DISCLAIMER: I do not own any original character of the Redwall saga. I just own the plot and the many OCs.

This story is about Slagar, formerly known as Chickenhound, and the years between his scaly accident and the events narrated in Mattimeo.
There will be crime, fights and general darkness: this story is about a villain, after all.
You have been warned!

Enjoy!


The young, scrawny and rag-clad fox was astonished.
The inland gates of the main port of the region were bigger than Redwall's main gate, which had been enormous itself in his own recollections.
So much for country life, he thought bitterly.
The animals of the forest knew nothing of real life: the so-called peace of the woods was nothing compared with the unlimited opportunities provided by the city.
This was the place where fortunes were made and undone, where one's talent and will could be recognized and rewarded.
This was the place where he would start anew.

Slightly limping, leaning on a pilgrim's staff for support, the young fox approached the Mud Gate, as it was called because of the muddy grounds along the river next to which the gate stood.
It was guarded by two soldiers, fully armored and armed with halberds, who inspected the crowd of people entering the city.
The other gates must be equally guarded, he mused, but for once he did not want to check.
After a month of traveling through the damned Mossflower forest and then following the blasted river, he felt exhausted and was more than willing to forsake his usual caution and make a try at the gate.
There was not much time to spare, anyways.
The gates closed at sunset, which was swiftly approaching, and the last thing he wanted was sleeping another night outside.
Winter was coming and then nights were getting steadily colder.

The young scrawny fox straightened the mud-stained, ragged excuses for clothes he wore and headed towards the gate.
He tried to look as inconspicuous as possible, but his appearance was surely, well, remarkable.
The young fox perceived some movement on the right side of the gate and turned slightly to get it into the field of vision of his only good eye.
It was one of the guards, a big, bulky dog.
The soldier pointed his halberd toward him and barked. "Stop at once and remove your mask. - he ordered coldly – No one is allowed to enter the city gates with his face concealed."

The fox stopped and sighed: he should have foreseen this obstacle.
It was a logical measure of security, he could understand that, but there was no way he would uncover his face in public.
He could try to talk the guard out of his request.
"Please, sir, let me in." he whined, trying to sound meek and humble, but his voice came out as a harsh and raspy whisper, nothing too friendly.
It was almost two years since he had last talked to anyone, he remembered.
"I am just a poor war refugee, who has lost everything..." he insisted.
Had he not forgotten how it was done, he would have cried to reinforce his act, but the guard remained unmoved and inflexible.
"Listen, you tramp. - he barked, shoving the fox back – Either you show me your face at once, or I kick you into the river. Understood?"
The young fox said nothing, his mind was already working furiously on an alternative strategy.
The gate was just ahead of him, he could as well make a dash for it and shake the guards off in the alleys of the city.
The dogs were burdened by their armor and he had always been a fast runner, but he knew nothing of the disposition of the city and, besides, he was not in the right conditions for a run.
The young fox had decided against the newly-concocted plan, when the guard shoved him again rudely and yelled: "Are you deaf as well as filthy, you beggar scum? Get those rags off your face or get lost."

"As you wish, sir. Have a good look at my face." the fox whispered ominously, hastily untying the knots that fastened his makeshift mask and tearing it away. He hissed in discomfort as the rough cloth rubbed against the ruined remnants of his face.
The terrible humiliation he felt at having to reveal his deformity was somehow compensated by the look of revulsion and disgust painted on the guard's face.
The tough dog looked like he was going to throw up, he wanted to look away, that much was clear, but he could not stop looking, captured by a macabre fascination.
The fox felt almost like smiling.
He did it, curving his mouth in a mirthless smirk, knowing well the weird and horrible effect it would produce.
"Is this enough?" he hissed mockingly, locking his stare with the guard's.
The dog nodded a little too fast, eyes wide open and pupils enlarged like he was in shock, and averted his gaze.
A gust of wind hit them and the fox had to suppress a whimper as the ruined side of his face contracted painfully because of the cold.
He had started to hate winter.
"Are you satisfied?" he asked, calmly retying his mask.
The guard sputtered something, clearly at a loss about what to say, so the fox profited of his indecision to bypass him and enter through the gate.
"Good afternoon to you too, brave soldier." he mocked loudly and started to laugh, a mad cackle tinted with bitterness but also satisfaction.

He had overcame the first obstacle and was inside the city, finally.
Here he would rebuild his life, a step at a time, on the way to glory and vengeance.
His stomach rumbled audibly.
The first step would be finding somewhere to eat a proper meal, it seemed.