Setting the Stage ((Vassago))

[Romulus]

((I didn't make this thread open because I doubt anyone else will want to join in, unless they want their character in Romulus' horde.))

It was a long, lonesome trek through the woods to the camp, but Romulus was a patient mouse. Today, he would have to visit the two main camps of his horde in preparation for the upcoming conquest. He would like to make a personal appearance to all fifty of the scattered camps around Mossflower, but that would take days. His messengers would have to do that for him.

Glass-colored eyes on the path before him, the muscular mouse shed his abbey robe, folding it up and hanging it neatly over one scarred arm. He would like to have tossed it into the woods and left it, but Rommel was only out for a walk. He would have to come back with his habit in good shape lest the abbey beasts become suspicious, or worried. Inhaling the cool fall air, the mouse warlord adjusted his thick leather vest, glad to be rid of the habit. It was cumbersome and far too constricting. He wondered how Rommel was able to stand wearing it every day.

With his old sword strapped to his back, Romulus made his way through the dense forest, his sharp mind preparing what he would say to his troops. The feast was only about a week away from the looks of things. Frantic kitchen staff hastened to perfect the dishes that were to be served at the feast. Excited abbey dwellers put the finishing touches on their respective tributes to the event. Rommel was even planning to perform a swordplay demonstration. Yes, keep them busy, Rommel.

Idly, the horde leader drew the dagger he'd recently stolen. It belonged to Broden, current aspiring Champion. The hedgehog was the apple of Rommel's eye, and the abbot even promised to officially declare Broden the Champion at the feast. They'd all be sitting outdoors, in the mild fall weather, and Rommel would stand up, stammer a little, and propose a toast to the warrior. How positively Rommel it all was.

And then the Father would take Skidd Streamdog aside, ask him to wait in Great Hall, and then call Broden over. While the young beasts awaited what the abbot had to say, Rommel would die. Romulus would make his way around Skidd in the dark evening. Unable to see clearly, the otter would be the next to die, and the bloody dagger would end up in Broden's paw. Father Rommel would be just returning to the Hall after getting a drink for his headache, ready to tell Broden and Skidd what he'd meant to, and appear shocked at the scene. But Rommel would be only a name.

By the time the news reached the feasting abbey dwellers, the horde would practically be at the gates, waiting for the signal. Their leader had been planning this for over two decades. There was no way it would fail. Once Broden was arrested by the noble Mossguard and placed securely in a holding cell, Romulus would finally, finally reveal himself. Redwall would fall.

Romulus had thought and re-thought over his plan. He never assumed it would go off without a hitch, so he'd taken precautions for every detail. Failsafes in case a certain variable made itself apparent at the wrong time. Every plan was subject to the possibility of failure, but the horde was not allowed to believe that about his plan, not now. They were thirsty for it to come to fruition, as was their leader.

"Ho, Lord Romulus!" a voice interrupted, but did not disperse, the warlord's thoughts. Having seen the sentry from about twenty yards off, the mouse had returned Broden's dagger to its sheath and held his head high. He tossed Rommel's habit to the guard, who caught it with a mild look of surprise.

"Don't let that get ripped, lad," the warlord said. "And try tae keep your spear doown. I could see ye from a mile awae." He didn't stop to see the look of mild embarrassment on the sentry's face as he entered the camp. Immediately, the soldiers stood to attention, hailing their leader properly. Romulus gave a curt nod and a wave of his paw, indicating they could relax, now. They returned to their duties, but they didn't relax. Nobeast relaxed when Romulus visited the camp.

"Vassago," the horde leader called, making for his tent. He found the captain already lounging on one of the extra chairs inside the warlord's private tent. The pale, glass-colored eyes of the warrior mouse conveyed no emotion as he gave the ferret a good looking-over. It'd been a good week or so since they'd last seen each other. Rommel had been busy with the feast preparations, and Romulus had visited the second main camp when he'd finally found time to report to his horde. "Expectin' somebeast, Vassago?"

It wasn't forbidden to enter the warlord's tent. The only forbiddens in the camp were killing another horde beast, challenging Romulus on one of his visits, and mentioning how soft Rommel was. But the warlord did admit it was a bit annoying to find one of his captains in his tent almost every time he came to report. Moving over to a makeshift desk, Romulus read over the reports from various lieutenants regarding the camp's activities. They were mostly on trivial matters, so he didn't spend much time on them.

