I catch Master’s thoughts, those steady, coiled plans, a slice of noir hunger for answers and for leverage. The Bond runs hot through me, and for a wild heartbeat I nearly go all giddy, ears pricking up, tail curling. All I want is to please him, to watch him work, to see him claim this cold little world with nothing but his mind and his voice.
But there’s more to do than swoon. I drop to a crouch, ears sharp and forward, filtering through the creak of floorboards and the muffled crackle of the fire in the parlour. I listen, really listen, the way only a catgirl can. Feet shuffle in the drawing room, two sets, husband and wife, probably, both deep in some pointless argument about reputation or inheritance. Upstairs, a door closes softly, a servant’s step, light and brisk, trained to be unseen. A heavier tread in the hall, slow, confident, pacing, likely a bodyguard waiting for his employer to finish business below. But deeper, behind the main staircase, I catch it: a murmur of low voices, close together, careful but not secretive, the kind of conversation that needs space and trust, but not shadows.
Perception Roll, 17 +5, Enhanced Senses +2, Caffeine, +2, Master’s presence +1 = 27
I track the sound, leading Master through plush hallways, skirting polished sideboards and rich velvet curtains. The inn’s rear is a warren of little rooms, reading nooks, writing desks, a private smoking lounge behind a thick velvet drape. The air grows heavier, richer, layered with tobacco, old cologne, the faint, nervous sweat of men who are used to risking everything for the chance to win just a little more.
We find the room, big for this house, with a bay window curtained against the night. Five men, all in tailored suits or waistcoats, polished boots, hair slicked back with expensive oil. One’s older, nose like a hawk’s beak, fingers thick with rings. Two others are young, watchful, faces lean and sharp, a third leans on a cane, the fourth taps a heavy signet against a glass of dark liquor. Their conversation pauses as we enter, eyes appraising, predatory, polite, and utterly unconcerned by violence. They know where they are, what power smells like. The Bond flares, and I feel it, danger, opportunity, respect, the rules of the game changing around us.
I tilt my head, taking in their scents, oil, money, new silk, a whisper of steel hidden in jacket linings. The tension in the room tastes of old coins and new grudges. I let myself be obvious about it, head cocked, nostrils flaring, tail flicking, just a little too wild for these velvet walls.
Master does something he never does, something that makes my heart pound, he steps forward, every inch the calm, cynical privateer, and plays nice. No steel, no threat, just pure, distilled intent.
He meets the older man’s gaze, then sweeps the room. “I won’t waste your time. I’m here for business. High-profile business. Steel, if you can believe it, good steel, not the scrap passed off to fools. I’ve got gold.” He holds out a pouch, the clink heavy and deliberate, no need to flash it, just the promise of weight and worth. “If you’ve got the goods, I’m listening. And I’m not here to haggle.”
Charisma Check, 16, Charisma +1, Tactical Genius +3, Aliza's presence +1 = 21
The older man’s eyes narrow, his lips curling in something between a smirk and a calculation. The young men tense, ready for trouble, but the one with the cane leans back, a little smile flickering. For a moment, no one speaks. Then the older man nods, once, all authority and risk.
He gestures to the chair opposite, never dropping his gaze from Master’s face. “Steel, you say? Not a common ask these days. Not for just anyone, either.” His voice is quiet, cultured, but there’s an edge, Maw Mine never lets anyone be truly soft. “Gold’s good, but names are better. Who are you buying for?”
Master just tilts his head, expression blank as slate. “For myself. You don’t need to know more.”
A flicker of respect there, a hint of caution. Another of the men—broad-shouldered, sharp eyes, shrugs. “Everything has a price. You want real steel, you need more than coin. But if you’re serious...”
Master doesn’t let him finish, just tips the pouch, gold coins spilling gently into his palm. “I’m serious.”
The room shifts,a decision made, a risk taken. They glance at one another, silent agreements passing in the smoke and gold. The man with the cane finally leans forward, voice lower, more confidential. “Then The Swarm can get you what you want.”
The words land like a dropped glass.
“Then The Swarm can get you what you want.”
For half a second the room is suspended in that sentence. Smoke curls. One of the men inhales and forgets to exhale. Gold lies untouched on the table, suddenly irrelevant. Even I feel it before Master moves, the click in his mind, the cold alignment of purpose snapping into place.
He does not shout.
He does not threaten.
He simply acts.
Steel whispers from the scabbard and becomes certainty.
Attack Roll, 18, Strength: +2, Steel weapon quality: +5, Tactical Genius: +3 = 28
The sword slams into the cane man’s shoulder with brutal precision, not a wild swing but a practiced wedge, steel biting deep, pinning muscle and bone to the chair beneath him. The sound is wet and final. The man screams, short, sharp, shocked more than hurt, his cane clattering uselessly to the floor as blood soaks his sleeve and spatters the polished wood.
Master leans in, close enough for the man to smell him, voice flat, razor calm, vibrating with exhaustion and fury held on a tight leash.
“So, buddy boy,” he says, slowly, clearly, each word deliberate. “You’ve had me running around this entire city looking for you miscreants.”
The room erupts into chaos without movement. Chairs scrape. One man half rises, freezes. Another’s hand goes toward his jacket and thinks better of it. Master doesn’t look at them.
He keeps his eyes on the one pinned to the chair.
“You see, Clan Dalkurharn is just a touch annoyed,” he continues, tone conversational, almost tired. “And so am I.” He shifts the sword a fraction. The man whimpers. “And that right there?” He jerks his chin toward me.
“That’s The Cat.”
