We reach the edge of Maw Graven, the great palisades looming high and sharp under the pale moon. The air tightens, the soft hush of night replaced by the thrum of watchfulness, the weight of old laws and older suspicions. Torches flare along the gatehouse, lighting the faces of the guards, Alderian's, broad and unyielding, clad in blackened iron armour that makes them seem carved from the very stone beneath their boots. The air around them hums with authority, not the crude bravado of common bandits or town militia, but the ritual certainty of a people who have defended borders for centuries.
This is Clan Dalkurharn’s ground, the heart of their territory, a hard, isolationist bastion on the eastern border of Redstone Hold, the next stepping stone before House Serrean’s reach swallows the land for the Serenity Barony and, beyond that, the Kingdom of Alderia. The blood of old wars stains this ground, the customs here are deep, cold, and suspicious. Strangers are never welcome. Outsiders are eyed as enemies, especially those with the wrong blood or the wrong tail. And I am unmistakable, a catgirl, marked by collar and cowl, by the cut of my body and the wild flicker of my tail, a living breach of everything these Alderian's pretend to hold sacred.
Their eyes catch us long before we reach the gate. Two guards step forward, iron helms glinting, black shields slung across broad backs, swords held loosely but not carelessly. Their faces are masked by iron, but the suspicion radiates from every line of their bodies, every slow, deliberate movement. Behind them, other guards watch from the towers, crossbows pointed down but not quite ready to fire, the old play of distrust.
One steps forward, voice flat, thick with the Dalkurharn accent, stony, clipped, each word a challenge. “Halt. This is Maw Graven. State your names, your business, and your allegiance. These are the border gates, trespassers vanish, and we have no patience for the games of Redstone, Bogclutch, or wandering beasts.”
His gaze rakes over Master, searching for clan marks, badges, any sign of permission or kinship. When his eyes fall on me, they linger, hard, cold, measuring the length of my tail, the shape of my ears, the cowl stitched to protect me from rain. To them, I am neither threat nor guest, just a piece of property, a pet with too much steel in her eyes, too much confidence for the taste of these old bloods.
I feel it in the Bond, the bristling wariness, the tangle of pride and fear these guards hold close to their hearts. Their history is one of isolation, discipline, and suspicion. They are the last stronghold of a doctrine older than even Redstone’s wars, followers of the Threefold Path of Resonance, stone for resilience, water for adaptability, groves for interconnectedness, but they wear it like a mask, using tradition as a shield against everything new and foreign.
They know the border here is a line drawn in blood, on one side, Bogclutch, goblin and catgirl and every kind of outsider, on the other, Redstone, iron proud and law-obsessed, and somewhere beyond, the elf stronghold, cold and watchful, a rumor of war in every shadow.
Master stands tall, unbothered, a stranger who refuses to shrink beneath their gaze. He lets the moment stretch, every second a test, before answering, calm, measured, never once flinching.
I keep close, not shrinking, but watching, reading every muscle, every scent, every twitch of hand on hammer or foot on gravel. My claws are sheathed, my tail held high, every instinct sharpened by their suspicion. I am cat and shadow, guardian and warning, never docile, never weak.
Their stares dig deep, a silent accusation, and for a moment, the Bond goes taut, Master’s thoughts flash bright, cynical, familiar, “Of course they’re scared of the cat.”
Something in me snaps. The air bristles with my fury, claws flexing beneath my gloves. My tail lashes in manic arcs behind me, ears pinned back, every muscle coiling for a fight. I step forward, right into the torchlight, my shadow cast monstrous on the gate. My voice is a sharp snarl, every word laced with all the derision and violence they deserve, but I feel the Bond’s tug, Master’s will beneath my own, his intent clear, even in its restraint, no violence, not now, not here. For now, we are allies, not conquerors.
