Chapter 19, Black Fang Leadership
Master’s words cut through the last, fading echoes of violence, crisp and final. “Alright, one more thing to do then. We’ve got to go north of the arena, to Black Fang’s personal quarters.” His voice carries all the weight of inevitability. The Bond is taut as a drawn wire, every sense humming, already tuned to the next threat.
He wipes the blade on a scrap of fine linen, tucks it away, and gives me a look that’s equal parts approval and expectation. I lick the last drops of water, my tail curling with satisfaction, heart thrumming under the pleasure of his praise. The taste of blood is still in my mouth.
We step from the velvet den into the corridor, shadows swallowing us, the stink of perfume and fear left behind. No one looks twice as we pass. let them think we’re just more predators in the night, let them think the upper class still rules. We know better. The Bond keeps me close, every footstep echoing in time with Master’s, my gaze flickering from his eyes to the world.
The arena looms behind us aswe continue, stone, blood, memory. Ahead, the path north curls through tighter streets, alleys where shadows breed and the strong carve out territory with iron and fire. Black Fang’s personal quarters: the heart of the beast. Even here, even with the taste of victory still raw in our mouths, there’s no comfort, only purpose. Only the next job. The next fight.
Master moves like he always does, neither fast nor slow, never hesitating, always reading the angles. I follow, silent as a rumour, ready to kill or comfort as the Bond demands.
The air gets colder and meaner as we move north. Black Fang’s native territory is obvious even before you see the signifiers. The Bond burns, twitchy and electric, every sense sharpening as I keep pace with Master, eyes flicking to every shadow, every lazy set of eyes that lingers a bit too long.
We arrive, steps echoing in a chamber so wide it swallows up noise and hope in equal measure. Three houses squat side by side, cut from the same ugly block of stone as every ambition in Maw Mine. Regular, boxy, nothing fancy, the kind of places that scream “power” only to those who never had any. Their windows are black holes, doors reinforced with scavenged iron, graffiti and territorial scratches covering what passes for paint. The street between is littered with broken bottles, scraps of old propaganda, and the lingering stink of too many bodies living too close for too long.
No guards in the formal sense, no uniforms, no discipline, nothing that would pass for a real roster. Just the odd bouncer leaning against a half-collapsed stoop, arms folded, faces scarred, all of them wearing that loose, easy arrogance of men who know the world’s rules are written in someone else’s blood. Some watch us with lazy interest, flicking knives open and shut or blowing smoke into the gloom. Most don’t even bother. Why would they? In this place, violence is currency, and reputation keeps you safer than steel.
A pair of young men in leather armour trade insults over a game of bones on the front steps. A woman in a patched coat leans in a doorway, boots up on a crate, eyes bored but sharp, tracking everyone who moves.
Above it all, the three houses brood side by side, not marked, not named, but unmistakable, the heart of Black Fang. Inside those stone boxes, power gets made, debts get called in, and fools either come out richer or don’t come out at all.
Master slips into the shadows first, body flowing low along the jagged edge of the nearest house. The Bond tugs at me, sharp and tense, and I follow close, paws barely whispering on the stone, tail held tight, ears flattened so every scrape and breath becomes a signal. Every lazy guard is just another part of the scenery, dangerous only if you let them.
Stealth Rolls, Master 16 +7 = 23
Master moves like someone who’s been avoiding notice all his life. His outline melts against the rough wall, every shadow welcoming him in. The lazy guards don’t even blink, one bouncer grunts, flicks his knife, but his gaze passes over Master like he’s just another passing shadow.
Aliza, 12 +7, Feline Agility, Caffeine Focus: +2 = 21
I hug the wall, pressing close enough that my whiskers brush the stone. My foot catches on a loose pebble, just a whisper, but in a cavern this quiet, it could be a warning shot. My body freezes, muscles straining, but the nearest bouncer just belches, too busy spitting at a stain in the dust to care about anything feline moving low and quick. I let my tail coil, slow and sinuous, blending my outline with the darkness.
