He wakes... elsewhere.

No matter how far you get from the Thunderpath, there's still a faint smell, not quite like it but more like it than anything else. Like the Twolegs have tainted everything, even the places they've never been.

This place doesn't smell like that. It smells like fresh moss, the day after a rainfall. Soft, peaty earth. The thousand scents, living and dead and new, that make up the smell of a forest.

There's no monsters growling in the distance, either.

Hm.

He considers hating this, for the briefest flash, but a night's rest was enough to break his inertia and he really shouldn't let that start up again.

Letting the overwhelming 'Hm.' build very much momentum would also be an incorrect course of (in)action.  He stands up and starts sniffing around the general area, with particular attention to any scents of cats, prey, or non-cat predators.

Cats: no, none nearby.

Prey: yes. There's scent trails ranging this way and that, but... mostly that way. 

Predators: again, none nearby.

Also... these are some weirdly short trees and bushes. 

Interesting.  This is all very interesting.  There is something wrong with his paws - no, not wrong, they still hold him up just fine; there is something different about his paws and that's interesting too.

He checks very thoroughly that there are very definitely no other cats around and then stalks off in the direction with the most prey.

As he follows the trail, more prey-smells accumulate. There isn't as much spoor as he might expect of a path frequented by this many mice and squirrels, and - something's off about the tracks, too. The earth isn't wet enough for there to be pawprints proper, but the plants are bent and broken in a way he's not given to expect from prey. 

And still no scent of Twolegs?  At all?  Hm.

He continues, cautiously.

The thick treeline ends abruptly, and he beholds... something.

There are walls, built of massive slabs of rosy stone, and a gate of thick oak wood, which stands open. Beyond it lies a Twolegplace, if a Twolegplace were made of that same stone rather than wood and plaster and the other things houses are made of.

It's so tall.

Also, there's... something... else. It smells like a mouse. It stands like a Twoleg. It's wearing a blue robe, with a... metal thing... at its waist. It's currently gathering berries from the bushes by the walls and putting them into a wicker basket.

. . . The Dark Forest is not real.  Even if it was, descriptions don't mention it being nice even superficially - it's not even dark here - and if it did, short trees and tall Twoleg nests would not be the way it was strange.  And the mice would be many times his size, probably, not just a tail-length (that is still a huge mouse) (what do the cats here use instead of mouse-lengths; do they just say however many kitsteps or what portion of a pawstep something is?), or there wouldn't be any prey at all.  And even if all that were true he isn't dead; what could possibly have killed him without waking him up.  And even if he were dead he's done nothing to merit getting sent to the Dark Forest, which continues to not be real in the first place, so there's absolutely no chance that that is where this is.

Tigerclaw watches the Twolegmouse from behind the treeline while he contemplates this, and keeps doing so at least until it starts doing something else.

The Twolegmouse continues berrygathering!

Then the wind turns, and it sniffs the air, and its tail twitches.

"Hello?" it asks, in... fully comprehensible Twolegspeak?

"Greetings," he returns, and emerges slowly from the forest.  He corrects his gait a few times to be less threatening and as unhuntinglike as he can make it.

The Twolegmouse chuckles, though he stays in a ready posture. "Greetings indeed, my friend! Are you a traveler seeking shelter? A pilgrim here to see the Abbey? Our gates are open to any goodbeast who'll abide by our laws."

"I have come here from very far away but not with any particular purpose."

Twolegmouse nods peaceably. "What are you called then, traveler? I'm Jojo, the present Warrior of Redwall Abbey."

"Tigerclaw.  Of no Clan."

Another nod. "Redwall Abbey welcomes you, Tigerclaw. Do you intend to stay for tonight's feast? Most of our fare is vegetarian, but there'll be a few great fish on the table."

"I haven't decided."

Jojo returns to his berry-picking. "There's no rush, of course. Can I answer any questions for you? I fear I've been interrogating you."

"Does Redwall Abbey have more than one type of warrior?"

Headshake. "We're peaceful folk. One of us takes up the mantle so the rest don't have to - though in times of great need, we can come together and fight as one."

"I see.  What do the rest of you do?"

"Some tend to the fields. Others fish, or gather forest herbs, or brew ale and wine. We've got one Abbot or Abbess, who leads us, a few scribes who keep the library and record our histories, a good pawful of cooks... Everyone pitches in to keep this place running, one way or another."

So they still have patrols and hunters, and RiverClannish preferences which makes sense if the ThunderClan-typical prey can all talk, and multiple medicine cats (. . . or mice) which makes sense if their camp is this big, and a leader but no deputy which seems bad, and - elders?  Who take care of a certain place instead of being fully retired but still tell stories to kits.

"What do the cooks here do?"

"They prepare the food, taking it from raw ingredients to a full meal. Do your people mostly eat their food raw?"

"Generally."

"Well, I personally don't... care as much about food as some people..." (clearly this is a slight sore point) "...but I know many people say that well cooked food is one of the great pleasures of life."