He lowers me, boots sinking deep in the muck, and I land in a low crouch, ready to pounce, claws itching for retaliation, but he’s already moving, turning away without so much as a glance, every muscle wound tight, composed, commanding. My tail flicks, indignant and enthralled, and I follow as he strides toward the heap of mire corpses, their blood still steaming in the cold air, the stench of wet fur and split guts choking the marsh.

Master kneels by the largest kill, hand steady as he checks the body, rain trickling down his sharp features. I sense his mind, clinical, focused, walls up but not impenetrable. He’s not thinking about the violence or the humiliation. He’s thinking about the utility. Always utility. Always the next move. I taste the calculation, the grim satisfaction at the kill, the silent pride humming in the back of his thoughts.

Total bonus +2 Wis +1 Prof +1 Explorer’s Grit +1 Class/Background = +5 = 10

It’s not graceful, but it’s efficient. He draws his hunting knife, copper-iron blade glinting dull in the gray light. With practiced, utilitarian movements, he slices through the hide of the mire beast, careful not to puncture the foul, swollen guts, every gesture clean, every action deliberate. The skin peels away in thick sheets, the inner flesh slick and pale beneath. He works quick and silent, never wasting motion, mind always three steps ahead.

He stacks the meat with methodical precision, slabs for roasting, shanks for boiling, a few choice cuts for searing in a skillet over whatever fire we manage to scrounge once the rain passes. The less promising pieces are hacked off for jerky.

My stomach twists and growls at the smell, equal parts hunger and disgust, the storm only making everything more raw and urgent. I watch him slice muscle from bone, wrist never trembling, always perfectly sure, even in mud, even with me hovering a foot away, tail wrapped in possessive warning around his ankle.

He wipes his blade clean, gaze dark and unreadable, only the faintest flicker of satisfaction pulsing across the bond before he buries it, again, behind that wall of calculation. He stands, mud and blood smeared across his hands, his work clean but never proud. 

“Come now, kitten, let’s continue. We’ll need to stop soon. I can trace your stomach from here.” He doesn’t look back as he says it, doesn’t need to, with the bond humming between us, my hunger gnawing loud and wild, every step making it worse. My claws dig into the mire, tail twitching with irritation, ears half flattened, but I match his pace. I always do.

We push west, the landscape shifting as the storm finally chokes itself out, the clouds thinning to a bruised silver, water streaming off every branch and blade. The marsh begins to thin, reeds and black water fading and then, almost abruptly, the ragged edge of a real forest, thick trunks, tangled roots, the earthy scent of rotting leaves almost a relief after hours of rank wet fur. Even the air changes. The first “normal” birds, thrushes, little grey larks, flutter and skitter in the canopy above, their song a thin, broken promise of ordinary peace.

Master doesn’t slow. He picks a spot at the base of a fallen tree, half-shielded from the lingering wind, and pulls a clutch of dried reeds from his pack, collected, no doubt, hours or days before, always preparing, always thinking ahead. He clears a patch of earth, moves a few flat rocks with a calculated flick of his wrist, stacks the reeds into a small, neat bundle, and then simply looks at me, command without a word, that infuriating, amused smirk flickering in his thoughts even if his face gives nothing away.

It’s on me. Fire duty, and I can feel the old, childish petulance bubbling up inside, half spoiled, half eager to prove I’m more than just a hungry animal, even as my stomach betrays me, gurgling loud enough for him to “trace” with every step. I crouch low, fur still damp, tail flicking, and I set to work.

d20 roll, 3, Dex +4, Wisdom +0 = 8

I hunch over the tinder, claws working quick and clever, breath held as I snap the dryest reeds and arrange them in a star. My hands are nimble, precise, but the fur on my arms is still damp, every movement sending cold drops down my wrists and into the bundle. I strike the flint, once, twice, a third time, sparks skittering but catching on nothing, only smoke and a sour, charring stench as the dampness soaks into everything. My tail twitches violently, ears burning with embarrassment as the third attempt ends with only a tiny puff of smoke, nothing more.