The title hits the room like poison. I feel it ripple, confusion first, then recognition, then pure, animal fear. One of the younger men pales. Another swallows hard.
“Ever heard of her?” Master asks, not waiting. “If not, let me assure you, she’s a sadistic, twisted, psychotic creature.”
That’s when I move. I step forward into the lamplight. Slowly. Deliberately. My ears lift high. My pupils are blown wide and black from the tea, from the hunt, from the joy coiling sharp and bright in my chest. My tail sways once… twice… not relaxed, not playful, measuring.
I smile. Not wide. Not friendly. Just enough to show teeth. They smell me before they fully see me, blood washed but not gone, iron and fur and something wrong, something that doesn’t belong in velvet rooms and polished conversations. I tilt my head, studying them the way a cat studies birds through glass, curiosity threaded with inevitability.
Intimidation Roll, 5, Intimidation skill: +9, Caffeine manic edge: +2, Master present +1 = 17
I crawl onto the table, claws leaving little white scratches in the polished wood, tail swishing in manic arcs. My ears are up, eyes wide, pupils blown, the Bond twisting every flicker of fear into something sweet and savage. I lean in close, close enough for the blood to fleck across my cheek, for them to smell the tea, the animal, the madness. My grin is all teeth.
I giggle, a high, sweet, kittenish sound, the kind you hear from a child playing in the garden, but twisted, hungry, giddy with the scent of their terror. “You heard him. Give us what we want, or I get to play.” I let my claws tap against a crystal tumbler, one by one, the sound unreasonably loud. “I like it when people scream. I really do. Especially the well-dressed ones. You all look so clean, like you think pain won’t stick to you. It will, you know. It always does.”
I crouch over the wounded man, blood scent sharp in my nose, my face inches from his, eyes locked on his as he trembles and gasps, fighting for breath, for control, for anything at all. I giggle again, letting my tongue flick over my teeth, tail curling so tightly it aches. “I could start with your fingers,” I purr, voice slipping up and down the scales. “Or maybe your ears. I like to watch people try to beg when they’re missing little pieces. Did you know a cat can pull out a tongue in one try? Want to see?”
I shoot a glance at the others, manic, hungry, watching as every drop of courage drains out of their faces. One of the young men, so sharp and proper a minute ago, is nearly sick, knuckles white on the arm of his chair. Another starts to rise, then sits back down, shaking, not daring to challenge the horror in front of him.
“I promise I’ll be quick if you’re honest,” I coo, voice syrup-sweet. “But I never promise to be gentle. It’s not in my nature.” I giggle again, higher now, broken at the edges, letting the unhinged energy fill the room. I scratch my claws along the grain of the table, a slow, deliberate warning. “So, what’s it going to be? Names, places, everything you know. Or we see how much blood one of these pretty rugs can hold.”
The Bond pulses, wrapping Master and me in a cocoon of violence and glee. My body is taut, ready to pounce, tail lashing. The room is thick with the stench of fear, real, animal terror, the kind that can’t be bought off or reasoned away.
The man with the rings stammers, voice cracking. “Alright, alright, gods, just stop” His eyes flick to the bleeding cane-holder, then to Master, then to me, and finally he breaks, his pride gone. “There’s a woman in Maw Graven. Alderian, red hair, calls herself Mira. Runs everything for the Swarm out there, drugs, steel, blackmail. The Crimson Swarm moves through her, always has. That’s all I know. Please. I swear, that’s all I know!”
I stare at him, grin never wavering, laughter still bubbling at the back of my throat. My claws twitch, eager, wanting to test the truth, wanting to make him scream anyway, but Master’s voice cuts through, calm and satisfied, and the Bond soothes, cools, my blood slowing as his purpose is satisfied.
The rest of the men sit, broken and afraid, the world of their backroom deals shrunk down to this single moment of violence and threat. Their eyes dart to Master, to me, to the sword still buried in flesh, and know there will never be a contract, never a coin, never a clever word that will save them from the truth of what we are.
Master gives me a nod, silent and decisive, as he wrenches his blade free, the wet sound of steel sliding from flesh filling the heavy hush. That’s all the invitation I need, no words, no Bond needed, just the surge of wild approval and hunger. I pounce, tearing into them, claws ripping velvet, flesh, bone. The room erupts in chaos and pleading, but I don’t hear it as anything but the music of my work, screams, gasps, wet gurgles, bodies toppling over polished chairs, blood blooming over mahogany and fine wool. I laugh, unhinged, wide-eyed, lost in the thrill of it, paint the walls with their cowardice, their secrets, their last desperate bargains.
Time blurs. When it’s done, the room is silent, thick with the copper stench of blood and ruin. Pieces of men, gangsters, brokers, would be lords of the night, litter the once-pristine lounge, all their power now nothing more than stains and meat.
I pad back to Master, paws and jaw sticky, fur bristling with the last shivers of violence, heart thudding with wild, euphoric pride. I nuzzle up to him, breath quick and ragged, tail lashing in pleasure. He kneels and strokes me behind the ears, slow and sure, grounding me in the aftermath. His touch tames the beast just enough.
He grins, a hint of that rare warmth glinting in his eyes, and leans down. “I suppose we’re off to Maw Graven, then. But” he teases, fingers curling into my hair, voice deep and gentle, “whom is a good kitten? Huh? Whom is a good kitten?”
I purr, eyes half-closed, body melting into his touch, the Bond singing with triumph and possessive delight. In the wreckage of all this ruin, I am still his, and he is still mine. That’s all I need.
@Senar2020
