Chapter 22, The Drunken Catgirl.
We leave the carnage behind without a backward glance, just two more shadows slipping out of Embercrack’s plush stone, the city none the wiser, blood already cooling behind us. Outside, rain falls in a thin, cold curtain, speckling the ground and hissing. Master leads, his stride measured, his eyes set on the west. I pad at his side, ears flicked low, tail curling for warmth, every instinct sharp as always but comforted by the simple ritual of travel, one step, then another, the past bleeding away behind us.
We eat as we walk, strips of dried venison, torn with sharp teeth and quick, strong fingers, the taste rich and metallic, a reminder that we are both animal and survivor. The canteens slosh with cold, clean water, cutting the salt and smoke of the meat. I keep my claws clean, licking them between bites, always watching the Bond for Master’s mood, ready for the next order, the next violence. He drinks from his canteen, and I brew up a little Embercrack tea in a battered tin cup, the steam rising fragrant and bitter into the damp morning.
The rain picks up, just for a moment, the sky a grey, unbroken shield overhead. I brace myself for the stink, the humiliation that comes with wet fur, every muscle tense, tail clamped tight, praying that the new cowl Master crafted holds its line.
Saving Throw, 7, Hardened Leather Cowl Crafting +3 = 10
It’s close, too close. The water seeps into the edges of my cowl, cold and uncomfortable, but the leather holds, just barely, keeping the worst at bay. My fur is damp, my ears prickling with annoyance, but the stink never rises, never shames me. I grit my teeth, shoulders hunched, tail lashing. The moment passes, and as quickly as the rain began, the clouds break, the sun slanting through in pale ribbons of gold, steam rising from the road in hazy ghosts. I let out a low, triumphant growl, beat the stink this time.
The Bond is a warm thrum of satisfaction, Master feels it too, that minor victory, the day brightening in spite of everything we’ve seen and done. Together, we crest a rise and see the next destination, Maw Rest, a settlement built from the bones of older powers, remade in the image of new ambition.
The first thing you see is the palisade, a sturdy wall of sharpened logs, blackened at the tips, encircling the town with a rough, honest kind of defiance. Banners flap from the posts, Bogclutch colours now.
Inside the walls, Maw Rest is alive with activity. The main street is churned to mud by a steady parade of militia boots and wagon wheels, goblin and Alderian voices blending into the soundscape of a place that’s both military camp and battered village. The centrepiece is the old barracks, once a Redstone exclave, then a dictator’s stronghold, now half-converted into a keep, squatting on a man-made motte. Goblin sentries lounge on the ramparts, short bows slung over their backs, sharing pipes and gossip, eyes always scanning, never at ease.
Militia camps dot the open ground below the motte, rows of canvas tents, fires burning in iron barrels, the scent of stew and sweat heavy in the air. Goblins make up much of the rank and file, short, wiry, all business, their laughter loud and sharp. A few Alderian officers pace the camp, crisp uniforms showing signs of wear, voices carrying in clipped commands. Weapons are everywhere, short swords stacked by the gates, bows propped against walls along with a training ground.
Beyond the barracks, the land flattens out into neat, modest wheat fields, golden in the clearing sun, stalks bending in the breeze. Here and there, a farmer stoops to check the soil, an old Alderian woman shares bread with her goblin neighbour, children dart between rows chasing rats or playing at war. There’s a sense of hard-won peace here, no one trusts it, not really, but they hold onto it with everything they have.
Houses cluster along the main road and the edges of the fields, mostly single-storey, thatched or shingled, built for function, not for show. Windows are small, shutters painted in the faded colours of families who have lived here longer than memory. Smoke curls from chimneys, the smell of roasting roots and frying fish drifting over the walls. Dogs bark, cats lounge on rooftops, and everywhere you look, someone is watching, sizing up strangers, guarding what little is theirs.
Towards the southern gate stands a new structure, all fresh wood and eager ambition, a barn converted to a barracks, big enough for two dozen men and women. The Bogclutch crest is painted above the door. Next to it, a small inn offers cheap beds and cheaper beer, its sign creaking in the breeze, the paint chipped but proud. A young goblin sits on the porch, strumming a battered lute, singing a song about lost love and found trouble.
As we walk through, the town’s gaze falls on us, curious, wary, but not hostile. My collar marks me as property, my cowl as something special, and Master’s presence is enough to part the crowd. The Bond hums, warning me of every eye, every threat, every glimmer of respect or suspicion. Children stare, whispering about the catgirl and her Master, but their mothers pull them away, as if afraid some of our trouble might be catching.