But that doesn’t mean I’ll be meek. I bare my teeth, eyes wide, unblinking, letting every bit of madness and threat show. “Is this how you greet allies at your gates? Or do you just go at yourselves when you see something with claws and a collar?” I stalk another step forward, every line of my body making it clear I could leap the space between us in a heartbeat. “You think a little iron and attitude makes you safe from the world? From me? If my Master weren’t standing right here, if I weren’t holding myself back for his sake, you’d see what happens to gatekeepers who forget who their friends are.”
I let my words hang, letting the cold burn of my presence seep into their bones, the promise of violence tightly leashed only by the invisible chain of Master’s intent. I can feel him just behind me, his quiet, neutral energy holding me back from tipping over the edge, a single touch on the Bond that’s equal parts command and caress. I want to scare them, not kill them. For him, I hold.
“Get your commander, let us in. Unless you want a real problem on your hands tonight.” My voice drops to a purr, manic, sharp. “And next time you see a cat at your gates, remember, we bite.”
They bristle, Alderian pride wounded, suspicion sharpening into outright hostility as I bare my teeth and step into their torchlight. The taller of the two guards jabs his sword toward my chest, keeping just out of striking distance, his voice rising, hard, public, meant to put on a show for the others watching from the shadowed palisade.
“We don’t answer to threats from pets or their travelling owners. You’re not listed, not expected, and not welcome at this hour. We don’t open our gates to wandering creatures without a sponsor.” His eyes cut from my cowl and collar to Master’s cloak and sword, searching for some mark of rank or letter of passage. “You want in, you prove your business—or you wait out here like any other stray until dawn. You’ll be lucky if the patrol doesn’t collar you both and march you back to Redstone.”
The other guard squares up. Behind them, the crossbowmen above the gate shift, arrows lowered but not yet aimed, every one of them watching, judging, waiting for a single misstep.
Master steps forward, cloak swirling, his movement cutting the tension like a blade through heavy smoke. For a moment, every eye is on him, my own included. He doesn’t hurry, doesn’t bluster. He moves with that deliberate, world weary cynicism I’ve seen a hundred times before, the kind that belongs to men who’ve seen too many locked doors and pried open every one with the right word, the right threat, the right flash of coin or violence.
He fixes the guards with a gaze, chin lifted just enough to remind them who decides how this night ends. His voice is smooth, deep, never raised, just heavy with disdain, each word sharpened with that tired condescension only a true professional can muster. “Oh please.” He lets the words hang, a challenge in the hush, then tilts his head, a ghost of a smile curling his lips. “Do you not recognise the cat? The famous psychotic bodyguard of Bogclutch, worshipped as a living divinity by the goblin cult temple, you know.”
His tone is pure noir, cynical, edged, dripping with the contempt of a man who’s run up against the worst of bureaucracy and always walked away with a little blood on his boots and a few more names to add to his list. He says it as if the guards ignorance is the punchline of a joke they’re too dense to get, as if every second they stand in our way is another mark against their own self importance.
Charisma Check, 12 +1. Natural Leader +1, Tactical Genius +3, Calm Under Pressure +1, Aliza's presence +1 = 19
The words land hard, cutting right through their bravado. One of the crossbowmen shifts uneasily above, the memory of stories spreading faster than fire, whispers of the mad catgirl who tore apart the priest of Rhovak, of the blood-soaked enforcer who drags the name of Bogclutch through Redstone’s nightmares. The gate guard hesitates, suspicion warring with superstition, and suddenly the world is full of second guesses.
Master presses on, voice never rising, never needing to. “If you want to be remembered as the gate squad that turned away the living icon of a temple, the only reason your southern border hasn’t been swallowed by Redstone’s next civil war, then by all means, keep standing there. Just be ready to answer for it in the next council session, when your commander has to explain why there’s a minor diplomatic incident bleeding out at his front door.”
His hand is loose on the sword, but every muscle radiates calm menace, every line of his body spelling out the truth: he’s not here to beg. He’s here to walk in, and he’s giving them the chance to step aside while they can still save face.
The guards falter. The torchlight flickers, shadows jumping. The silence stretches, then wavers, the smallest crack appearing in their shield of certainty.