The ground is too wet. The reeds are half sodden. My claws, normally so deft, are slippery with mud and humiliation. I bare my teeth in frustration, hissing softly as another spark fizzles out, the only fire burning here the one in my own eyes, a wild, yandere spark desperate to save face.

He’s watching, and he knows it. I can feel his amusement, that cold, contained pride, the kind that only grows sharper when I struggle, that only makes me want to win more. He doesn’t say much, never does when he’s watching me struggle, face impassive, thoughts twisting with that dry, clinical amusement he tries so hard to hide.

“Here,” he says, voice quiet but absolute. That word is the whole world in that moment, he’ll never mock me with cheap laughter, but he won’t let me fail in silence either. He always steps in just before pride turns to shame.

I bristle, tail snapping once in protest, but my hands obey, yielding the flint and half crushed reeds with a little too much force. My pride is a living thing, snarling and wounded, but underneath it there’s that dark, greedy part of me that loves being shown up by him.

He kneels, sleeves already pushed back, and gets to work. Everything about him is ruthless efficiency. Let’s see his numbers:

11, Wisdom +2, Proficiency +1 jack of all trades, Explorer’s Grit +1, Tool Use +1 background, Class bonus +1 multi-skilled = 17

He’s all calm confidence, nothing wasted. He shifts the rocks, rearranges the reeds, picks the driest strand with surgical precision, then, with a few quick, practiced strokes of the flint, he drives a rain of sparks into the centre of the bundle. There’s a tense moment, a brief hiss as smoke curls upward, and then, with a soft whoosh, flame catches, licking up and swallowing the tinder. He doesn’t even bother to look proud, just leans back on his heels, letting the fire grow, his thoughts already three steps ahead to the meat, the rest, the journey onward.

My tail wraps around his leg, tighter this time, equal parts possessiveness and sulky defeat. I watch the flames devour the reed bundle, resentment smouldering in my chest but only for a heartbeat, only until the scent of cooking meat starts to fill the air.

He takes the mire skillet slabs, fat, bloody, still glistening with marsh mud and the stink of wet fur, and arranges them over the flames with the same focus he applies to battle or strategy. He never lets anything burn, turning the thick cuts with a careful hand, letting the fat render and the edges crisp, every motion precise. The first real sizzle breaks the night’s quiet, fat popping.

The fire burned low and mean, painting the tangled edge of the marsh and forest in flickers of orange and black. My tail curled around Master’s thigh, claws hooked deep in the worn cloth of his trousers. The remains of our meal, a scattered mess of greasy mire bones, cracked and gnawed to the marrow. The taste of mire was still thick on my tongue, every bite as ugly as the creatures themselves, stringy, fatty, the flavour a swampy muddle that no salt or fire could quite erase. But food was food, and I devoured it with an animal’s hunger, fingers and claws working the scraps until there was nothing left but slick bone and cracked gristle. The meat was vile, but the satisfaction of warmth, of fullness, of survival, it was real. Realer than the endless string of hard, dry venison, realer than memory or pride.

He drank first, that calm, steady ritual, iron canteen tilting at his lips. The water inside tasted of rain and blood and the faintest tang of old metal, but I gulped it greedily, letting it wash the last traces of mire from my teeth. He watched in silence, gaze sharp and cold, but his thoughts were rambling now, distant, the bond between us humming with each unspoken word.

“You know, I think we’re only a few hours from Merchant Cross,” he said, voice quiet, the words as much for himself as for me. “A major hub, if the maps haven’t lied. The question is, where do we go, my cat ? The big city, the forest, one of those little settlements barely more than a trading post?” He leaned back, elbows on his knees, eyes catching the firelight in strange, pale flashes. “Reminds me of our early years in the Oakwood Pact, out in the west forest. Oakwood, Silverbrook, tiny, forgotten places, only marked on maps because the trade road ran through them. Everything was tax, everything was transit. That’s why the Vanguard mattered. That’s why the Pact paid for a private army to keep the road open, to keep the capital of Alderia connected to Serenity, all the way through the wildest woods.”