The inn’s timber door swings inward, the sound of its iron hinges and the low murmur of voices spilling out into the street. The scent hits me first, roasting game, bread fresh from the oven, the tang of woodsmoke and honey mead so thick you can almost taste it in the air. For a moment, the weight of everything we’ve seen, everything still ahead, eases, just the tiniest fraction. It’s been weeks since we last crossed this threshold, but nothing has changed. Not really. Familiar warmth, familiar tables, the gentle glow of a central fire pit where the stew always seems to simmer, fat with wild mushrooms and root vegetables.
The common room is just as I remember, sturdy, mismatched tables, some cut from whole trunks, others pieced together from scavenged planks and old Redstone benches. Faded cushions in the corner, a boar’s skull mounted above the hearth, battered tankards stacked behind the bar. Here and there, militia, mostly goblin play dice or nurse mugs of mushroom ale. A couple of Alderian farm hands, hands stained with earth, cluster around a loaf of bread, laughter soft and tired. In the side alcoves, a trio of local merchants trade quiet words, the clink of coins as background music.
Master leads the way, his presence parting the room without force. Eyes track us, catgirl and collar, Master and shadow, but no one stares long, not here. We take a free table near the window, sunlight painting the boards in gold, the menu chalked up on a slate hung by the bar.
I curl into the chair across from him, tail wrapped close, ears flicked forward, paws smoothing out a wrinkle in the seat, old habits, always at home in a place like this. I glance over the menu...
Hunter’s Stew, Bread & Cheese, Pike Skewers, Forager’s Plate.
Mushroom Ale, Sweet Mead, Spring Water.
Master picks up the menu, glances over it with that habitual detachment, then offers it across the table. “Let’s have some lunch. We’re likely about halfway to Mawgraven now if we’re lucky, we’ll make it by nightfall.” His voice is even, calm, as if nothing about our journey so far has been anything but another day’s work.
For a heartbeat, I let myself settle, so rare, so precious, this pocket of normality between violence and the next hunt. My mind maps the room, every window, every shadow, every route out, but for now the only hunger I care about is the ache in my belly. The Bond carries Master’s steadiness into me, steadying the caffeine burn in my blood, calming the tail that wants to lash, the claws that want to clench.
I glance out the window, watching as two goblin militia jostle each other in mock combat, boots sliding through the mud, their laughter a rough harmony with the music drifting from the corner. A plate of stew goes past, thick with chunks of meat, golden mushrooms, the rich, earthy scent making my stomach tighten with want.
I let my gaze drift over Master, watching the way he studies the room, already planning, already calculating the next move even as he acts relaxed. The safety here is a thin veneer, every table, every patron, every meal just a pause before the city’s next sharp turn. But for now, with bread on the air and warmth at our backs, I can almost believe we’re just travellers, just a pair of hungry wanderers between troubles.
The words curl across the table, silk over steel, "So? What is my wife having this fine lunch time?" Master’s gaze pins me in place, eyes never leaving mine, every ounce of his focus pressing into me until the rest of the room falls away. There’s nowhere to hide from that look, not that I’d ever try. My breath hitches, a flush rising under my fur, tail wrapping tighter around my thigh. The Bond vibrates, full, possessive, teasing. There’s a heat in his eyes that says this is more than a meal, more than just another stop on the road, it’s a reminder that no matter what waits beyond these walls, I belong to him, always, in every moment.
I bare my teeth in a sly, slow grin, ears up, letting the pleasure of his attention bloom through every nerve. For a second, I’m less the wild creature, more the contented pet, purring low, basking in the intensity of his focus. But even tamed, there’s a sharpness to it, something dangerous, something hungry.
My voice is soft, but edged with that familiar, possessive playfulness. “Well, since my Master is spoiling me, I’ll have the hunter’s stew, fat with meat and mushrooms, just the way I like it. And bread, thick and warm, dripping with honey. And for drink…” My eyes flick down, then back up, wide and luminous, never looking away from his. “Sweet mead, Master. I want to taste something bright and wild, something that stings a little, something that’ll remind me I’m still alive. That I’m yours.”
My claws tap the table, impatient, eager, but never breaking the spell of his gaze. The world outside these walls can wait. For now, I am only what he makes me, and I want him to see the hunger, the loyalty, the feral pride that says no one else will ever claim me. I lean forward, matching his stare, daring him to look away first, a little giggle bubbling up, sharp and sweet.
“Whatever you want me to have, I’ll take, Master. I’m yours, after all. Always.” The words come out as a purr, every syllable a little promise, a little threat, a little prayer.
