SilentMemento
Lone Wolf
Summary: A cold-blooded mercenary fox is hunting down an elusive slaver, a stoat that has an army of thousands at his command. Redwall is neutral in this fight. The Long Patrol is currently engaged with the army and can send only one of its members, an inexperienced female hare, to help the sell-sword with his mission. The mission is simple enough: kill every leader in the slave camps. However, the young hare is about to find out that it's not easy to fight alongside a heartless mercenary with a list of crimes that makes the slavers seem like the peaceful creatures of Redwall Abbey...
Disclaimer: As you can guess, this is a Redwall fanfiction. As a disclaimer, all credit for the ideas of Redwall goes to the author, Brian Jacques. Places such as Redwall Abbey and Salamandastron, units like the Long Patrol, and a few of the characters that are mentioned are his idea, not mine. However, none of the characters that are seen in this fic are canon. All credit for places such as the Far East, the slave camps, and the cities goes to me.
Rating: This fic has been rated PG-15 for violence, mild language, disturbing images, and safety. So, if you happen to be younger than fifteen, please stop reading this fic.
Credit: I wish to credit the following entities:
Serebii.net, for allowing me to post my fic on their site. In return, I promise not to abuse that trust and keep the limits of my fic within the rating.
You, the reader, for taking the time to read my fic. In return, I promise to write to the best of my abilities, so that you can genuinely enjoy this fanfiction.
The occassional reviewer, for taking the time to help me with my writing. In return, I promise to take in all of your suggestions on how to improve with an open and grateful mind.
Now, without further ado, here is the first chapter of Imprisoned:
Chapter One: The Mercenary
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Bright sunlight fell from the sky and threaded itself through the leaves of the trees in Mossflower, dappling the thick undergrowth with a brilliant pattern of light and shade. The songs of birds were the only noise that echoed through the forest. One bird in particular, a falcon, was enjoying this beautiful day. He had seen the sky, and there was not a cloud in sight. There was absolutely no chance of rain, no chance of getting his sandy-brown plumage wet.
However, something seemed…off. Yes, it was a gorgeous day outside, but there was just something that seemed out of place. Maybe it was that fox…
Yes; that fox was the thing that seemed out of place, that didn’t belong in Mossflower. The falcon may have been an older bird, but his eyes were still keen and his hearing was still sharp. The fox was a male, and he looked different than other foxes. Golden-brown fur covered the beast from head to tail, and there wasn’t another color in that fur. The fox’s eyes were that of a piercing green, like they were only bits of granite that posed as eyes. He was taller than normal, and his limbs were long as well. He was also painfully thin; the falcon could detect the faint presence of hunger emanating from the beast.
Unlike most of his kind, which wore only cloaks and loved to blend in with their surroundings, this one wore light leather armor over a brown hooded cloak and made no attempt to hide from any beast. However, even the cloak looked tougher than normal, as though it was made of a sturdier substance. He had an odd metal gauntlet on his left paw; much like the one Swartt Sixclaw had worn many, many seasons ago, long before the faclon’s parents had hatched. The fox also had a quiver across his back, although there was no bow or arrows to be seen.
However, the most striking feature was the sword. There was no scabbard or sword belt in his possession, and the weapon was held in his right paw in a vice grip. It was a broadsword that could be wielded with either one or two paws, a rarity among those kinds of swords. The blade had been honed to near-perfection, and it looked capable of cutting through even the toughest armors and shields. The handle was wrapped in the bark from an elderly birch tree, and the pommel was a light blue sapphire. The weapon was a terrible sight for eyes; it looked as though it had caused much bloodshed, and the falcon was sure that it would cause much more.
The falcon then came to the sudden realization that he knew that fox. Unless there was another golden-furred, long-limbed fox who carried a sword like that, the falcon was absolutely sure of the identity of the creature. The fox was a former mercenary, a sell-sword who had gone rogue in a horrible fashion. He was known in some parts of the world as the Bitter One, a monster who would cut down any beast who slighted him with nary a shred of mercy or remorse. Some rumors stated that he had been born in a slum and had lived his whole life knowing the cruelty of others. Others said that he had come from the Far East, learning how to use his weapons on living creatures the very second he got them.
He would offer his services to anyone who would pay, but he never wanted gold, jewelry or other riches. He wanted another sort of currency, a type of which had innumerable value. The fox wanted information, particularly information on slavers. The Long Patrol had been searching for this knowledge for seasons, but the fox didn’t trust the Long Patrol. No beast except certain members of the famed regiment and the fox himself knew why, and it usually stayed that way.
