Once, in a thriving riverside village, lived a peculiar and clever clan—not of nobles nor knights, but of rats. Not actual rats, mind you. These were the Harleston Rats: children! Smart, unruly marvels of mischief. Rodents of Unusual Size, even.
They lived in the little town of Harleston Hollow nestled in a bend of the Gales River several miles from Ravenmoore. It was peaceful, tidy, and oh, so respectable.
Except for the children.
The children of Harleston were mischief-made-flesh: quick as foxes, clever as crows, and utterly united in their devotion to pranks. They tied ribbons to weathercocks so they spun like maypole dancers until they could no longer move at all. They filled the mayor’s boots with porridge. They rearranged the horses in the square by color, height, or stink. And when caught, not a single one would name another.
They defended each other with a loyalty the King himself might envy.
These mischievious children once stole a wheel of cheese from the Mayor's own cellar for they loved cheese best of all. The town generally felt he had aquired that cheese unlawfully from Farmer Kennerly, telling the old man he owed taxes that were overdue. Liberating that cheese and eating it by the river, well, it felt more like justice than stealing. They even returned half of it to Farmer Kennerly, who had no idea how it showed up on his porch one morning.
They wore castoff finery made from lost buttons, bits of bone, discarded clothing and the occasional garment aquired from a washing line. They competed to see whose finery was finest, without paying a nickel.
The mayor named them the Harleston Rats. The rats loved the name, took it as their own and even made headbands with ears on them to openly mock the mayor.
Now, the mayor of Harleston was a man who believed in rules the way some men believe in gravity. He posted decrees in the square. He invented curfews. He held long speeches about “proper childhood conduct.” And the more rules he made, the more spectacular the children’s pranks became.
The Rats found his frustration delightful.
His sputtering speeches? Hilarious.
His anger? Entertainment.
His insistence that they were behind every mishap in town?
Well… to be fair, they usually were.
But their parents?
Oh, the parents never saw the mischief.
Not the rude chalk drawings on rooftops,
nor the bucket balanced on the bakery door,
nor the mayor’s hair dyed green with beetroot.
And without seeing it, they simply didn’t believe it.
“Not my child,” they said. “Impossible. My children don’t behave that way.”
The mayor became more and more determined to prove their misdeeds and punish them.
Desperate and too proud to admit defeat, he reached beyond Harleston for help.
He sent word to Ravenmoore, calling for the only person said to have power over such unruly spirits:
The Piper of Ravenmoore.
The Piper answered.
He arrived at dusk, wearing a coat of shifting colors and carrying a flute pale as river mist. He played a single gentle note and the Rats froze and turned to the sound.
They gathered around him as if he were telling secrets only children could hear. When he played bright tunes, they danced and laughed. When he played quiet ones, they sat in a circle, listening as still and soft as candlelight.
Between the melodies, he told stories, funny ones, wise ones, sad ones, each threaded with a useful and interesting lesson about the joys of helping and being useful.
And for the first time in anyone’s memory…
the mischief stopped.
The mayor was relieved. The town breathed easy. And the Piper went to collect his agreed-upon pay.
But the mayor, seeing that the Rats behaved without yelling or punishment, scoffed.
“You didn’t do anything,” he said. “Children behave when they want to. I owe you nothing.”
The Piper regarded him quietly.
Then he lifted his flute.
With a bright, merry tune, he walked out of Harleston. The Rats, their chattering silenced in that moment, rose as one and followed him. Those who saw them go claimed they were laughing. Dancing. Light as leaves on a breeze.
The children followed the Piper through the meadow toward the valley of Ravenmoore, their footsteps soft as falling dust, their laughter fading on the breeze as they disappeared.
That was hard on the mayor. Not the children's disappearance, but the witnesses. After they told what they saw, no one believed his "kidnapping" story.
When the parents and townspeople sorted out the truth— how their children had been enchanted, how the mayor had made a deal and then gone back on it and how the Rats had vanished like twilight — they packed their belongings and hurried after them.
For when you remove the children from a village, you remove its heartbeat. Its rhythm. Its soul.
And so Harleston emptied, its homes abandoned, its market silent, its laughter carried away. The wind whistled through empty buildings, unused and crumbling. The village never recovered
The Rats and their families found new homes in Ravenmoore, welcomed by those who understood mischief not as trouble…but as potential. They knew that clever minds and idle hands could be put to better uses to build a strong community, one that didn't brush aside the enthusiasm of the young and eager.
And that is why, to this very day, Ravenmoore honors the Harleston Rats — not as nuisances, but as the lively, loyal, curious children who once saved a town by leaving another.
These days you'll see Rats of all ages in Ravenmoore!
Those helpful souls keep the fierce loyalty and helpful spirit they started in Harleston and continue to go out of their way to be useful. Find them wearing their ears and castoff finery and be sure to wish them a hearty "Luck of the cheese" when you meet!