"I willnae say it's time," the warlord began, picking up one of the sheets as if genuinely interested in the report. "But it is gettin' close. We need tae be ready. Ye ken how many messengers in the camp right noow?" His accent was noticeable, but far less so than Rommel's was.

[Veridya‡]

Nobeast relaxed when Romulus visited the camp.

Nobeast save for Vassago Bowbeast, the ferret with the gold eyes and the heart blacker than hellgates. His relaxation came with the acceptance of his role in Romulus's horde. That scarred mouse was no fool, and did not deserve the company of fools -- Vassago's way of showing Romulus respect was looking him in the eyes, speaking clearly, and letting the dangerous, cunning creature know that he understood and obeyed.
So long as the payment never changed.

"Expectin' somebeast, Vassago?"

The ferret had been resting in an old wicker chair, the tips of his paws pressed together as his arms relaxed against his legs, form leaning toward the doorway as though expectant of somebeast's arrival. "None but you, Lord Romulus." Replied Vassago Bowbeast, his posture straightening as he stood to greet the warlord, golden eyes flashing in the gloom of a dying candle's last few flickers.

"I willnae say it's time," the warlord began, picking up one of the sheets as if genuinely interested in the report. "But it is gettin' close. We need tae be ready. Ye ken how many messengers in the camp right noow?" His accent was noticeable, but far less so than Rommel's was.

That was the archer's style. Do not speak unless spoken to -- nor was he one for idle chatter. "There are seven messengers in this camp, and three more to the north." Vassago moved toward another makeshift desk, rifling through papers until his dark, leather-wrapped paws pulled up a map displaying Romulus's many campsites. "The rest are standing by to the south. They will not move unless you've ordered them to."
As all your beasts seem to behave. Some of them won't even breathe without your consent. Vassago did not like Romulus. Then again, his pride did not allow him to. He generally disliked beasts that were smarter than he was -- more skilled than he was, and even more of a killer than he'd ever claimed to be.
Still, he could not help but admire the cruel mouse's abilities to command his troops. There didn't seem to be just fear in Romulus' armies, but some of them genuinely admired him. They looked up to him. Yes, a few had trouble accepting a mouse as their leader, but Romulus was a mouse you DID NOT want to cross. Though patient, when he DID act he could be pitiless, and more blackhearted than even the vilest of vermin among them.
Vassago almost smiled.

He had heard of Redwall's founding.

It had taken a mouse to build it, and it was ironic that it would take a mouse to tear it down.

"I have posted double sentries around the perimeter, and no fires are to be lit after 5:00 PM. No one leaves this camp unless I give them permission to -- as are your orders, Lord Romulus."

Reciting the words he always did when they met up, Vassago never failed to uphold his leader's policies, no matter how strict or unforgiving in punishment they were. Sometimes he dealt out the punishment himself. Did he regret it? No. What was there to regret?
It was all a part of the job.

[Romulus]

"There are seven messengers in this camp, and three more to the north." Vassago moved toward another makeshift desk, rifling through papers until his dark, leather-wrapped paws pulled up a map displaying Romulus's many campsites. "The rest are standing by to the south. They will not move unless you've ordered them to."

Romulus knew how many messengers were in his entire army, but they were always moving, delivering his orders between the campsites. Of course they stopped at some points, but only after they fulfilled their duties. The warlord moved over to the map, studying it as if for the first and last time, committing it to memory again.

"Send two tae the camps in the east," Romulus commanded, pointing to the strategically-placed sites, "With orders tae send another two tae the camps in the south." That was Romulus' way. Never send one messenger. One could be easily killed. Two had a higher chance of delivering a message. "They will go on tae the south. Send two more from here tae the north, with orders tae return tae the west. All messengers will be ordered tae send two more on frae each camp until all fifty hae received the report."

D*mn that accent. After more than three decades living away from the northlands, he still spoke like a highlander. But Romulus didn't let it bother him. The abbey beasts loved Rommel's accent. It was best to keep it. Looking back up at Vassago, the mouse warlord awaited the expected report, paws clasped behind his back.

"I have posted double sentries around the perimeter, and no fires are to be lit after 5:00 PM. No one leaves this camp unless I give them permission to -- as are your orders, Lord Romulus."

The horde leader nodded once. "Gudd work, Captain," he replied. Romulus, though he would never say so out loud, was grateful for beasts like Vassago. The kind with enough competence to keep his camps running smoothly all this time. Twenty years was a long time to wait for a conquest, and Romulus could sense that his horde grew more impatient as the months wore on.

