_The Abbey of Redwall had been the bane of any self-respecting knave and brigand this side of the Mossflower woods for countless centuries; innumerable warlords with varying degrees of experience and vastly different origins have tried and failed to surmount these red sandstone walls, and only manage to smash horde after horde of vicious raiders, cruel corsairs, even seasoned soldiers were pulverized against the heavy oaken gates. These were fruitless efforts that ended in horrid deaths for the leaders in place of accolades, and the subsequent slaughter of any who participated in challenging the irrefutable primacy of this idyllic fortress-monastery. But the question is why? Why go through all the trouble of taking the lengthy pilgrimage from your distant homeland to dominate an abbey of little merit? The treasures held in their rumored, depthless catacombs cannot possibly justify the expenditure of such invaluable resources as time and men. Is it perhaps to simply occupy the structure as a repurposed fortress, simultaneously enslaving the woodlanders who previously inhabited it? If that were so their efforts would be a complete waste; the hordebeasts would grow fat and lazy over the seasons, assuming that their ursurpation was a successful operation that is. Insurrection would be guaranteed, as history has shown in a graphic and thorough catalogue of the constant failures to gain total control of these strong-willed beasts.
Others still seek glory, an admirable pursuit that is rare a rare one in the thin-blooded badbeast ranks, but is there in some lucky populations. These aspirations rarely end favorably for anybody. I regect all of these routes to ruin. I seek to crush their spirits, not by simply taking the Abbey and laying claim to it as my own, nor solely by pillaging their treasures and enslaving their populous. Rather, I intend to exterminate those slovenly curs without a second thought, and then to collapse these walls around them once and for all.
History, as an intelligent man once divined, is doomed to repeat itself. Thus is the vermin creed. Never once has any of these warbeasts contemplated the means to the end, preferring to rehash the decrepit tactics that had our forbearers humiliated and left to rot in inhospitable woodland. Whilst we stagnate, the woodland beasts evolve superior tactics to outmaneuver our clumsy and ill-planned advances. The die has been cast many a time before, and is always in their favor. Why? They have the advantage, and they cheat. Our ace in the hole will not be in numbers, odds, or statistics. It will be in cunning. Thus, I, Fallomous Aloysius Staggertail, with a band of fourscore seavermin crew whose aid I enlisted when death dealt a bad hand to their hapless captain, will unite the local warlords that meander aimlessly about the county for the purpose of razing this evil place._
With a satisfied nod the ferret shut his journal with a sharp crack of page meeting page in a cacophonic collision. He knew that some of these imbeciles watched with superstition as he scrawled his notes in the mysterious journal he always carried about his person, with the innate curiosity to discover what exactly filled the yellowing pages. Fallo would never reveal such secrets to these idiots that surrounded him, not because he valued them so much that he saw no purpose in regaling the dead with details of his personal biographic work. From the vessel he had scuttled at the river moss they trekked to the camp of the great wolverine warlord. Though Fallo had dispatched a runner to request an audience, word from this agent had yet to reach his ears.