It was morning on the cold seas west of Mossflower Country. Even colder was the cabins of the Seafang, terror of the high waves. Inside a certain cabin on the port side belowdecks, Tarak the fox, first mate of the Seafang, woke and stretched. Throwing on a cloak, the tattooed corsair yawned and opened his cabin door. A gust blew in, chilling the fox. "Ahoy, Bladetongue, any brekkist fer me?" The rat lookout called down from the crow's nest, "Aye, matey, if wot yer lookin' fer is last night's roasted fish." Cursing, Tarak made his way to the galley. Booting aside a cook, he grabbed a loaf and slashed it in half with his dagger. The fox ripped the chunk of bread apart, spitting out a weevil. "Oy!" he shouted to the cook. "We got any grub that ain't infested with any o' them bugs, Cooky?" "Naw, Tarak. We ain't got no decent vittles. It's high time we went on a good old battle," said the cook, who pulled a wicked-looking stiletto out of an apron pocket and licked it. Tarak grinned to the searat chef and said, "I'll rouse the Cap'n. He kin be a liddle grouchy in the mornin." Turning to two corsairs; a searat and a weasel, he instructed them. "Soon as I exit the Capn's cabin, youse two are gonna rouse the crew. Tell 'em to sharpen the ol' weapons and arm 'emselves to the very fangs. Tell Bladetongue to seek out a nice liddle fishin' village or mayhaps a wandering group of nomads. Anyhow jus' follow my direstions and we'll be okay. Now hop to it!" Tarak slammed his fist on the captain's door. "Open it!" shouted a voice from inside. Tarak twisted the bronze knob of the door and pushed. Captain Scunner Knave looked like a fighter, by the way he carried himself, the way his brilliant green eyes could pierce you, and root you to the spot. He was a master searat battler, and his weapon of choice was a sword he forged with his own hands, slightly blued and curved. That very blade rested on the Captain's end table and he sprang for it. "Whaddaya want, mate?" asked the big searat, throwing a green cloak about his shoulders and fastening it with a pin of solid gold. "What I want, Scunner, is something to do, may'aps a raid. Think about it, Cap'n. Our supplies are running low, and the crew's blades are rusty. They're lazy and idle," he said. "Plus," the fox added,"Dis'll give yew a chance ter use your sword agenst yer enemies." Scunner sprang to his feet. "Yer right! Get the crew up on the deck! Full sail to the east! It's a day to slay!! C'mon, sharpen yer blades an' get ready fer slaughter!!"
The Seafang was suddenly shaken by action. Threescore of the most vicious, raging, bloodthirsty corsairs ever to lay paws on the deck of a ship stood armed to the very fangs and ready for battle. The crew encompassed of about twenty searats, and a scattering of around forty weasels, stoats, ferrets, and foxes. And the centerpieces of this mob were their first mate and Captain. Tarak, armed with a typical curved corsair scimitar and a bow and arrows over his back, wore a navy blue cloak fastened by a silver pin, and a weathered tunic, ragged pantaloons, and corsair's boots. Scunner carried his blued sword and wore a new tunic, new pants, and new boots, accompanied by a cloak that matched the color of his eyes. The green cloak was fastened by a pin of solid gold. They both looked like barbarian kings, and together with the crew, they yelled, "A good day for slaughter! A good day for DEATH!!!" Sixty spears, swords, cutlasses, daggers, and axes went up to the skies. "DEATH!!!!!!" The crew was ready for battle. No force on earth could stop them now, the two leaders knew. Haftnar Village was a nice little settlement along the coast, unremarkable but pleasant and very relaxing to live in. Hard-working little mice, squirrels, moles, hedgehogs, otters and a couple badgers made up the population of this village, around eighty. Unfortunately, Bladetongue the lookout had spotted this little place, and Seafang was heading on a course towards it. The deck was a flurry of excitement. Sixty vermin chattered animatedly, until Scunner started yelling. "HEY!!!" shouted the rat. All chatter ceased at once. "Yew lot think I'm jus' going ter let yew all charge inter that mess like a bunch o' drunken fools? No! Now here's the plan. How many o' yew lot 'ave got bows an' arrers?" About a third of the crew raised their paws. "Okay. Now how many slings?" About two-thirds of the crew this time. "Good," said Scunner after pondering for about a minute. "Here's the plan. We'll go by night. I want youse who don't have bows ter make fire-swingers, one apiece. Yew know, a long piece of wood, two rocks tied to the end. Wrap the rocks in oil soaked sticks an' grass an' wrap that in oil-soaked rags. Archers, make fire arrers. Anyhow, so we don't lose the element of surprise, we're goin' to make shaded lanterns, regular lanterns but with flaps o' black cloth to obstruct the fire until we need it. Once we get within say, three hundred paces from the village, we'll lift the flaps and arm our fire weapons. Then, we'll chuck all the firepower we got into the village. Chances are, houses will be burnt. And the little micies and squirrels will come out and that'll be when we strike. Go for injurin', we need slaves. Anybeast who resists, kill 'em. We'll strike before the crack o' dawn. Is that a plan for ya?" Loud cheers from the crew deafened Scunner. "OKAY! Get ter work!"
In Haftnar, things were going smoothly. The mice that worked the farm had pulled in a massive harvest, and about three times as much crops as needed were harvested. After a long feast with much delicious food, the residents of the village went to sleep. Unbeknownst to them, the entire corsair crew stood below the crest of a nearby hill, unseen. Scunner, armed with a loaded crossbow, stood beside Tarak, who held his longbow. "Aye mateys. Tis time. We go hard or go home. Lanterns!" The black cloth covering the fire in the lanterns was lifted. "Light yer weapons," shouted Scunner. "Let loose! ATTACK!" The vermin crew charged, firing their blazing weapons.