'(Thanks go to all people who were nice to me when I first came here. Special thanks go to Bluestripe for his ideas of a fan fiction!)
The Reapers were a not just a ruthless army of vermin; they were a legend of ruthless vermin. The legend of Reapers went far in time, before Redwall Abbey was built. It started when a stoat attacked a woodland area with harsh force; the rest was history. The leader of The Reapers now it a young weasel, named Clund. But he wasn't much of a leader, Clund always got bullied for leadership, but he had his best fighter go for him.
Firtha was a quite cat, black at the poison on the tip of a dart. She never liked talking, will sit in the shadows of tree for cover, but listened in on everyone's conversation. The black feral cat knew Clund was the worst leader you could ever have; it was a disgrace upon the name of The Reapers. The young weasel offended used Firtha as a spy, to look into the areas unknown to them. Firtha never found herself in trouble with others of the army, but once in a while, she'll have to put someone in their place.
Her ears pricked up, hearing Clund's noticeable shouts of dismay.
"Stop playin', or I'll skin ya alive!" he yelled at another weasel, whom was much taller than him.
"What ya waitin' for ya big baby! Go ahead'n'try!" Clund's foe said. Firtha leaned back against the back on the tree's rough bark, enjoying the show. "C'mon! Need thut little ol' pussycat to ye?" At that, Firtha jumped onto her paws.
"Wanna say that again? I didn't hear you." The weasel slumped his shoulders, looking at the much taller than him pink eyed cat standing before him. "Nothin' Firtha. Just playin' with me good pal Clund!"
He put the 'leader' in a head lock, scratching his head with claws. "Ow! Stop thut! C'mon, Klid! Ouch, you scrapping the fur off me head!" Firtha looked down at Clund, shook her black head with a chuckle. Firtha walked into the brush without another word, black cape waving behind and it watching the scene unfold.