I do not own Redwall.

The rosy finger of dawn stuck its glorious red tinted face through the darkened shuttered window…

Recu glared at the line, snapped the book closed, and threw it carelessly to the side, where it hit the wall and fell into the hole in the floor, leading to the furnace in the basement. Without even looking to see if the bound paper made it, Recu grabbed another book, stretching one leg out from his crouch, and flipped it open.

Her illustrious eyes locked with his, making the world around them drop away as though…

Ugh, why did he ever buy these books?! Another toss, another book. And so went the pattern, either the book would burn or would, by some miracle, be put in a stack beside the shelf he was cleaning. He had been at this for hours, in a room full of nothing but shelves and books. He never looked out the window, knowing all he'd see was a forever smoky gray sky with its forbidden rain coating the streets and roof tops. If he had, he would have known what would have come next. And it would have saved him so much trouble.

Glass broke; blood splattered the walls, covered the books, and stained the hard won carpet. From the floor, Recu looked up at his attacker, one brow raised, hand paws pinned to the thick fabric that covered the floor.

"And that 'twas meant to prove something? That ye can break yon window and get I on mon carpet? Good thing 'tis red, yes? Or ye'd be paying for new rug." Without another word, the fox kicked up, into the stoat's middle, flipping him up and over his head where he hit the wall. Sliding upright, Recu turned back to his shelf, crouching again, going through more books. He seemed oblivious to the gash across his chest from the stoat's knife that had been aimed to kill him. He wasn't oblivious to the dead vermin, neck snapped in the corner of the room. Hitting a wall upside-down will lend hazardous effects to the body.

After another two hours of sorting and burning and stacking, the fox stood, stretching until his back popped, and bristled out his redbrown fur. Laying everything back in its place; be it fur or book, he stepped over the stained carpet, and bent to look at his attacker.

"Now, ifn the authorities showed up, I'd be in much trouble over ye, yes? I think 'tis a wise thought to get ye offn mon floor." With that, he grabbed the shoulders, and picked the large vermin up with little problem, standing over the hole in the floor. "Oh, silly I. Ye be too big to fit through yon pipe. Well, 'tis I that must fix this, yes?"

A scythe produced itself from under his black cloak, where it made quick work sheering off paws and tails and snouts. One by one, appendages fell into the ever lit fires below, until all that was left was a torso. The scythe was good, but not good enough to cut through something so thick without room to swing and gain momentum.

"Now lookit what ye done. I've had to switcheth mon weapon, yes. Letus see now, how's an axe suit ye?" The blades changed faster than a hawk's eye could see, and the steel axe shore the last of the body into manageable chunks for the burning. The task was done with such practiced ease it was clear he had done this before. Recu Foxer was an assassin. The walls, the carpet, even the book covers were all dyed red, in anticipation for something just like this, and they had done their job well over the many attacks Recu had received. It's sad, really, how jealous other assassins could be of their better.

"Well, lookit now, now ye've done it. Ye've made me late to mon ship. I need to find another now, yes. Ye was a bothersome stoat for I, yes."

Wiping the blood from his paws onto his blood-rust fur, the fox picked up the heavy haversack of books, food, clothes, and medical supplies; heaving it onto his back, furrowing his brow in annoyance as the scab on his chest pulled. He never bled much, and the cut the stoat caused was no different. But now it was time for him to leave. Like any good killer for hire, he knew when to leave a place. Though, he'd miss the carpet, and the handy furnace. Checking that his trade tools were hidden nicely from view by his cloak, he covered his tall ears with the hood, and slid out of the war-plagued building, out of the war-plagued town, and onto a ship bound for the un-war-plagued world beyond the North Sea.

"Well, will ye lookit here. 'Tis snowing yes. Ye left at a good time for I Cap'ain." The corsair rat spat over the railing of the ship, laughing at the fox's statement.

"Yous lived 'ere long 'nuf to know 'tis not snow fool. And I left not fer ye."

"Oh, I know that Cap'ain. The ashes of thousands and millions of innocents float through yon air; rat, badger, ferret, mouse, they all be the same, yes? 'Tis a stupid reason to fight yon war. Yea, 'tis only the wise thatn survive. Ifn ye be kind to I, I might helpn ye to get… adjusted… when ye and I reach yon shore, yes? Ye is a wise beast, yes?"

"I's no idear what yer said Foxer, but 'tis sounds li'e yer tryin' ter help me. Ifn yer shake on it, I'll gives yer 'alf a day's more rations."

"'Tis sounds lovely, yes. Ye be a wise beats after all." Red met gray, and the two shook over extra food and a promise to help when the new world came into view. Too bad only one of the shakers actually was a beast of his word, though neither would be able to uphold their end of the bargain.

Days later, far over the North Sea, in an old volcano that was long since extinct, the Badger Lord Milkeye twirled his new weapon. It wasn't his namesake, but it kept him busy on these cold winter days. Milkeye the Quick Axe. Few could match him in speed and accuracy with his chosen tool of battle; a large, hefty double edged broad axe. It hung from his belt, well polished and lovingly worn. It was a beautiful giant compared to the newest creation.

The staff was a beautiful weapon in its own rights, with ornate carvings and polished flint stones. But it was plain, and rather small for a badger's paw. It was a staff, like any other, but with some changes. The top was curved, like the back of a fish, and its fin was a sharp curve of flint. The back of the curve was armed in its respects, with back-racked flint teeth like a saw, or shark. The bottom was the counter weight, with a flint circle inset deeply into the wood so only a portion was showing, acting like a razor.

Stained with deep oil, the dark wood grain blazed its ebony polish in the light, the basket weave carved into one of the weights catching and throwing light around the forge. So deep in thought was the Badge Lord with his new toy that he didn't notice a hare behind him until a light touch of a paw to the small of his back.

"Sah, there is a Corsair ship on yonder horizon sah. Looks like it's having some trouble, don'tcha know." Without a word, the badger looked from his brigadier to the window, crossing with the silence of a badger in thought. There it was; the ship. And it did look like it was in trouble. Listing to one side, it limped through the water, dragging one of its sails at its side.

"Serves the vermin right. Gather the Patrol. We'll be their welcoming party." With a bow, the hare left, barking orders when the heavy door behind him closed fully.

"Look h-alive there! By the left me buckos, Patroool, OUT!" The hares of the mountain had been waiting this order since the ship had been seen.

(For weapon, see profile.)