seasoned with various herbs and spices, alongside pots of savory gravy and cheese. Golden, spiral pastries, studded with dried fruits and filled with meadowcream were served with chicory tea. There were several platters of light, airy cream puffs; buttery biscuits filled with currants and damsons– some coated in a shimmery lemon glaze, while others were speared with apricot jam– that gave off the intoxicating scent of vanilla and anise; and sweet, crunchy apple turnovers, bursting with cinnamon and nutmeg.

The favorite of the youngsters, however, were the leaf-shaped, lemon shortbreads that the Friar was best known for. The pastries were double baked and delectably crunchy, with a burst of lemony freshness and the slight bitterness of anise seed. Dibbuns shoved the shortbreads into their little faces, dusting themselves in powdered sugar and crumbs, between sips of Strawberry Fizz.

Isolde the Cellarhog had brought out some of her finest springtime brews, from sweet elderflower cordial to mint and juniper wine, she had set out a spread of drink available for the tasting, making sure that there was plenty of Strawberry Fizz and Dandelion Cup for the Dibbuns.

Sister Snowbelle, the infirmary keeper, had even lent a paw, her various herbal teas resting on delicate doilies, their pots a lovely ceramic, emblazoned with forget-me-nots, ivy, and snowdrop flowers.

Atop Lenny's Stage (for he insisted on capitalizing the name of his performing venue) sat several crates and barrels, heaped and piled and stacked, with some empty space of course, for him to walk around in. "At long last!" the little mouse announced in his grandest voice. "It is the moment you've all been waiting for! Please! Stay seated! Contain your excitement! Dread not the inevitable! I, Lenny Leftwit of the Soap Opera preeeeeeeesents to you, BATHTIME!" He was quite sure a few of the dibbuns screamed in terror, though whether or not it was due to his announcement or the pair of puppets that sprung out from behind a barrel, locked in mortal combat. One was styled as a great warlord, complete with eyepatch and tail-spike, the other was smaller, more dimunitive and clad in the green habit of a Redwall Novice. In a sing-song voice the performer that was actually a warlord began to recite from a script hidden behind one of the barrels. "Cluny and Matthias did do battle! And what a battle it was! They slashed at each other! And stabbed one another! They bit! They tore! They ripped! And round and round they spun, across the blood-soaked grounds!"

The puppets vanished, and reappeared again, several barrels to the left, splattered all over in filth. " Mud! Mud! Mud! There was mud and dirt all over! Till warrior and warlord looked like one and the same!" Once more the puppets vanished, and this time instead a face sprung out. Horrendous and verminous and snarling and roaring. Covered in dirt and revolting. It garbled and roared in barely comprehensible language. Some in the crowd gasped. The face ducked down, and another, equally horrendous one made it's presence known across the stage, hissing and spitting and pulling faces at the crowd.

"All of a sudden! The fighting stopped! For nobeast knew who was who and what was what!" Lenny gasped, so loudly and so impressively that it sounded like three beasts.

Because it was.

"Along came a humble singer, the Soap Opera came riiiiiiiiding byyy! Quick as a jiffy, he had his bathtub ready, and got out his freshly scented soap!" A bar of soap was raised high into the air, for all to see. "And so he set about and scrubbed the warrior clean, and left them smelling like roses. The warlord screamed, for warlords fear nothing more than a bath! But Lenny, good Lenny, grabbed him by the tail, and yanked him under!" The mouse popped up from behind the barrels, wearing what looked like seven layers of clothing and an intricate mask. "He scrubbed and he scrubbed! And bit by bit the warlord came apart!" One by one the robes and habits were tossed to the side. The mask was taken off… revealing yet another one beneath it! And then another! And a third! A fourth! A fifth! "Until at last there was no warlord, just a clean and happy rat, ready to rethink his liiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiife!" Lenny sung, his voice rising to unspeakable volumes and tones. Lenny raised a glass high and watched it explode into fragments. Tossing them high into the air like sparkling confetti, the mouse bowed low.

Do not try this at home.

"And scene," Lenny said, smiling.

For the record, I did not write this play. This performance is nothing more than proof of how low I will stoop to get what I want.

The crowd burst into applause, the dibbuns especially impressed by Lenny's performance.

Cynric, the abbey woodsmouse frowned and leaned back in his chair "Is that it?" He seemed to be the only one not impressed by Lenny's performance. Scanning the rest of the audience for the Abbot, he was not surprised to find Valentine nowhere in sight. The old vole had probably used the performance as an excuse to take a nap in his office.

Snowbelle clapped excitedly, laughing uproariously. "Well done, wonderful!"

"Really?" Cynric asked skeptically. "All he did was advertise his soap." He turned to Oakwin, his apprentice, who was fast asleep and nudged him. "What did you think of the performance, Oakie?"

The squirrel woke with a start. "Hmmm, umm, yeah, the performance was great. Best show I have seen in seasons!"

Snowbelle glared at them both, turning her snout into the air and giving a dismissive cough. "Ye two have no appreciation for art."