Stroom was the fox’s name. There had been rumors that he had been traveling with a legend among legends: Spivar. The falcon knew that the quiver he had seen had been Spivar’s, and he knew that the weasel archer would have never given such a prized possession away. That could only mean one thing; Spivar was dead, and Stroom had something to do with it. Could it mean that the fox had killed the crippled weasel? That too seemed illogical; the fox only allowed beasts that he trusted to even go along with him, and as sickening as Stroom’s crimes were, he was not the kind to stab a friend in the back. To do so would have been an affront to the fox’s beliefs. So, what had happened?
Either way, the falcon knew that he had to get back to Morawe. The female assassin would know exactly what to do. He spread his wings wide and lifted off from the weathered cedar tree that he was perched on. The thermals caught his wings, and he was aloft within seconds. With the speed that was bestowed upon all his species, the falcon flew through the depths of Mossflower to find his lifelong companion.
~
Stroom let out a sigh of frustration. He had not visited this forest in some time, and he was already somewhat lost. Not to mention the fact that he was running out of time. He stared at his steel gauntlet, reminding himself just how precious time was. A day had been the difference between saving Spivar and failing…and he had failed miserably.
The golden fox hacked at a bit of the brush in a slight rage. It seemed as though nothing was going his way. Spivar, his friend, who also happened to be one of the bravest beasts he had the privilege of knowing, was dead. He had lost one of the few leads he had on the slavers, and even though the beast in question was scum that didn’t deserve to live, Stroom had needed him alive. And now the Long Patrol was sending an inquiry into what he had been doing over the past five seasons. Everything was going horribly wrong, and the fox could do nothing about it. That was what infuriated him so much. Stroom was not used to failure, and he was now failing just as much as the inexperienced, incompetent fool he had been when he was younger.
Stroom considered himself to be the best of any mercenary. He had gone to the Far East, a place notorious for its lack of morals and ethics, and he had survived every experience. Hell, he had not just survived; he had thrived in that hostile environment. No bureaucratic laws or petty boundaries had stopped him from completing every hit or sting operation that had been thrown at him. Of course, the fox knew that the Long Patrol would never approve of half of the things he had done.
Forget it; they wouldn’t even approve of a quarter of my actions.
He knew that the Long Patrol’s white knight image had to be maintained at any cost. Maybe that was the reason why they had made their inquiry, why they had been so reluctant to talk with him about a supposed confederacy in the first place…
The fox sighed again. This wasn’t the time to think about it. It didn’t matter whether he trusted them or not. He needed them, they needed him, and they were working towards the same goal, albeit in different ways. It was an uneasy alliance, perhaps unholy as well, but an alliance nonetheless.
“Don’t make any sudden moves, brushtail!”
Stroom immediately stopped, while struggling to ignore the racial slur. No sense in ticking off some beast who had a grudge against foxes like him. He mentally scolded himself for thinking too deeply and not paying attention.
“Throw your weapon into the bushes in front of you,” the voice snapped angrily.
The golden fox complied, softly tossing the sword into the brush ahead. He silently cursed at himself for being so easily caught off guard. Spivar would have been furious if he was still alive.
“Now slowly get on all fours and press your ugly face against the dirt.”
“And if I don’t?” growled the fox, who was already tired of the voice insulting him.
“If you don’t, you’ll find out how good my aim is with a throwing knife,” the voice sneered coldly. “I don’t miss.”
“Nonsense,” Stroom laughed without an ounce of hilarity in his tone. “Anyone can miss. Even Spivar has missed occasionally.”
A pause ensued. “Wait a minute; you know Spivar?”
“Know him?” the fox said incredulously. “I worked with him! Now, are you going to kill me with your knife or with words? If it’s the latter, I think I’ll be on my way.”
“Who in the name of the Hellgates are you?” asked the voice with a slight tremor in its tone.
“I’m Stroom, you numbskull! Who else-”
“Agh! The Bitter One!” The fox then heard the sound of footpaws carrying their owner away from him.
“Okay…” he muttered. “I was going to ask you if you knew anyone else who had traveled with Spivar, but…” He trailed off and began to search for the sword he threw.
After several minutes of looking around for his weapon, he finally found it by tripping over what he thought was a root. He turned around and saw only his sword. He let out a grunt of annoyance as he picked up his most prized possession and slowly got to his paws.