Soon the table is heavy with food, steaming bowls of hunter’s stew, the aroma thick with game and mushrooms, slices of fresh bread glistening with honey, platters of sharp goat cheese, roasted root vegetables, and my prize, two clay cups of golden, sticky sweet mead, the kind that promises a slow burn and a sharp sting all at once. Master sits across from me, his own bowl steaming, his hand curling around a simple jug of spring water, always sober, always controlled, always one step ahead of every disaster.
But it’s the mead I want. I lift the cup, the scent rising, rich honey, wildflowers, and something faintly sharp, a whisper of ferment that promises heat. I tip it back, letting the sweetness wash over my tongue, the honey thick and floral, almost syrupy, chased by a shimmer of alcohol that prickles all the way down. It’s intoxicating. I lick a drop from my lip, the taste lingering, a heady, dizzying sweetness that dances in my skull.
But I can already feel it, the warmth spreading, the telltale fuzz creeping into my thoughts. I grip the table, trying to steady myself as the Bond pulses in time with my racing heart.
Saving Throw, 8, Constitution +3 = 11
It hits me instantly, faster than I can blink. My body melts, muscles going liquid, ears flattening as the world swims in gold and honey. The clinging starts first, my hands slip across the table, finding Master’s wrist, fingers curling tight, as if afraid he’ll disappear. My tail winds up his leg, anchoring me, the Bond flaring with every desperate heartbeat. My head drops to his shoulder, nuzzling, breath warm and fast against his neck.
I can’t help it. My voice slurs, every syllable sticky with need and hunger and a wild, desperate adoration. “Master…” I breathe, words thick and trembling, “I need you closer. Can’t… can’t ever be far. You’re mine. Only mine. Only, only you.” My grip tightens, eyes wide and unfocused, a swirl of blue and gold, lips brushing his jaw as I half-laugh, half-whimper. “Don’t ever leave. Never. I’d kill them all, tear them apart, paint the walls, if anyone tried to take you.”
The yandere rush is total, in full, trembling, drunken obsession. The inn melts away, there’s only Master, only the pulse of his heart, the scent of his skin, the knowledge that nothing matters except staying so close I could crawl inside him. I cling, shaking, hungry, lost in him, in us, in the Bond.
The world could burn. Let it. I’d burn it myself, as long as he never left my side.
My fingers tighten around Master’s sleeve, knuckles white, nails biting into the fabric without me noticing. My forehead rests against his shoulder now, breath uneven, my tail wrapped fully around his leg like a tether hammered into the ground. I keep him anchored because the idea of him standing, even leaning back, sends a spike of cold panic straight through my chest.
“You’re still here,” I murmur, voice low, fragile in a way I hate but can’t stop. I lift my head just enough to look at him again, eyes glassy, too focused, pupils blown wide. I don’t blink. I don’t need to blink. “You didn’t move.”
My hand slides up his arm, slow and possessive, counting muscle, memorising shape, confirming reality. The bond is screaming reassurance into me but it isn’t enough anymore. I need proof. Constant proof.
The inn fades to background noise. Plates clink. Someone laughs. A chair scrapes. Every sound is a potential threat. My ears swivel violently toward each one, then snap back to him. I catalogue exits without meaning to. Who is closest. Who would reach him first. Who would bleed fastest.
“They’re all watching,” I whisper, not even sure it’s true. “They shouldn’t look at you like that. They don’t know you. They don’t understand what you are.” My mouth curves into a thin, broken smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. “If they did… they’d be scared.”
My head presses under his chin now, nuzzling not affectionately but urgently, like I’m trying to crawl into the space where his heartbeat is loudest. I inhale him deeply, shamelessly, grounding myself in scent and warmth. Every time I breathe him in the shaking eases a little. Every time the scent fades I tense again.
“You’re mine,” I say softly. Not declarative. Not proud. Afraid. As if saying it keeps the world from disproving it. “I don’t like it when the world exists around you. I don’t like that it thinks it has a chance.”
My tail tightens another fraction. My body leans closer still, practically in his lap, and I don’t even register the impropriety. All social rules have drained out of me with the alcohol. There is only attachment now. Raw, trembling, absolute.
“I don’t want Maw Graven,” I admit quietly, the words slipping out before I can stop them. “I don’t want new places. New people. New risks.” My fingers curl into his cloak, bunching the fabric. “Everywhere we go, something tries to take you from me. A blade. A deal. A name.”
My eyes finally flick away from his face, scanning the room again, calculating. My jaw tightens. “If it happens here,” I add, voice flat, eerily calm, “I won’t stop. I don’t care about stew or towns or promises. I’ll tear this place apart until there’s nothing left but you and me.”