"Dreyfus," Romulus called, turning to the tent flap. A golden-furred fox appeared within an instant. The reynard only nodded his response. Romulus didn't turn around all the way to give his order, "Find parchment and a pitcher o' water." He was thirsty after that long walk to camp, but he couldn't very well return to Redwall with alcohol in his system. Dreyfus nodded again and dashed off.

"Vassago," the mouse said, turning his attention to the ferret once more. "Summon the messengers. And tell them tae pack light. I dinnae want this message tae be delayed."

[Veridya‡]

"Send two tae the camps in the east," Romulus commanded, pointing to the strategically-placed sites, "With orders tae send another two tae the camps in the south." That was Romulus' way. Never send one messenger. One could be easily killed. Two had a higher chance of delivering a message. "They will go on tae the south. Send two more from here tae the north, with orders tae return tae the west. All messengers will be ordered tae send two more on frae each camp until all fifty hae received the report."

Vassago gave a single nod, dishing out his report in his usual brisk, no-nonsense way, eyes upon his leader before further instruction was given -- and the one called Dreyfus was summoned. Fixing his golden gaze upon the similar-hued fox, Vassago watched him scurry away like the lackey he was -- almost snorting in contempt. Whatever. Obviously not every beast could be like himself and Romulus -- otherwise there would be constant conspiracies, constant sabotage, the constant planning of intelligent beasts who thought they were smarter than whoever was in charge...
A group of lions led by a lamb was nothing to fear, but a group of lambs led by one very cunning, manipulative, frightening lion -- then there was something to be frightened of.

"Vassago," the mouse said, turning his attention to the ferret once more. "Summon the messengers. And tell them tae pack light. I dinnae want this message tae be delayed."

"Consider it done."

Not bothering to subject Romulus to a bow and other displays of fealty, Vassago exited the horde leader's tent, his sharp eagle eyes narrowing in on a rat rubbing his footpaws by what could've been a lit fire, had it not been for Romulus's strict orders.
"Marcellus."
The rat looked up, a surprised expression upon his face, before logic and reasoning kicked in. Romulus wanted to see him? Even if only to give orders, Vassago Bowbeast was not a creature who spoke for the sake of speaking; he usually had a very good reason for talking to you -- and most of it had to do with the scarred mouse waiting for him nearby.
"Yes Cap'n?" He said, standing at attention -- though Vassago hardly acknowledged his efforts. "You and the other messengers have been summoned. Pack light. Two are to head east, another two are to head south. Two more are to head north, and from there they will return to the west. All messengers are ordered to send two from each camp to the surrounding campsites until all 50 have received the message from Lord Romulus."
Vassago, knowing this was a lot of information, would be repeating it to any messenger he came across -- and would be absolutely certain to give it to Grigor, their chief messenger and also the one with the best memory.
marcellus understood it well enough, throwing another salute before leaving to make preparations and rally the other messengers.

Vassago repeated the message twice more -- one to Grigor, and the other to a young fox by the name of Swift, and sent the latter to spread the word to the others, just as further insurance that Marcellus wouldn't flub up the official orders. Returning to Romulus's tent, the ferret gave a curt nod to show that it was finished, the Captain moving out of the way as Dreyfus returned with paper and water.
"The messengers will be here in a moment."

((I hope I gave you enough to work with. Let me know if you need anything changed!))

[Romulus]

"Consider it done."

Romulus knew he could very well consider it done. With Vassago carrying out his orders, the messengers would be in the tent in less than ten minutes. Romulus took that ten minutes to collect his thoughts. Not that he really needed to. But it never hurt. Inhaling deeply, the mouse warlord took out Broden's dagger again, testing the edge against his calloused paw pads. Hmm, a little dull. He looked up as Vassago returned.

"The messengers will be here in a moment."

Romulus returned the curt nod. Dreyfus returned almost as soon as the ferret did, carrying parchment and a pitcher of water as he'd been ordered. Romulus poured himself a glass of water and drained it. As he poured another glass, he dictated to Dreyfus what the message would say.

"All troops are to be prepared to mobilize when the twin bells are rung. This will signal the start of the Autumn Feast. No attack is to be made on the abbey directly. Lord Romulus will sound a war horn when troops are to enter the abbey."

