Chapter 17, The Smoking Kipma
We slip out of the tunnel’s throat and the world opens up, first with the smell, then the noise, then the press of bodies moving in the half-light like fish in a bottomless river. The Arena District. My mind hums with the Bond’s intensity, that psychic leash burning shorter and tighter with every step Master takes, but here, in this crowded bowl of violence and commerce, even my obsession is momentarily numbed by the pulse of life, the scent of old blood, cheap spirits, and ambition.
I barely remember the place where the fight went down, the ghosts of pain and steel already faded in the air, no one here looks twice at us, and why should they? Down here, everyone’s too busy betting, scheming, or just trying to survive another day without ending up in the pit. Nobody notices the walking dead or the walking victorious; all that matters is what you can take, and what you can keep. Master’s presence is a silent anchor, but the Bond is so close it hurts, my mind echoing with his passing thoughts, flashes of memory, detail, calculation.
His gaze drifts north, and I feel the cold touch of nostalgia and analysis: Arena district hasn’t changed. Guards here actually look like they’d care if a riot broke out. Mixed races, but even the goblins and catfolk keep their heads down. South, Kipma Inn, smells like a bonfire in a slaughterhouse. North, Black Fang’s main den. Remember the first week in Redstone Hold. Aliza competed in that arena. She nearly ripped that dwarf’s throat out with her bare hands. Clan Redstone loved it. Blood in the sand. Glory in the eyes of those too hungry for fear.
His thoughts flick to me, running a pulse of possessiveness down the Bond, an old memory of pride and terror, mingled in the way only I ever seem to conjure from him. I remember it too, the roar of the crowd, the dust choking my throat, the taste of adrenaline and the promise that, for a moment, the world watched me and saw a monster worth fearing. I let the memory slip across my tongue, tail flicking as if to taste the crowd’s energy again, the echo of claws on stone and blood pooling in the grooves.
The arena itself stands squat and square, a monolith of carved sandstone, chipped at the edges but strong, unyielding, a place where names are made and erased in equal measure. I remember the weight of expectation, the glee in the faces of those who cheered for violence not out of hatred, but out of longing, longing for something to believe in, even if it was only the certainty of the kill. That first week set the tone. Redstone Hold didn’t want heroes, it wanted survivors. It wanted spectacle.
All around us, the crowd swirls, indifferent, Alderians in dyed cloth, goblins with their hunched, feral grins, a smattering of dwarfs, even a pair of elves arguing over odds with a Kipma barkeep. No one spares us more than a glance. The guards, for once, look the part, steel helms, real spears, eyes cold and professional. They scan the district with boredom and violence just below the surface. Not corrupt mercenaries, not alley thugs, but men and women paid to keep order and crack heads as needed. They know the score. They know the cost of letting chaos in.
I stay glued to his side, shadowing every step, not a hand’s width between us. I let myself breathe in the chaos, the anonymity, the reminder that in a city of a thousand desperate souls, being invisible is the best shield you can buy. My eyes flick from face to face, always returning to his, always checking his pulse, his tension, his intent. He’s calm, for now, in the way only a man who has walked through fire learns to be.
I hear the crowd’s bets, the barkers calling out the next match, tonight it’s an ogre against a trio of Black Fang hopefuls. Odds are long. The crowd loves blood. I feel the urge to join them, to make my mark again, but the Bond won’t let me stray, not now, not ever. I’m tethered, obsessed, but grateful. There’s a strange safety in the focus, in the knowing I won’t lose him, not even for the roar of the crowd or the thrill of the kill.
We step through the battered door of The Smoking Kipma and the world shifts, outside is the filth, the pit, the exhausted sprawl of working men and blood-soaked sand, but in here, it’s all velvet deception and opulent decay. Smoke curls along the ceiling in thick, perfumed ribbons, sweet and rotten, heavy with the stink of exotic herbs, pipe-weed, and something sharper, almost chemical, lurking beneath. Every surface drips with gold leaf, the shine dulled by fingerprints and time, gilded mouldings climbing the walls, ornate mirrors reflecting back eyes that are too tired, too hungry, too dangerous to belong in a place like this.