His left paw was acting up again, but Stroom knew that it would have to wait. Getting to the meeting place was so much more important, and they would probably have a cure there. He needed that cure more than anything else in the world.
He noticed that he was on a trail. He had no idea where it led to, but following it was still better than being lost in the wilderness. After all, who knew what sort of devilish creatures hunted at night?
Snakes? The fox shuddered. He had seen the horrible creatures only once, but that was bad enough. He had barely escaped with his life when he had been fully healthy. As of now, he wasn’t healthy…yet. Sure, some healer managed to do the best that she could, but she was not up to the Long Patrol’s standards. As much as he distrusted them, he had to admit that their medics were better than anyone else. Not even the religious healers in the Far East were up to the standards of the famed regiment.
Stroom’s ears instinctively perked up. He had the odd feeling that he was being watched by many eyes. Perhaps the voice had gathered reinforcements? He leveled his sword with his right paw, with the left paw supporting the sword. The golden fox began to listen, and his heart sank as he heard the sounds of bows being drawn. There wasn’t any way that he could fight against arrows from all sides.
He noticed a rugged-looking shrew walk out of the undergrowth, a throwing knife balanced perfectly in his left paw. The voice from before finally has a face…
“Well,” the shrew said confidently, obviously growing bold due to the uneven numbers. “I didn’t expect to see a ruthless mercenary cross our territory, but there has to be a first time for everything, right?”
“I’m meeting up with the Long Patrol, so would you kindly shove off?” growled the fox. “My schedule is very busy, and I don’t have the time to deal with you or your ilk.”
“Well, I’m sorry for having to take your time,” the shrew sneered. He was obviously not sorry at all for inconveniencing the former mercenary. “Now, will you listen to what I have to say? I’d hate for some of my shrews to ‘accidentally’ release a couple of arrows into your throat.”
Stroom felt the sudden urge to run up to the snooty little jerk and stick him with his own knife, but he knew that he’d end up as a pincushion before he could even take three steps.
“What do you want?” he asked as calmly as he could.
“What do I want?” the shrew said cruelly, a small smile on his face. He let out a sharp whistle. In mere moments, a whole army of shrews popped up from every side. All of them were heavily armed and had their weapons trained on the stunned fox.
“I want your hide as a trophy. You and Spivar have caused us quite a bit of trouble, and it’s a damned shame that the stupid weasel isn’t here to die as well.”
Disclaimer: As you can guess, this is a Redwall fanfiction. As a disclaimer, all credit for the ideas of Redwall goes to the author, Brian Jacques. Places such as Redwall Abbey and Salamandastron, units like the Long Patrol, and a few of the characters that are mentioned are his idea, not mine. However, none of the characters that are seen in this fic are canon. All credit for places such as the Far East, the slave camps, and the cities goes to me.
Rating: This fic has been rated PG-15 for violence, mild language, disturbing images, and safety. So, if you happen to be younger than fifteen, please stop reading this fic.
Credit: I wish to credit the following entities:
Serebii.net, for allowing me to post my fic on their site. In return, I promise not to abuse that trust and keep the limits of my fic within the rating.
You, the reader, for taking the time to read my fic. In return, I promise to write to the best of my abilities, so that you can genuinely enjoy this fanfiction.
The occassional reviewer, for taking the time to help me with my writing. In return, I promise to take in all of your suggestions on how to improve with an open and grateful mind.
Now, without further ado, here is the first chapter of Imprisoned:
Chapter One: The Mercenary
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Bright sunlight fell from the sky and threaded itself through the leaves of the trees in Mossflower, dappling the thick undergrowth with a brilliant pattern of light and shade. The songs of birds were the only noise that echoed through the forest. One bird in particular, a falcon, was enjoying this beautiful day. He had seen the sky, and there was not a cloud in sight. There was absolutely no chance of rain, no chance of getting his sandy-brown plumage wet.
However, something seemed…off. Yes, it was a gorgeous day outside, but there was just something that seemed out of place. Maybe it was that fox…
Yes; that fox was the thing that seemed out of place, that didn’t belong in Mossflower. The falcon may have been an older bird, but his eyes were still keen and his hearing was still sharp. The fox was a male, and he looked different than other foxes. Golden-brown fur covered the beast from head to tail, and there wasn’t another color in that fur. The fox’s eyes were that of a piercing green, like they were only bits of granite that posed as eyes. He was taller than normal, and his limbs were long as well. He was also painfully thin; the falcon could detect the faint presence of hunger emanating from the beast.