As Dreyfus made copies of the orders for each messenger, Marcellus entered the tent, followed by two more horde beasts. Since Vassago had spoken to them already, Romulus could assume they knew what to do, but as Dreyfus gave the written orders out, the warlord repeated himself until all messengers had arrived. He assigned them into pairs and sent them off.

"Vassago," he said once the other horde beasts had left. "Hae this sharpened." He tossed Broden's dagger to the ferret and turned to one of the desks. Sifting through the various maps and battle plans, the warlord found the one he was looking for, a detailed plan of Redwall abbey itself. He'd outlined the paths his horde would take to enter the place. Rommel would have all the gates unlocked, just in case the Guosim showed up for the feast, and any other woodlanders cared to join in the party.

[Veridya‡]

Vassago watched Marcellus nod in understanding, exiting the tent with his fellow messengers behind him, the swift rat prepared to run all night if he had to -- the message MUST be delivered, as were Lord Romulus' orders.

"Vassago," he said once the other horde beasts had left. "Hae this sharpened." He tossed Broden's dagger to the ferret and turned to one of the desks.

Catching the dagger deftly by the tip, Vassago saw a trickle of blood slide down the side of his paw. Sharpen it, he said? It felt plenty sharp to the assassin, but orders were orders. Sometimes some beast's cutting knife was another beast's bottle opener. Taking a nearby whetstone, the mercenary began stoning the handsome little dagger belonging to Broden Spikediggle, the Captain of Romulus's horde needing no explanation as to why Redwall Abbey's 'kindly Father Rommel' had such a weapon on him.
It was the key to this whole plan, wasn't it?

Vassago watched his face in the reflection from the blade.
Interesting.
Personally, he never would've let a plan fall into place if a single thing could screw it all up. Then again, this was Romulus they were talking about. If that mouse had a plan, he had seventy more to go along with it. Those with a cunning mind such as that mouse's could develop a hundred back up plans in the span of a decade, if given that long to prepare. Sharpening the blade until he was sure it could be sharpened no more, the ferret stood, giving the knife a few good twirls, watching the candlelight reflect off the gleaming steel. Vassago gave the knife a skilled toss, watching it 'thud' into the desk Romulus was working on, far enough away so that this gesture wasn't perceived as a threat, but close enough to get Romulus's attention.
"Done."

The ferret rolled his neck and shoulders, his eyes flicking to the plans in Romulus's paws as he approached, pulling the dagger out of the oak desk and handing it to his superior, hilt facing the war lord.
"They are growing restless, Lord Romulus. There is talk of frustration and impatience. There is none yet brave enough to attempt desertion, or striking before word has been given -- but there are a few cowardly soldiers who whisper as though I cannot hear them." The ferret caught Romulus's eye. This wasn't a serious problem to the plans, but it was always good to give the War Lord an update on his horde's emotional state. "For some of them, the wait is becoming unbearable."

[Romulus]

"Done."

Romulus allowed a small smile to tug at the corners of his mouth. He liked how Vassago had a 'if you want something done right, you should do it yourself' mindset. It reminded the mouse a lot of himself. The ferret could have ordered any horde beast to whet the blade, but he'd simply found a whetstone and done it right then and there. The warlord glanced down at the blade as Vassago approached the desk. It certainly looked quite sharp, and knowing his captain, it would be as sharp as possible. Good. They couldn't leave anything to chance.
He accepted the dagger back as Vassago made another report.

"They are growing restless, Lord Romulus. There is talk of frustration and impatience. There is none yet brave enough to attempt desertion, or striking before word has been given -- but there are a few cowardly soldiers who whisper as though I cannot hear them." The ferret caught Romulus's eye. "For some of them, the wait is becoming unbearable."

"Aye," Romulus agreed, sliding the blade back into its sheath. "The feeling is mutual. They shudd ken that I dinnae wish them tae remain in camp forever. The messengers shudd belay their impatience until the feast. If not, remind them that they werenae hired jus' tae desert at the moment o' truth."

[Veridya‡]

"Aye," Romulus agreed, sliding the blade back into its sheath. "The feeling is mutual. They shudd ken that I dinnae wish them tae remain in camp forever. The messengers shudd belay their impatience until the feast. If not, remind them that they werenae hired jus' tae desert at the moment o' truth."