The floor is a patchwork of cracked, painted tile, the kind that was laid by men who’d never set foot in a mine, now hidden under a threadbare carpet, the pattern faded by a thousand muddy boots. A grand staircase sweeps upward, banisters thick with dust, wood carved into lions and laurels that have lost their shine. Crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling, heavy with cobwebs, their candlelight refracted through stained glass baubles that send fractured colours spinning across faces lined with worry and secrets.
The patrons are a study in ruin, fine silk sleeves frayed at the wrists, jewel-studded shoes splitting at the seams, necks adorned with chains and pendants, none of it enough to disguise the gaunt cheeks, the trembling hands. Some huddle over polished tables, playing cards for scraps, eyes darting at every newcomer, others lounge on red velvet settees, blowing smoke into the air, laughter brittle and sharp. On a dais, a woman in a tattered ballgown pours brandy with practised disdain, the crystal decanter catching the light, the drink itself the colour of rust.
The air thrums with low music, harp strings and something plucked and ancient, barely covering the quiet, desperate bargains struck in the shadows. Gold and powder change hands, whispers traded like threats, every smile edged with warning. Waiters in faded livery drift between the tables, balancing trays of half-eaten delicacies on trembling fingers, their eyes fixed on the floor, as if knowing that beauty and rot are only ever separated by a single, bloody line.
It’s all theatre, all illusion
Master’s gaze cuts through the haze and gold like a knife, his thoughts flickering to me with that sharp, sadistic delight he tries to hide behind the noir mask. He’s always taken a twisted joy in my presence, my volatility, a kind of private, unspoken glee that I can taste now with every pulse of the Bond. The place is a pit of faded grandeur and desperation, but I can sense the corners of his mind curling with satisfaction. Perfect hunting ground. Let them rot in velvet while we take what we need. Cat on a leash, always draws the right kind of attention. Broken people are the easiest to squeeze dry.
My thoughts run colder, more detached, a flat, cynical calculation layered over every gesture. No illusions, no softness, just the old, exhausted clarity, If we’re going to dig up the Crimson Swarm, it’ll be here. No one in the pit cares what’s coming, only what can be bought, sold, or stolen before morning. Every soul in this den has something to hide, something to lose. It’s just a matter of asking the right way, or being the thing they’re most afraid of. Let Master do the talking. I’ll do the watching.
We move to the counter, the hush of silk and gold barely ruffled by our presence. Master’s hand moves with that same deliberate, intimidating grace, paying for Embercrack tea for the both of us, no questions, no hesitation. The coins vanish in the innkeeper’s palm like a ritual, not even a glance as he pours the dark, viscous brew into fine porcelain cups, sets them on a silver tray, and slides it across without ceremony. Even here, the ritual of money speaks louder than threats.
We drift to an empty table, sinking into dining chairs that are as out of place as a corpse in a king’s bedchamber, velvet crushed flat by years of weight, gold leaf chipped by nervous fingers, yet still finer than anything you’d find outside the Kipma. The crowd doesn’t look up. Nobody dares. Half of them look like they’ve crawled straight out of a grave and are just killing time until someone notices. Hollow eyes, haunted faces, a thousand quiet tragedies clothed in silk.
Master sits across from me, lips curled in the ghost of a smile, eyes scanning the room for weaknesses, listening for a whisper of the Crimson Swarm. I grip my teacup, tail curled around the chair leg, every sense on edge, letting the Bond run hot and tight between us. We don’t need words, just intent. In a palace built on ruin, sometimes the only way to survive is to look hungrier than the wolves.
We sip the bitter, mushroom tea, and wait for the right moment to pounce.
The first sip burns, bitter, acrid, the unmistakable taste of Embercrack tea crawling up my tongue and down my throat, setting every nerve alight. It’s not just caffeine, it’s a punch to the bloodstream, an electric surge that seizes my spine and snaps my tail to attention. My hands twitch on the porcelain, claws scraping lightly, the world suddenly humming and spinning with a sharp, broken-edged intensity. Every heartbeat is a drum, every flicker of movement in the smoky Kipma is a shout in the dark.