Unlike most of his kind, which wore only cloaks and loved to blend in with their surroundings, this one wore light leather armor over a brown hooded cloak and made no attempt to hide from any beast. However, even the cloak looked tougher than normal, as though it was made of a sturdier substance. He had an odd metal gauntlet on his left paw; much like the one Swartt Sixclaw had worn many, many seasons ago, long before the faclon’s parents had hatched. The fox also had a quiver across his back, although there was no bow or arrows to be seen.
However, the most striking feature was the sword. There was no scabbard or sword belt in his possession, and the weapon was held in his right paw in a vice grip. It was a broadsword that could be wielded with either one or two paws, a rarity among those kinds of swords. The blade had been honed to near-perfection, and it looked capable of cutting through even the toughest armors and shields. The handle was wrapped in the bark from an elderly birch tree, and the pommel was a light blue sapphire. The weapon was a terrible sight for eyes; it looked as though it had caused much bloodshed, and the falcon was sure that it would cause much more.
The falcon then came to the sudden realization that he knew that fox. Unless there was another golden-furred, long-limbed fox who carried a sword like that, the falcon was absolutely sure of the identity of the creature. The fox was a former mercenary, a sell-sword who had gone rogue in a horrible fashion. He was known in some parts of the world as the Bitter One, a monster who would cut down any beast who slighted him with nary a shred of mercy or remorse. Some rumors stated that he had been born in a slum and had lived his whole life knowing the cruelty of others. Others said that he had come from the Far East, learning how to use his weapons on living creatures the very second he got them.
He would offer his services to anyone who would pay, but he never wanted gold, jewelry or other riches. He wanted another sort of currency, a type of which had innumerable value. The fox wanted information, particularly information on slavers. The Long Patrol had been searching for this knowledge for seasons, but the fox didn’t trust the Long Patrol. No beast except certain members of the famed regiment and the fox himself knew why, and it usually stayed that way.
Stroom was the fox’s name. There had been rumors that he had been traveling with a legend among legends: Spivar. The falcon knew that the quiver he had seen had been Spivar’s, and he knew that the weasel archer would have never given such a prized possession away. That could only mean one thing; Spivar was dead, and Stroom had something to do with it. Could it mean that the fox had killed the crippled weasel? That too seemed illogical; the fox only allowed beasts that he trusted to even go along with him, and as sickening as Stroom’s crimes were, he was not the kind to stab a friend in the back. To do so would have been an affront to the fox’s beliefs. So, what had happened?
Either way, the falcon knew that he had to get back to Morawe. The female assassin would know exactly what to do. He spread his wings wide and lifted off from the weathered cedar tree that he was perched on. The thermals caught his wings, and he was aloft within seconds. With the speed that was bestowed upon all his species, the falcon flew through the depths of Mossflower to find his lifelong companion.
~
Stroom let out a sigh of frustration. He had not visited this forest in some time, and he was already somewhat lost. Not to mention the fact that he was running out of time. He stared at his steel gauntlet, reminding himself just how precious time was. A day had been the difference between saving Spivar and failing…and he had failed miserably.
The golden fox hacked at a bit of the brush in a slight rage. It seemed as though nothing was going his way. Spivar, his friend, who also happened to be one of the bravest beasts he had the privilege of knowing, was dead. He had lost one of the few leads he had on the slavers, and even though the beast in question was scum that didn’t deserve to live, Stroom had needed him alive. And now the Long Patrol was sending an inquiry into what he had been doing over the past five seasons. Everything was going horribly wrong, and the fox could do nothing about it. That was what infuriated him so much. Stroom was not used to failure, and he was now failing just as much as the inexperienced, incompetent fool he had been when he was younger.
Stroom considered himself to be the best of any mercenary. He had gone to the Far East, a place notorious for its lack of morals and ethics, and he had survived every experience. Hell, he had not just survived; he had thrived in that hostile environment. No bureaucratic laws or petty boundaries had stopped him from completing every hit or sting operation that had been thrown at him. Of course, the fox knew that the Long Patrol would never approve of half of the things he had done.
Forget it; they wouldn’t even approve of a quarter of my actions.
