The door opens again after some time. The tiefling steps in first, still composed despite the fresh claw marks on her arm and side that Master had treated. But behind her… Reville.

The name flashes through my memory. I recall her slightly, the timid catgirl survivor Master had mentioned once or twice before, the one from the marsh homelands who’d been pulled into his orbit during the chaos around Duskfen. A quiet, undernourished thing who somehow kept persisting. I’d caught glimpses of her in passing thoughts through the bond before, but never properly met her until now.

She walks in strangely enough with a quiet confidence that doesn’t quite match the rest of her. She’s a catgirl, shorter than me with a slender frame. Her fur, what little is visible on her ears and tail is a soft, patchy grey brown that looks like it’s been through too many hard seasons. Her hair is dark and messy, falling just past her shoulders in uneven strands. One eye is a soft purple, the other a pale green, mismatched and striking, the kind that probably got her teased as a kitten. She’s wearing simple, travel worn clothes, a patched tunic and trousers that smell strongly of the marsh and the long water passage she must have crossed to get here. The stench is unmistakable, stagnant water, mud, and that thick, earthy rot of the wetlands clinging to her like a second skin. It’s strong enough to make my nose wrinkle even from across the room.

Despite the smell and the obvious exhaustion in her posture, she carries herself with a strange, quiet confidence as she steps inside. Her tail sways gently behind her, and her mismatched eyes lift to Master with genuine warmth. But beneath that confidence, her behaviour is still sheepish, shoulders slightly hunched, ears flicking nervously, hands clasped in front of her like she’s not sure if she’s allowed to be here.

“Master,” she says softly, voice quiet but steady as she gives a small, respectful bow. “I… I made it. The crossing was harder than I expected, but I’m here now. Ready to help however I can.”

She takes a seat in the corner of the room when the tiefling gestures, perching on the edge of a chair like she’s trying not to take up too much space. 

Master looks straight into Reville’s mismatched eyes, one purple, one green and gets right down to business. He pours some embercrack tea from a small pot on the side table, the sharp, spicy scent filling the room instantly. He offers it to everyone but me. Reville takes a cup immediately, her timid demeanour cracking into something giddy the second she sips it. Her mismatched eyes light up, ears perking as she starts talking fast, words tumbling out in a nervous but excited rush about the crossing, the marshes, how grateful she is to be here, how she’ll help however she can, how the water passage nearly drowned her twice but she kept going for Master’s sake. She’s practically vibrating in her seat, tail flicking rapidly, hands gesturing as the tea clearly hits her hard.

The tiefling refuses politely, holding up a hand. “No thank you. I don’t want any outside interference clouding my thoughts right now.”

Master just shrugs, calm as ever, and continues. “So, things are obviously getting heated on the island. More and more factions, and safe to say we haven’t made the best impression. The Vanguard charter here wants us dead, the Order of the Oak here wants us dead, and I’m sure those Saltspire lot likely aren’t too pleased with us. But but but despite all this I think it’s time to get the officers correctly equipped. The last time me and the cat really wore any armour was eons ago. We of course have limited steel like the rest of the world but we do have some, so Aliza if you wish steel plate aka heavy armour so be it but light and medium options will be available but I myself will go medium, a mix of hardened marshland beast leathers and metal, not too heavy, not too light.”

“Another catgirl getting all giddy on your embercrack,” I murmur "She smells like marsh rot and desperation, but she’s already talking like she belongs here. I remember her now… the timid one from the edges. Quiet. Persistent. But she’d better remember she’s not me. I don’t share what’s mine.”

“Steel plate sounds good for me,” I growl softly against his ear “Heavy. Strong. So nothing gets through when I’m standing between you and whatever tries to take you from me. But I’ll take whatever lets me move fast enough to rip apart the next bastard who looks at you wrong. Medium for you… good. Not too heavy. I like being able to feel you under me like this.”

“Alright then that’s settled,” he says. “We’ll get you fitted out in blackfang gear minus the helmet as well ears. We’ll import it from the marshes, steel plate and steel heater shield with a steel spear. For myself I’ll go with more of a standard guardsman approach minus the shield and helmet so hard leather and steel chain mail.”