My ears flatten, then perk, then flatten again, unable to decide whether to brace for attack or melt into the velvet. My eyes dart from face to face, catching every glimmer of light on gold, every nervous tremor in a patron’s hand, every whispered deal struck behind a trembling palm. The Bond pulses faster, hot and frenetic, my awareness of Master’s presence ratcheted up to a fever pitch, his breath, his pulse, the sly satisfaction curled in his thoughts.
I can’t sit still. My foot taps a wild rhythm under the table. My tail lashes, curls, then whips at the air, so quick it’s a blue-and-silver blur. My jaw aches from the tension, chewing at nothing, working through the residual urge to pounce, to kill, to laugh until they all realise how close to death they are with me in the room.
The flavours are overwhelming. Scent of smoke, sweat, the iron tang of coins and desperation, every sound a spike in my skull, the clink of glass, the low moan of a dying harp, the rustle of silk over hungry bone. My mind runs in circles, manic and sharp, catching a hundred stories in every glance, piecing together a thousand betrayals before the first kettle has finished boiling.
Master is still, the only thing in the world that isn’t vibrating, his thoughts crisp and clear, Good. Keep her alert. The room will notice. That’s what I want. If anything stirs, she’ll see it before I do.
I giggle, can’t help it, the noise cuts through the quiet, bright and strange, a knife of joy and violence. For a moment, I want to leap onto the table and snarl, to let the whole den know who owns the floor, who owns the Master, who’s willing to draw blood at the slightest provocation. Instead, I dig my claws into the velvet arm of the chair, shuddering, trembling, eyes wild, grin wide and cruel.
The Bond tightens, a sudden, blinding pulse, scent. Not just the memory of it, but the full force, raw and immediate, projected through me with no warning. Master’s essence, his sweat, his skin, the musk of his clothes, that iron tang beneath the surface, all of it floods me in a single, overwhelming wave. It drowns out the tea, the noise, the velvet rot. All I know is him.
I snap, all willpower torn away in an instant by that command, by the need, the world vanishes, nothing but the ache in my gut and the animal desperation tearing through my veins. I’m moving before I think, crawling across the table with twitching limbs, the fine porcelain rattling, my tail coiling up around his thigh as I climb into his lap, knees digging into the expensive velvet. My claws snag on his cloak, my nose buries itself in the hollow of his neck, then his collarbone, then his wrist, anywhere skin meets air, anywhere the scent is strongest. I inhale, long, ragged, gasping, filling myself with him, every breath a shudder of relief and frantic need.
I don’t care who sees, let the ruined nobles and broken gamblers watch. Let them see what ownership means, let them taste my hunger in the air. I press my face into his chest, mouth half open, tongue flicking against his skin, greedy and lost, purring like thunder, growling at anything that would dare come close. The world is reduced to heat and need, every sense on fire, manic with caffeine and obsession. I can’t get enough. His pulse hammers in my ears, the scent is dizzying, intoxicating. He’s mine.
MINE, MINE
I rub against him, cheek, nose, jaw, marking him with my scent, taking his into myself until there’s nothing left but the Bond and the echo of his thoughts. The Bond sings with satisfaction, pride, wicked glee at my madness, at my humiliation, at my loyalty, and I don’t care, I want him to see, to know, to feel what it means to be the centre of my world. Every inch I can reach, I press to, nuzzle, lick, bite, my world, my Master, my everything.
My tail wraps tighter, my body trembling, every breath a prayer to his scent, every movement a declaration of war on any rival foolish enough to breathe the same air. This is what he does to me. This is what I am, reduced, perfected, consumed.
His words snap through the haze, cold and sharp, “As much as I appreciate it, CAT, I meant hone in on anything that smells like production.” The Bond flares, shaming heat burning through my nerves, tail whipping once in humiliation and reflexive possessiveness. For a heartbeat I linger, nuzzling his chest, nose buried in his collar, greedily drawing in one last lungful, letting his scent flood every instinct, every twisted little need.