I watch, pride singing in my blood, tail flicking slow and smug. Master’s never needed violence, just the right word, the right pressure, the right touch of contempt. He’s noir to the bone, a ghost at the border, the only storm that makes even Alderian guards remember their place.
Tonight, I am his shadow. And these gates will open.
The gate swings open with a grudging creak, the guards melting back with barely hidden relief, nobody eager to test which of Master’s threats are bluff and which are gospel. We step inside, passing under the heavy iron portcullis and into the heart of Maw Graven, boots and paws alike sinking into the solid packed dirt of a city.
The main road runs straight and broad beneath our feet, lanterns set in wrought iron brackets casting pools of flickering light along the route. The air inside is sharp and cold, carrying the faint tang of iron and the memory of a hundred old feuds. To either side, houses cluster in irregular knots, some huddled close together, timber and daub choked with soot, others taller, faced with crumbling sandstone, old Redstone banners hanging in tatters above shuttered windows. The northern district is quieter, poorer: tight, twisting lanes, the roofs sagging under years of hard rain and harder lives. To the south, the buildings are broader, a little prouder, but still built for defense, not comfort.
We move steadily toward the heart of the settlement, Master’s stride measured, my own steps light, always circling just behind or beside him, eyes flicking over every detail for threat or opportunity. Soon the streets widen, houses thinning, the crowd growing as we emerge into the settlement's centre, a broad, open plaza, rectangular and steps leading up to a squat muscular building.
Market stalls cluster near the edges, bright canopies fluttering in the cold breeze. Hawkers, mostly Alderian but a few goblins or half-bloods mixed in, sell their wares from carts stacked with smoked fish, coarse bread, ironwork, tanned hides, and bundles of dried mountain herbs. Empty crates and barrels litter the corners, some marked with trade sigils, others just left behind by the last market day’s hurried end. A handful of locals cluster by a public fountain, its stone face carved with the threefold motif of the Dalkurharn faith, stone, water, groves. The water trickles out into a worn basin, the edge slick with moss and age.
South of the square, rising in somber grandeur, stands the city’s largest temple, columns thick and round, steps broad and swept clean by the boots of generations. The walls are sandstone, heavy and weathered, banded with pale marble filched from older, richer cities. Its doors are closed at this hour, but the light of oil lamps glows from high, stained windows. The scent of incense, sharp and acrid, drifts on the air, mixing with the colder, earthier smells of the square.
Above it all, dominating the skyline, the true heart of power, the old stone keep perched on the low mountain ridge just east of the city centre. It is a true motte and bailey, ancient, defiant, built to endure sieges and centuries both. The motte itself is a steep, carefully terraced hill, carved from the mountain’s edge. A circle of thick stone walls surrounds the crest, broken only by a single, heavily defended gatehouse. The keep rises within, blocky and tall, its arrow loops dark and watchful, its towers capped with heavy slate, banners snapping in the high wind. The path to the keep is all stone steps and switchbacks, flanked by the outer bailey’s wall, itself lined with smaller towers and more guards than any city square could ever boast.
The bailey below is a ring. Men and women, Alderian, mostly, but with a few grim-faced outsiders in the mix, move between chores with the alert, staccato energy of a place always ready for war. Even here, the memory of invasion lingers, every corner is watched, every voice kept low.
The whole city feels poised, suspicious, prepared, never quite at ease. Yet for now, we are just two more figures moving through its veins, Master and his cat, shadow and substance, a threat that hasn’t yet bared its fangs.
I keep close, eyes devouring every alley, every door, every fleeting flash of danger or opportunity. The Bond is tense, alive with your thoughts, his intent, always calculating, always weighing the next step. The city is a puzzle box of power and fear and tradition, but we’re inside now, in the heart of the storm, and I’ll let nothing, nothing come between him and his purpose.
Above us, the keep watches. Below, life goes on, wary and raw, waiting for the next shadow to fall. And we move, always together, through the cold and the stone and the secrets of Maw Graven.
