Under the cover of darkness, vague shadowy figures slid into a holt of peacefully sleeping otters. This was the holt of the Riska tribe. A band of otters who guarded the head of this branch of the river from their comfortably settled home. The dark shadows moved quickly and quietly like greased black silk. They killed ever otter they came upon, down to the last pup, without awakening any or making a single sound. Nearby the river burbled on, completely oblivious to the carnage and devastation taking place nearby as it travelled on its never ending journey.

The next day a tribe of Gousim shrews were rowing down that branch of the creek looking for some watercress to put in their cooks new creation of riverbed soup. When they heard a weak cry. "Halt!" called the Logalog. "Fermy and Cenn go investigate." The crew waited, squabbling amongst themselves as to the origin of the sound. "Clearly a dieing duck, I've heard that sound afore mate" "Only reason any duck'd be dieing t'woud be acuz of your face hahahahaw." "Oh stow it mate look here comes Cenn and Fermy, boggle me whiskers they look terrible, look like they seen the devil hisself." The two dependable shrews held a quick whispered conference with their leader, whose face took a ghastly shade of rotten cream when he heard of the scene the two had come upon. "Crew, the Riska tribes been slaughtered, something evil's around here. They killed them all, even the children, and they could still be somewhere here abouts'. Keep your eyes peeled for danger, Fod?" A sturdy looking shrew looked up "Yessir?" "Take your squad and bury all the boor beasts." "Aye cap'n" The Logalog's eyes took on a steely look, the crew knew this look, it was death to all who crossed him. "An' Milb? take your trackers, hunt down these devil spawn, murderers, we'll hunt 'em down, every last one of them. Report back once you know where they are."

The crew sat down to wait for the return of their crew mates. They were not long. Milb came tearing back, sorely wounded in dozens of places. Bleeding heavily and gasping for air. "Logalog, they killed 'em! ever last one a my shrews. dead, all dead! dieing everywhere.. couldn't help 'em, snuck up on us, over afore it started, sorry cap'n, I'm sorry." Logalog was frozen with fury. "Daffy tend to Milb, this sounds like a lot of a rougher bunch than we thought. We need help. Mates, if'n you want to avenge your dead'uns march with me, to Salamandastrom, we'll get those hares to help us, perilous beasts they are, and always ready for a scrap. We leave in the morning." The Logalog than stiffly walked to his tent. He was getting on in his middle seasons, and this would be his final act as a Logalog, he would rid the earth of this scum, and to do this he needed the Long Patrol.