They weren't hired to twiddle their thumbs all day either.
Vassago, personally, did not agree with the bloodless tactics Romulus would be employing to get them all into Redwall. For the sake of every bloodthirsty beast here, Vassago hoped those little harmless woodlanders put up a good fight. It would admittedly be a let down if they literally marched through the gates without so much as waving a dagger or baring their teeth. What were they going to do after they took over Redwall? Would Romulus just let loose his horde to do as they bloody well pleased?
The assassin studied the scarred warrior, as though able to find answers just by simply looking at him.
"What happens after the Abbey falls?"

Normally it was none of his bloody concern what his employer chose to do with his time, so long as he got paid, but these were unusual circumstances. Because of Romulus's intelligence and cunning, Vassago was eager to comprehend what was on the warlord's mind -- he craved understanding.

[Romulus]

((I haven't gotten there in the plans yet, darn it!!))

"What happens after the Abbey falls?"

Oh, yes, Romulus had thought ahead that far. He knew this whole operation couldn't go entirely without bloodshed. Not for this horde. Though the warlord was a killer, himself, the vermin he'd hired were almost three times more so. They needed for this to be a war, or else it would come down on Romulus' head. But there were plenty of abbey beasts he could spare. Not to mention that wretched Mossguard could stand to be lowered a few pegs.

"Ye willnae cross that bridge when we coom tae it, will ye?" the warlord remarked, paws still clasped behind his back. "After Redwall is taken, there will be resistance. Yon abbey beasts willnae go down withoot a fight. Anybeast that attacks the horde is free game. Anybeast that doesn't is a prisoner o' war." Romulus had decided to keep at least some of the abbey dwellers alive for the horde's entertainment. Mostly as torture victims.

"We can expect they'll hae help from the ootside, as well," he went on. "Mossguard soldiers be more seasoned fighters than the abbey beasts. They may release the Champion once I reveal myself, but I dinnae ken for sure if they will. I've made provision for either scenario." He had to get rid of that d*mn sword somehow, too.

((Clearly, I haven't thought this through. I'm not as smart as Romulus, and I'm sorry. Just let me know if you want me to add to this post, because I know it's quite lacking. Again, sorry.))

[Veridya‡]

"Ye willnae cross that bridge when we coom tae it, will ye?" the warlord remarked, paws still clasped behind his back. "After Redwall is taken, there will be resistance. Yon abbey beasts willnae go down withoot a fight. Anybeast that attacks the horde is free game. Anybeast that doesn't is a prisoner o' war."

Vassago inwardly groaned. Prisoners of war? Those were the worst! Unless they were to be used as bargaining chips, the amber-eyed ferret usually saw them dying in their cells, dying of starvation, dying after a day of hard labor... They just took up space...and then they had to clean out the cells when one of them DID die an unplanned death. It was better just to use the age old threat of 'if you don't give us what you want, we'll kill you', instead of 'you have 24 hours to give us what we want, or else we kill your father'. Vassago, though a patient beast, didn't really like having to wait for the other side to honor their end of the deal. Though the death of a family member was an excellent motivational tool, there was always the chance that they could back out, or find someone who wasn't afraid to defy or rise against them.
Sometimes prisoners of war escaped, and that right there was the worst. Vassago could track anything, but the fact that the prisoners had escaped did not make the horde or capturer look very good.

"We can expect they'll hae help from the ootside, as well," he went on. "Mossguard soldiers be more seasoned fighters than the abbey beasts. They may release the Champion once I reveal myself, but I dinnae ken for sure if they will. I've made provision for either scenario." He had to get rid of that d*mn sword somehow, too.

"I have a preposition for you, Lord Romulus." Began the ferret, catching the scarred mouse's eye -- the name 'Mossguard' had given him an idea...

[Romulus]

Romulus had often mulled over the advantages and disadvantages of taking prisoners. He knew they were only a hassle, but it wasn't like his horde beasts were going to keep the abbey going once it was taken, were they? However, he had also mulled over the pros and cons of letting his horde go on a killing spree within the abbey. It would be messy, but also a good reward for the horde beasts, many of whom had been waiting nearly two decades for this plan to come to fruition.

In the end, Romulus had chosen his course of action, but he always kept his plans flexible enough to accommodate for slip-ups. It was inevitable a hitch would come up, so the mouse warlord would not be satisfied until Redwall and every ounce of resistance was conquered.

"I have a preposition for you, Lord Romulus."

"Aye?" the warlord prompted. He knew Vassago wouldn't disappoint him. The ferret only spoke what was important. He rarely spoke unless spoken to, so to hear him speak up with an idea of his was intriguing for Romulus.

((SHORT. SO SORRY.))