He paused, staring into the flames, the words spilling out soft and even, almost like he didn’t know I was still pressed tight against his side, tail coiling and uncoiling with every breath. I could feel the nostalgia in him, a hard, dry thing, never quite sentimental but always precise, every memory weighed and measured. His mind spun back through years of quiet movement, calculated survival.

I let him ramble, head tucked into the crook of his shoulder, my ear flicking with every sigh and rustle of the dying fire. The forest was thicker here, darkness settling in with the birds roosting overhead and the marsh finally surrendering its hold. The mud beneath us was firming up, the stench fading just enough that I could almost forget the stink clinging to my own fur. For a heartbeat, I was tempted to slip further into him, to trace those wandering thoughts to their root, but I held back, content to ride the slow, lazy current of his half remembered stories and new uncertainties.

He always did this after a long march or a hard fight, retreating into memory, reciting old maps and routes like a book, rebuilding the world out of names and numbers, trying to place us exactly where he wanted to be. That old habit from the Oakwood days, when the Vanguard patrolled the road for coin and pride and safety, when every forest shadow could have hidden an ambush or a bargain. I remembered it all too, the scent of pine and loam, the strange hush of a trade road at dawn, the tight little knots of villages clustered around every toll post, where even the tiniest hamlet could swell with silver when the convoys rolled in.

Master’s voice softened as he let the old world take over for a moment. “Oakwood, Silverbrook… the only reason anyone remembers them is because they’re on the road. Otherwise they’d just be swallowed by the forest, forgotten in a generation. That’s the truth of this place, you know, everything is only as important as the routes it controls.” He glanced down at me, eyes cool and searching, but his hand found my head, rough fingers ruffling the matted fur between my ears. “And we always find our own way through it. No matter how many roads there are, no matter who tries to tax or gate or bar the path.”

His touch sent a ripple through my spine, claiming, possessive, grounding. I pressed closer, tail tightening, the firelight dancing in my eyes. I could feel the flicker of pride in him, buried under all that calculation. He was never sentimental, not truly.

I let myself bask in it for a moment, the fire, the closeness, the rare stillness between one move and the next. The world felt smaller in the dark, safer, less wild. The city lights of Merchant Cross glimmered somewhere ahead, just out of reach, promising noise and commerce, danger and opportunity.

His thoughts moved again, sharper now, hungry for purpose, for the next plan. “So, kitten, what’s your vote? Big city, forest, or some nothing little outpost where nobody knows our faces?” The challenge was there again, but softened now, less a test and more an invitation. He wanted my opinion. He wanted me to choose, at least for a moment, to have a stake in the road ahead.

I stretched, arching my back like a cat waking from a long nap, then pressed my cheek into his shoulder, eyes narrowing with playful malice. My claws raked gentle, possessive lines across his sleeve as I purred, “We could go anywhere, Master. The city’s full of prey and predators alike, so many rivals to torment, so many merchants to bleed. Or we could vanish into the woods again, live wild, hunt and steal, make them all remember why they’re afraid of the forest.” My tail flicked, lazy and dangerous, thoughts twisting between mischief and hunger. “Or maybe a small place, a little settlement that nobody cares about. Easier to control, easier to break if we need to make an example.”

I nipped at his arm, just hard enough to leave a sting, just enough to remind him that even in rest, I was never tame. “I’ll follow wherever you lead, but you know I’m always hungry for chaos. Take me where the world is loudest, or where it’s most vulnerable. Let’s make a mark they’ll never forget, just like we did before.” My voice was a whisper and a promise, twisted, fierce, and longing, all tangled up in the dark.

His words cut through the comfortable silence. “Well? Are you just going to repeat or actually make a decision?”

“I want the city, Master.” The words are low, rolling, bitten off between my teeth. “I want the noise, the crowds, the chance to find something that actually bites back. The wilds are nothing to me right now, not after hours in the mud, not after eating monsters. I want to see how far your name really goes, how many of their little merchant lords remember the Oakwood Pact, or if they think the world is safe just because someone drew a border on a map.” My lips curl, the smile twisted, predatory. “Let’s walk into their den and remind them what real trouble looks like. Let them try to push us out. Let me see you tear the mask off their order and show them chaos is still watching from the shadows.”