We slip past the front of the houses, hearts pounding in sync, the Bond singing with triumph and caution. The world around us is a smear of old threats and lazy dangers, but we are shadows within shadows, never more than a breath from each other, never more than a thought away from violence.
We slip around the back of the houses, the noise and stink of Black Fang’s territory fading. The world closes in, all cracked brick and slick mud, no eyes but the ones that matter, us, and whatever’s hiding in the dark.
I scan the wall, a run of rough stone and rotting wood patched over with iron. No obvious doors, but enough uneven ledges for a cat to find her way up. My body coils, claws ready, tail twitching with anticipation. I leap for the first handhold...
Aliza's, Climbing, 4, Acrobatics +6, Feline Agility: +2, Caffeine: +2, Master’s presence +1 = 15
Master’s Climbing, 2 original roll, Athletics +5, Explorer’s Grit +1, Aliza’s presence +1 = 9
I arch my back, tail high, digging claws into the pitted stone. Even with the slick wall, my body’s built for this. Muscles coil, adrenaline and caffeine churning through my veins, the Bond blazing with Master’s nearness. My first leap falters, claws slipping, but I catch a ledge, grip tighter, recalibrate, and let every ounce of feline instinct guide me. Ears flat, claws extended, I scamper, quick and low, scrambling up with a little more noise than I like, but making real progress.
Master tries next, eyeing the wall with all his usual cynicism, calculating every grip. He plants his boot, grabs a crack, and pulls, but the stone shifts under him, some old trick, and he drops back, boots scraping, hands catching on a jut of old iron. Not a fall, not a disaster, but the climb is slower than he wants, less clean.
Still, together we manage to get up, me first, crouched like a shadow on the edge, tail twitching, one paw out to help haul him up. The Bond hums approval, my breath coming fast, heart wild with the thrill of the hunt, the pleasure of being useful.
We’re above the sightlines now, balanced on the edge, ready to slip into the gang’s den. Not perfect, never perfect, but alive, together, and closer than anyone has a right to be in this city. The darkness hides us. The stone holds us. And we move forward, not as ghosts, but as hunters.
Aliza’s Perception Roll, 4, Perception: +5, Enhanced Senses: +2, Caffeine: +2, Master’s presence +1 = 14
Master’s Perception Roll, 18, Perception +2, Tactical Genius: +3, Aliza’s presence +1 = 24
I press myself flat against the stone, nose twitching, ears up, every instinct straining to pierce. But the cavern is thick with old dust, the stink of too many bodies, food scraps, the muffling smell of wet stone. Caffeine roars in my blood, but I catch only the broad strokes, faint voices inside, the rustle of cloth, the stale air of people who think they’re safe. I sniff, blink, listen, but the shadows hide the details. I sense movement, a figure passes behind a curtained window, the dull scrape of a chair, a sliver of firelight from beneath a warped door. My claws twitch, frustration gnaws, even with every trick, the information is smeared, muddy, incomplete. I’m fast, alert, but not at my sharpest.
But the Bond is alive, burning, a hot, constant current. Master’s mind flares to life in mine, as he allows me access... every thought, every deduction bleeding through as if it were my own. I see what he sees, feel what he notices, every calculation mapped onto my senses. He doesn’t just look, he analyzes, counting shadows.
Master scans the area, every nerve a live wire. He notes, the second house has fresh mud by the back step, someone left in a hurry, probably recent. The third house’s window is cracked but the glass is clean, someone checks the lookout spot regularly. In the first house, there’s a flicker, movement, the gleam of steel, just inside the curtains.
His mind pieces it all together, the guards outside aren’t really paying attention, but inside, there’s vigilance. The back alley is checked every few minutes, the second-floor window is unlocked, an easy entry if we move fast and silent. He tracks voices, three, maybe four people, talking in clipped, streetwise codes, the language of those who expect betrayal.
I drink it all in through the Bond, letting his mastery paint the world in sharper relief than my own instincts could. My mind fills with every detail, where the guards pause, which shadows are safe, which stones are likely to shift. The world sharpens, not because of my own senses, but because I’m plugged straight into his.