Then the fear rushes back in, sharp and humiliating. “But you’re here now,” I rush to say, eyes snapping back to his. “You’re still here. You haven’t left. You won’t leave, right?” My voice drops to a whisper, small and dangerous all at once. “You’d tell me if you were going to leave. You wouldn’t just… go.”
I press my forehead to his chest and stay there, breathing hard, listening to his heart like it’s the only thing keeping me alive. My claws dig into the wood of the bench, not him this time. I force myself not to hurt him. That restraint costs me effort. Sweat beads under my fur.
“I’m good,” I murmur again, softer now, almost pleading. “I did good. I’ll keep doing good. Just don’t let me lose you.”
His calm cuts through the haze like a knife. “Are you going to eat the stew? Or not?” Detached, flat, as if my entire being isn’t pouring out of me, as if the world isn’t about to tip sideways with the force of my obsession. The question lands, and for a moment I can’t even process it, food feels like an afterthought, a thing for distant, saner creatures.
His hand, though... his hand is everything. He reaches down, slow and deliberate, his fingers sliding along the length of my tail, from the thick base to the fine tipped end, every stroke measured and gentle. The sensation is overwhelming, too much, yet not enough, each movement setting off firework bursts under my skin. My tail twitches and curls under his grip, betraying every secret pulse, every wild, involuntary tremor.
I press closer, half in his lap, my whole body trembling. I nuzzle his neck, desperate for scent, desperate for reassurance. My voice comes out as a whisper, hoarse and raw, every syllable trembling with need. “If you want me to eat, I’ll eat. If you want me to starve, I’ll starve. I’ll do anything you want, anything, Master. Just don’t let go. Don’t ever let go. If you stopped touching me, I think I’d die. Or worse, I’d break something. Someone.”
The Bond vibrates with my anxiety, my devotion, the sense that the universe is on a razor edge and only his touch keeps me from toppling over. Everything in me is turned to him, my claws dig lightly into his sleeve, my breath warm against his jaw, my legs curled up beneath me, every muscle ready to coil tighter or unravel entirely at a word.
I glance at the stew, barely visible past the blur of him. The scent of rabbit and mushrooms should make my mouth water, but all I can think about is him. My tail, trapped and cherished in his palm, becomes the axis of the world. The need spirals up, possessive, desperate, broken, trembling devotion flooding my mind. I would shatter the world to keep him; I would shatter myself if he asked. I lean my head against his chest, voice muffled but urgent.
“Don’t stop. Please don’t stop touching me. I’ll eat, if you feed me. I’ll do anything. Just… stay with me. Stay. Forever.”
The world tilts again, and I don’t even resist, his hands are on me, lifting me effortlessly from the chair, all long limbs and quiet power. I cling, desperate, arms wound tight around his neck, my face buried against his chest, inhaling every note of his scent as if it could anchor me to this reality. The Bond is electric, shimmering, so intense it almost hurts. I don’t care who sees. Let the entire inn watch, I am his, and he is mine, and the whole of Maw Rest can rot if they try to separate us.
He strides across the room, dropping a scatter of copper coins onto the bar, coins clinking, the innkeeper glancing up, bemused but used to strange travellers. Master’s voice is as detached as ever, dry, almost sardonic: “And I suppose that’s why you shouldn’t let cats drink whatever they want.” His tone is the only gravity in the universe, the only constant. I hear it as gospel, as condemnation, as a joke meant just for me.
He carries me past the worn carpets and faded tapestries, into a plain room, whitewashed walls, a tiny shuttered window, the bed just wide enough for two. He dumps me on the mattress with no more ceremony than tossing a stray coat, and still I cling, limbs entwined, tail wrapping his wrist, my head tucked under his jaw, wild-eyed and breathless. My purr vibrates against his chest, raw and unsteady, the aftershocks of too much mead and too much feeling.
Even dumped, I refuse to let go, hands knotted in his shirt, tail curled up his arm, thighs tight against his hip, as if I could weld myself to him by sheer will. My words are jumbled, delirious, slurred with devotion. “Not my fault, wanted to be close, needed to be close. Never enough, never, never let me go, Master. You’re the only thing that matters. Everything else is noise. You always you…”
I feel his hands, one on my head, one stroking my back, each movement deliberate, grounding. He could push me away. He could leave me to sober up alone. But he doesn’t. He holds me just enough to keep me from falling to pieces, his presence the only solid thing in the dizzy, spinning world.