“Blackfang gear,” I murmur “Steel plate. Heavy. Strong. No helmet so everyone can see my ears, so they know exactly who’s guarding you. The heater shield and spear… perfect. I’ll look like the blade I am. Imported from the marshes… good. I’ll wear it proudly. Nothing gets through when I’m standing in front of you.”

The blackfang steel will look good on me. Heavy. Intimidating. Perfect for ripping apart anyone who tries to take what’s mine. And Master in his guardsman kit… I can already picture it. Practical. Commanding. Exactly how he should look when the world tries to test us again. 

Master speaks, his voice steady and commanding. “Well in the mean time we need to discuss the situation,” he says, laying out the map of threats and opportunities with that calm, noir edge. “5 hours north of here we have a vanguard fort by the coast. 5 hours east we have a vanguard fort in the tropical forest. 2 hours north east we have the motte and bailey castle we cleared of vanguard. Talking about that, we should send a scout out to see how the independent native alderians are doing now that they’ve gotten control of their settlement again, this time with the lovely vanguard investment of a motte and bailey. If they aren’t hostile, then let’s open up talks. Then finally we have guardsville 2 hours south with the ice goblin ruins an hour south. The rest of the island is still unknown.”

He claps his hands suddenly, the sound sharp in the room. “Right, pet, cat, tiefling, let’s hear everyone’s suggestions on plans moving forwards in order to not waste our effort here.”

I nuzzle harder into his neck at being called “cat,”. Reville is sitting quietly in her chair, still a little giddy from the embercrack tea but listening intently, her mismatched eyes wide and attentive. The tiefling stands composed as ever, arms crossed, watching everything with that mercurial calm.

I speak first, voice thick and dark with that manic edge, still draped over Master like I own him. “We don’t waste time playing nice with the Vanguard forts. North and east, they want us dead. We hit them before they hit us. Send scouts to map them properly, then we strike hard and fast. Burn the coastal one if we can. The forest one… we can use the goblins for ambush tactics. As for the motte and bailey, scout the natives like you said. If they’re not hostile, talk. Offer protection, trade, whatever keeps them from joining the Vanguard against us. If they are hostile… we take it back. The ice goblin ruins south of Guardsville, we excavate them ourselves. Joint or not, we make sure the best finds go to the tower first. Guardsville stays under our influence through the depot and the goblin garrison. No more letting the guilds think they own anything here.”

Reville speaks up next, her voice quiet but gaining confidence as the tea keeps her chatty. “I… I can help with scouting. I’m good at staying quiet, agility, remember ? I can slip through the forest or marshes without being seen. Patch gear, find supplies, assist with the excavation if you need extra hands. I just want to be useful, Master.”

The tiefling remains composed, nodding once. “The garrison is already integrating. We can reinforce the walls and coordinate with the guilds on the depot without full alliance. Defence of Guardsville should remain a shared priority for now. I’ll handle the logistics on our end.”

Master asks a single question, "so everyone is in agreement to strike and move agressively, correct ?"

“Yes,” I murmur. “Everyone’s leaning toward attack.”

“The issue we’ve got on that front then is unless we move troops from the marshlands which I don’t wish to do due to the political tensions in Redstone Hold, we don’t have much manpower. So let’s gather the refugees of Bogclutch that are still flocking to Mirepoint. The poor from Duskfen and some opportunists from Maw Rest and bring them here. With a bunch of militia and hunters equipment, it’ll largely be an untrained rabble with basically hardened leather equipment, chainmail with bucklers, short swords, short bows and arrows. The cat girl guardsmen we have here are actually trained. The others can garrison and lands forbid fight if needed.”

“Good,” I murmur. “We don’t pull from the marshlands. Redstone Hold is already a knife fight. We don’t need to give them more reasons to look our way. Bring the refugees. The desperate ones from Bogclutch, the poor scraping by in Duskfen, the opportunists from Maw Rest. They’ll come running for a chance at something better. Give them the hardened leather, the chainmail and bucklers, the short swords and bows. They’ll be a rabble at first, untrained, hungry, grateful. But they’ll fight for you. They’ll garrison the walls, the road, the depot.”