He knew that the Long Patrol’s white knight image had to be maintained at any cost. Maybe that was the reason why they had made their inquiry, why they had been so reluctant to talk with him about a supposed confederacy in the first place…
The fox sighed again. This wasn’t the time to think about it. It didn’t matter whether he trusted them or not. He needed them, they needed him, and they were working towards the same goal, albeit in different ways. It was an uneasy alliance, perhaps unholy as well, but an alliance nonetheless.
“Don’t make any sudden moves, brushtail!”
Stroom immediately stopped, while struggling to ignore the racial slur. No sense in ticking off some beast who had a grudge against foxes like him. He mentally scolded himself for thinking too deeply and not paying attention.
“Throw your weapon into the bushes in front of you,” the voice snapped angrily.
The golden fox complied, softly tossing the sword into the brush ahead. He silently cursed at himself for being so easily caught off guard. Spivar would have been furious if he was still alive.
“Now slowly get on all fours and press your ugly face against the dirt.”
“And if I don’t?” growled the fox, who was already tired of the voice insulting him.
“If you don’t, you’ll find out how good my aim is with a throwing knife,” the voice sneered coldly. “I don’t miss.”
“Nonsense,” Stroom laughed without an ounce of hilarity in his tone. “Anyone can miss. Even Spivar has missed occasionally.”
A pause ensued. “Wait a minute; you know Spivar?”
“Know him?” the fox said incredulously. “I worked with him! Now, are you going to kill me with your knife or with words? If it’s the latter, I think I’ll be on my way.”
“Who in the name of the Hellgates are you?” asked the voice with a slight tremor in its tone.
“I’m Stroom, you numbskull! Who else-”
“Agh! The Bitter One!” The fox then heard the sound of footpaws carrying their owner away from him.
“Okay…” he muttered. “I was going to ask you if you knew anyone else who had traveled with Spivar, but…” He trailed off and began to search for the sword he threw.
After several minutes of looking around for his weapon, he finally found it by tripping over what he thought was a root. He turned around and saw only his sword. He let out a grunt of annoyance as he picked up his most prized possession and slowly got to his paws.
His left paw was acting up again, but Stroom knew that it would have to wait. Getting to the meeting place was so much more important, and they would probably have a cure there. He needed that cure more than anything else in the world.
He noticed that he was on a trail. He had no idea where it led to, but following it was still better than being lost in the wilderness. After all, who knew what sort of devilish creatures hunted at night?
Snakes? The fox shuddered. He had seen the horrible creatures only once, but that was bad enough. He had barely escaped with his life when he had been fully healthy. As of now, he wasn’t healthy…yet. Sure, some healer managed to do the best that she could, but she was not up to the Long Patrol’s standards. As much as he distrusted them, he had to admit that their medics were better than anyone else. Not even the religious healers in the Far East were up to the standards of the famed regiment.
Stroom’s ears instinctively perked up. He had the odd feeling that he was being watched by many eyes. Perhaps the voice had gathered reinforcements? He leveled his sword with his right paw, with the left paw supporting the sword. The golden fox began to listen, and his heart sank as he heard the sounds of bows being drawn. There wasn’t any way that he could fight against arrows from all sides.
He noticed a rugged-looking shrew walk out of the undergrowth, a throwing knife balanced perfectly in his left paw. The voice from before finally has a face…
“Well,” the shrew said confidently, obviously growing bold due to the uneven numbers. “I didn’t expect to see a ruthless mercenary cross our territory, but there has to be a first time for everything, right?”
“I’m meeting up with the Long Patrol, so would you kindly shove off?” growled the fox. “My schedule is very busy, and I don’t have the time to deal with you or your ilk.”
“Well, I’m sorry for having to take your time,” the shrew sneered. He was obviously not sorry at all for inconveniencing the former mercenary. “Now, will you listen to what I have to say? I’d hate for some of my shrews to ‘accidentally’ release a couple of arrows into your throat.”
Stroom felt the sudden urge to run up to the snooty little jerk and stick him with his own knife, but he knew that he’d end up as a pincushion before he could even take three steps.
“What do you want?” he asked as calmly as he could.
“What do I want?” the shrew said cruelly, a small smile on his face. He let out a sharp whistle. In mere moments, a whole army of shrews popped up from every side. All of them were heavily armed and had their weapons trained on the stunned fox.
“I want your hide as a trophy. You and Spivar have caused us quite a bit of trouble, and it’s a damned shame that the stupid weasel isn’t here to die as well.”