We slip inside, the curtain’s weight parting silently, velvet swallowing up the last trace of streetlight. The interior breathes the same sickly warmth as every backroom in Maw Mine, stale tobacco, the faint iron note of blood not yet scrubbed from the cracks. The Bond pulses between us, hot and electric, guiding my senses ahead, every step in perfect sync with Master’s long, predatory stride.
Stealth Rolls:
Aliza, 15 + Stealth +7 + Feline Agility +2 + Caffeine +2 + Master +1 = 27
Master, 14 + Stealth +7 + Tactical Genius +3 + Aliza +1 = 25
We’re ghosts, shadows within shadows, not a single loose board, not a squeak of leather betraying us. The guards outside mean nothing, this is the real meeting, the heart of Black Fang’s machine. In the half-dark, voices thrum, low, cautious, men who trust only knives and payoffs, their words clipped, half-code, half-threat.
I sniff, ears swivelling. Leader’s here. His scent is different, rich tobacco, pomade, the cloying musk of a man used to being obeyed. He sits at a battered table with two others, a third standing with arms crossed near the window, eyes flicking over a spread of coins and ink smudged paper. There’s power here, but it’s tired, frayed, desperate. The Bond vibrates with my anticipation.
A fourth figure, thin, nervous, reeking of gin and fear, edges toward a side door, excusing himself in a whisper. I move without a sound, a blur of muscle and instinct, tail low, blade drawn from my belt. I wait until he passes a pillar, then pounce, hand clamping over his mouth, the spear sliding in quick, clean. His legs buckle, a muffled gasp dying in my palm. He doesn’t even have time to drop what he’s carrying.
The others don’t notice. Master slips in behind me, crossbow raised. He sights along the barrel, and in the next moment, the room snaps into violence.
A single twang. The bolt flies, clean and unerring, and takes one of the lieutenants through the head. It hits with such force the body jerks backward, chair splintering, blood and brains spraying the wall. The second man shoves away from the table, shock frozen on his face, but Master’s already in motion, covering the floor in a stride, blade ready.
The leader is quick to beg, quick to promise, but it’s all empty. Master pins him down, voice as dry as the stone underfoot, “Tell me everything about the Crimson. Now.” The man babbles, sweats, his hands shaking, eyes rolling as if the secrets might appear in the cracks of the ceiling. But nothing. No codes, no names, no map to the Swarm’s nest. Just another coward at the end of the line, built big in rumour, hollow in truth.
Master’s patience is ice, mine is fire. He glances at me, something cold in his eyes, and hands me his sword. The metal is heavy, the handle warm from his grip, his trust, his command, passed from hand to hand. “You’ve got higher dexterity than me. Do it.”
I kneel, every movement precise and unhurried, the Bond buzzing with satisfaction, tail flicking. One by one, I sever their heads, quick, clean, no drama. Blood pours onto the dusty floorboards, pooling under the battered table, darkening the cheap carpet. Each head lands with a dull thud, faces slack, the illusion of power finally stripped away. No last words, no final threats. Just silence.
Master watches, clinical and unmoved, then slips the blade from my hand, wipes it on a dead man’s sleeve, and motions to the window. We slip out, climbing into the alley, leaving the ruin and stink behind, unseen, untouched. The guards never notice. We’re gone before the bodies cool.
The walk back toward Vigilance territory is all dust and echo, the Bond humming quieter now, only the throb of shared frustration left. Master’s muttering under his breath, voice thick with noir fatigue, “All of this. A big waste of time. No closer to the Swarm, no leads, just more bodies and more ghosts. This city just eats itself and calls it justice.”
I pace at his side, head low, tail brushing his leg, the sharp scent of blood and steel still clinging to my fur. The city’s turned on its axis again, violence for violence’s sake, nothing but noise in the dark. I taste the bitterness in Master’s thoughts, feel the ache of another dead end gnawing at us both.
But we move on, together, always within five feet, always hunting, always hoping for a different answer that never comes. And for now, in the endless, grinding dark of Maw Mine, that’s all there is.