The tiefling remains standing, composed as ever, adding in her mercurial tone, “The garrison can integrate the new arrivals. We’ll assign sectors and make sure the guilds see it as shared defence rather than takeover. It keeps the peace while we build strength.”

The next few days blurred past in a haze of planning, supply runs, and the constant low hum of tension on the island. The tower had become a hive of controlled chaos, goblins reinforcing the walls, the tiefling coordinating with the guilds on the depot, Reville quietly helping wherever she could with her timid but persistent ways.

Then everything arrived.

The steel for me came first, blackfang gear imported from the marshes, heavy and gleaming under the tropical sun. I stood in our quarters as the goblins helped me into it, the steel plate settling over my frame like a second skin. No helmet, just as Master ordered, so my blonde hair and cat ears were on full display. The heater shield strapped to my left arm felt solid, reassuring. The steel spear leaned against the wall, ready. The magenta lining of my old tunic peeked out at the edges, a flash of colour beneath the black steel. I looked every bit the blade I was, dangerous, owned, ready to protect what was mine.

He was already in his own kit, hardened marshland beast leathers reinforced with steel chain mail, practical and commanding, not too heavy, not too light. It suited him perfectly. The guardsman look with that Redstone edge. I nuzzled into his neck immediately, claws tracing the leather over his chest as my tail coiled around his leg.

“You look like the ruler you are,” I murmured. “And I look like the weapon that keeps you safe.”

We headed outside together, my steel plate shifting with every step, the heater shield heavy on my arm, the spear in my other hand. The 57 new arrivals had just disembarked from the boats, lining up in ragged rows near the base of the tower. The air smelled of salt, sweat, and the faint rot of the long journey. 

Master began the inspection as I walked with him.

Twenty three of them were immediately obvious, sick or underfed, hollow cheeks, fever glazed eyes, coughing, limping. The clinic was already overwhelmed, a small building near the tower now bursting at the seams with the influx. Healers and the few with medicine skills were running ragged, the tiefling barking orders to prioritise the worst cases. It was a mess, but expected. The journey from the marshlands and Duskfen had taken its toll. They were sent off quickly, carried or limping toward the clinic while the rest stood waiting.

Of the remaining thirty four, thirty were already hunters, hardened leathers worn from years in the wilds, short bows slung across their backs, short swords at their hips. They carried themselves with that semi trained confidence of people who’d survived on their wits and their aim. Their eyes were sharp, their stances balanced. They’d do for patrols, for skirmishes, for holding a line once we drilled them properly. The catgirl squad already present would spar with them, turn that semi training into something sharper.

The ones that were left, nine skilled labourers and the rest completely unskilled. Master moved through them, questioning quietly, observing the calluses on their hands, the way they held themselves, the small tells in their stories.

The nine labourers were useful, carpenters, masons, a couple with experience patching walls and building basic structures. They’d help expand the garrison, reinforce the road, work on the depot. The rest… they were the rabble. Untrained, unskilled, just desperate bodies looking for a chance. Farmers who’d lost their plots, refugees from Bogclutch with nothing but the clothes on their backs, opportunists from Maw Rest hoping for something better than scraping by in the fields. They’d need basic equipment, hardened leather, bucklers, short swords, short bows and arrows and they’d need training. Lots of it. The headache Master mentioned was already forming in my mind, sickness spreading in the overcrowded camp, lawlessness from bored or desperate men, bad campaigns if we threw them at the Vanguard too soon.

The island was heating up, but so were we. We’d bring in the desperate, arm the rabble, train them into something useful. The headache would come, sickness, lawlessness, bad campaigns, but we’d handle it. We always did. 

The day stretched on with inspections, allocations and the first drills starting under the tropical sun. 

Fifty seven in total. Fifty one were goblins. The sick ones among them, the twenty three coughing, limping, hollow cheeked were all goblins. One was an Alderian, a tall, weathered man with the look of a displaced farmer. Five were dwarfs, strangely enough for us, stocky, bearded. They grumbled among themselves in low voices, clearly not expecting to end up here but eyeing the camp with pragmatic interest and one was a catgirl.