Then the command sinks in, production, not ownership, not pleasure. My ears flick forward, eyes flashing wide, caffeine and craving blending into a feverish clarity. The Bond thrums with purpose now, the world narrowing to the question he’s pushed into my mind. My body tenses, senses forced to pivot, to drag my focus away from Master and back to the den, to the mess of humanity around us.
I blink, reluctantly pulling away, tail still curled tight around his thigh, claws lingering on his sleeve. My head lifts, nostrils flaring, drawing in the sour, perfumed fog of the Kipma, filtering through the layers of rot and smoke for something else,something sharp, acrid, metallic, the kind of scent that doesn’t belong to living things, but to work, to making, to building. My heart races with every whiff, eyes darting over the room, nose twitching as I scan for anything that reeks of chemicals, dyes, blood, solvents, anything that doesn’t fit the velvet and despair.
It’s everywhere and nowhere. Gritty, industrial notes woven through the sweet poisons, the rich tobacco, the reek of sweat and crushed dreams. I catch a thread of burnt alkali from a table of goblins, the stink of old copper near a human with ink-stained fingers, a sharper bite of solvents in the air above a pair of cloaked dwarfs hunched over a case beneath their table. There, something else, too. Faint, but real. A whisper of something chemical, almost alchemical, too sharp and clean to belong to food or drink. My ears swivel, honing in, muscles twitching with the urge to pounce.
My mind feeds it all back through the Bond, each trace, each detail, every flicker of scent that tastes of production and industry, not just decay and indulgence. I let Master feel it, taste it, the pulse of possibility in the crowded, ruined grandeur of the Kipma.
But even as I hunt for his answers, I can’t help myself, I press my knee to his leg, tail curling possessively, making sure that even in service, even as his instrument, I remain a living threat to anyone else’s claim.
I do as I’m told. But he’s still mine.
I drop to all fours, tail high, shoulders rolling, letting the pretense of civilisation slip right off me like an old skin. No one here blinks. In a palace built on rot, a catgirl on the floor is just part of the scenery, pet, wild thing, mascot, shadow. I don’t care what they see, all that matters is the hunt, the task Master has pushed into me through the Bond. My nose hovers inches above the worn carpet, ears swivelling, body alive with twitching energy and caffeine.
I breathe deep, filtering the smoke and perfumes, chasing every note that doesn’t belong, chemicals, resin, sharp ink, metal, the tang of blood that’s fresh and not from wine. My senses stretch out, a living net cast wide, gathering every detail. I catch snatches of conversation too low for any human to follow, coded deals, veiled threats, one man begging another for a second chance on a late delivery. The scent of oil from a dwarven coat, faint scorch of something magical, suppressed, but not enough to fool a nose like mine, the steady clink of bottles filled with something thick, viscous, not meant for drinking.
Perception Roll: 15 +5, Feline Enhanced Senses trait: +2 ,Caffeine focus +2
Total: 15 + 5 + 2 + 2 = 24
The world sharpens. I hear and smell everything. Every tick of a dying clock behind the bar, every scrape of a boot against the cracked tile, every muttered lie passed between trembling hands. My tail stiffens as I crawl nearer a gilded column, nostrils flaring. There, a scent beneath the rot. Ozone, acid, glue. Cloth dyes. And something bitter, like burned sugar and old copper, industrial. Production, hidden, but too strong to mask completely.
I follow it with my ears, tuning out the pulse of the harp, the laughter, the whimpers. There’s a conversation just out of sight, behind a curtain, two men talking in low, anxious voices:
“…should be ready by tonight if they pay up front this time.”
“I’ll move it myself. They want results, not excuses.”
My tail flicks with triumph. That’s it. The smell of dye, the acid tang of solvent, the edge of burning metal and glue. A production operation.
I flick my gaze up to Master, eyes shining with manic, feverish pride, and bare my teeth in a sly, victorious smile. I’ve found what he needs. I’ve seen and smelled and heard it all. This is what I’m for, his tool, his shadow, his cat.
No one notices. No one cares. But Master will. And that’s all that matters.
