I was born in a tribe of ferrets called Slay Lust. Deadly fighters, all of them. My parents didn't pay much attention to me, but I always managed to stay alive. I was about three and a half seasons old when my father, who was the leader of the tribe, on his seer's advice decided to move south. It was too cold where we were. One cold season followed that one, when we realized we were being followed. Otters, their faces grim with hate, were following us. My father realized that our tribe was too weak, cold, and sick to fight them, so he said to keep moving as if they weren't there. "Woodlanders," he said, "Usually don't attack you unless you attack them first." That night I saw them sharpening javelins. I was still very young, but I remember it well. The otters stole in, and slaid the whole tribe while they slept. They left me alive because I was just a babe, but they left me to die. I survived, and practiced fighting skills. I swore I would kill otters while they slept, or paw to paw combat. Whatever happenes, I will not die until I have avenged my old tribe. Beware, goodbeast otters! (I won't kill vermin)