"Thank you, Thank you!" Lenny bowed again and again, basking in the applause and adjusting the mask he still wore. "Delightful audience. You too! Can smell just as good as our old warlord." The mouse tipped a barrel to the side, spilling several bars of his signature soap onto the stage. He promptly tripped on one and fell on his rump.

Old Brother Taif howled with laughter. "Wot a silly, funny beast ye are, matey, yiss yiss!"

The mouse tried to scramble to his feet, only to slip on yet another bar and bash his head against a barrel. "Do make sure you don't buy too many!" he chuckled, holding his head in his paws.

"He could have just done this the whole time!" Barley Mae, a former searat that served as the infirmary dentist, chuckled.

"I couldn't agree more…" remarked Cynric.

Abbot Valentine appeared near the stage, wearing a smile that was a little bit forced. "Thank you Lenny Leftwit for your wonderful performance. Let's give him another round of applause." A hearty applause was given to the guest, who continued to accept it all gracefully. Since the dibbuns made the applause go for a lot longer than it should have, Valentine signaled for silence again. "Now that he is done, I would like some volunteers to help him with cleaning up. If you live in the area and wish to purchase some soaps, please stay around. As for the rest, I bid you a good night and safe travels home." The abbot gave a stiff little nod and swiftly departed.

Young Snow was the first to offer assistance, striking up conversation with the merchant as she swept away at the broken glass. "Where did ye learn tae sing in front of others? I love music, but I've always been tae afraid tae try. I'd probably faint with the fright of it all!"

Do you ever get the feeling you've seen a ghost? Because that's exactly what I felt like. I felt like a three hundred foot tall blood red rabbit had popped out of a hat right in front of me. Up until that moment, Snowbelle had been nothing more than a long-buried memory.

"My mother taught me," Lenny garbled, very glad for the mask. "She was very good at it back in the day. Best singer in the hor- I mean- village! Father wasn't as good, but he played the- eeeer- tambourine. A-as for the confidence? Eh, you sort of just have it. Kind of need to when bullying the rats around- er I mean, what I want to say is. So long as you're not afraid of making a fool of yourself, you can do anything, anywhere."

Snowbelle did not seem to have heard him. Lenny Leftwit breathed a sigh of relief.

Barley chewed her lip for a moment as the abbeybeasts around her either stood to form a queue, help, or go back to whatever activities that remained for them. She looked at one of the masks laying on the stage. An exaggerated caricature of a menacing rat. She understood it to be the warlord from the tapestry, and this was the first time she had heard his name. Cluny. She rose and waited in the queue for soap and approached the stage, a hand carved spoon in hand. "D'jou come up with that since you've been here?" She said to the still perspiring performer.

"Not quite, my dear. Cluny, Matthias, Martin, Slagar, all the evil and all the good that have fought and died at Redwall… they've always been a huge part of my life." He swept his paws grandly. "I used to dream about performing here, when I was little." Littler. "And now here I am, dream come true. The play wrote itself." Well, actually Dung wrote it. "Would you like the jasmine or the tulip?"

The rat surveyed the merchant's bounty. "I was actually hoping you had something with sea salt in it. If the stars align something with sea salt and sailor's lilac. It's an island flower." She pointed to the stylized yellow blooms on her bandanna. "Look kinda like this?"

"Hmmmm, I might have something like that still in my cart." Lenny tapped his chin and shrugged. "No promises though, but I'll see what I can do."

Barley offered the spoon. "It ain't much but i made it myself from a solid branch. You could say it was the latest warlord to assault these walls. It hid in a tree and pounced on our own poor Cynric! The poor old bag 'a fur nearly died. Isn't that right ye old pickle?!" She called back to Cynric. Cynric hid himself from view by sliding behind an otter. "Im afraid it's muddled his brain as well." She held it up. "Please, i offer this trophy for scrub and bubbles." "More than enough,"

Lenny smiled wide and held out a paw for the spoon. "I'll bring the soup as soon as I can find it." The rat glanced over at the biggest rat mask on the stage.

"May I? Im something of a puppeteer myself." She asked the mouse.

"Help yourself," he said, gesturing at them all. "I have far too many." She picked up the mask, holding it out as she inspected it. Although it was a comical caricature, its features were upsetting to her. The play, and more so the mask who's gaze she met, reminded her of something she hadn't thought of in some weeks. "If you don't mind i'd like to borrow this for a while. I promise i'll have it back to ya by the end of the night."

"By all means, keep it if you want. They're silly things." He tapped the one presently hiding his features. "Great fun, too!"

And very good at hiding one's identity and motives.


Footnote: Several things to say here. One is a thank you to Keldor for once again proofreading. An already arduous task made more difficult by the need to know read through multiple styles, made even more arduous by the fact that RPs geeeeenerally don't put too much emphasis on SPaG. So as a disclaimer. The pacing here has already been botched. Many scenes from the RP pertaining to other characters not as involved with Harlapple have been trimmed out. The plot I think will still make sense, but moooooostly because this fic has a very simple plot and premise. It's about Harlapple doing Warlord Things and his Hordelings following along and the Redwallers foiling him at every turn. There IS an overall plot, but I also like to think of it as a series of skits or so, Horrible Histories/Saturday Morning Cartoon style.