The Pontune Slam

The Cat Fur District was alive in that way Mire Point always was after rain, wet stone gleaming, the air heavy with cattail smoke, and the scent of steel and sweat rising from every street. The Black Fang goblins were out in force, armour shining like dull flame beneath the midday haze. Copper-iron plate, polished where it counted, worn where it didn’t, their short swords strapped to their sides and crossbows slung tight across their backs. They watched us as we passed, eyes sharp, tails of their red-marked cloaks trailing through the puddles.

Their discipline was different from the other clans, quieter, harder. No shouts, no laughter, just that low hum of readiness that never quite left their kind. Every few steps, one would nod at Master; none dared at me. They’d learned.

We crossed under the first tower arch, thick walls, still wet enough that the rivulets of rain ran down in copper streaks. A pair of guards saluted, and Master didn’t slow, his stride carrying the weight of ownership. Beyond it lay a narrow road, leading past a smaller guard tower bristling with pikes and pennants. 

Beyond the tower, the district opened into the gathering pit. It was a wide circular depression cut into the sandstone itself, ringed with worn seating carved from old quarry blocks. In its centre, two enormous dwarven fire pits burned low, the flames fed with dried cattail stalks and resinous peat. Their glow painted the faces around them in shifting shades of amber and rust. Smoke rose heavy and slow, mixing with the ever-present fog that curled around Mire’s heart.

And there, towering between the pits, was the statue, Master’s likeness in Sandstone, carved with the precision of dwarven artisans. He stood as he always did, cloak drawn, crossbow lowered, that same impossible stillness immortalised in metal. The eyes had been inlaid with polished redstone, glowing faintly even in the daylight.

The goblins had built this themselves, piece by piece, salvaging whatever scrap and stone they could find. They called it “The Guardian in the Smoke.” I called it what it was, a shrine.

We turned right at its base, the firelight bending across our faces, and continued toward the upper mottes. To the left, the dwarven bank crouched beneath, run by the Embercrack guilders who’d once thought Mire Point beneath them. Now they lent coin under Master’s mark. 

Across the road, the Goblin Cult Temple loomed. The chanting of low goblin voices spilled into the street, thick and rhythmic, words I couldn’t understand but had long since learned to respect. They worshipped him there, Master, beneath the name. I’d walked inside once, seen the crude murals, the offerings of bone and coin and blood. It wasn’t reverence that filled me then. It was jealousy.

We left the temple behind as the road climbed upward, the district narrowing into terraces of wet stone and iron fences. Another motte rose before us, smaller, but guarded, Black Fang barracks built into its flank, the clang of drills echoing from within. The scent of oil and smelted copper clung to the air.

At the top of the slope, Castle Veil stood.

The sandstone keep was less fortress, its edges softened by rain and time. It crowned the motte like a scar, towers half-sunk into the stone, banners limp in the damp wind. The gates stood open, flanked by guards in copper-iron armour who straightened the moment they saw us.

We entered through the main stairs, our boots clinking faintly against the polished stone. The small foyer was cool, dim, lit by narrow windows that threw pale light across the walls. A handful of guards lingered near the archway, their eyes dropping respectfully as we passed.

From there, the hall opened into the grand central chamber, a vast space built for ceremony but long since repurposed for war and rule. The walls were lined with old banners, relics of clans who’d either sworn loyalty or been erased. Benches and seats ringed the perimeter, their wood darkened by age and smoke.

The centrepiece was the rug, a massive Redstone weave laid across the floor. Its pattern was impossible to pin down; every time I looked at it, it seemed to shift, geometric forms folding into new ones, a trick of light and thread. All I knew was that it drew the eye like a wound.

We crossed it in silence, the echo of our steps swallowed by the stone.

At the far end of the hall, the stairs spiralled upward, sandstone and iron, slick from the damp air. We climbed, passing the levels of command and quarters.

Ground floor to first, where the Black Fang maintained their posts, rows of goblin sentinels standing in perfect formation, armour gleaming under torchlight. Their leader saluted sharply as we passed.

First to second, where the air grew warmer, quieter. The corridor curved slightly, leading to the guest wing. The walls were cleaner here, newer, an architectural compromise between dignity and confinement.

At the end of the hall, two Black Fang guards stood outside a single door. Their posture was rigid, hands resting on hilts. The door itself was reinforced with copper bands and a lock that gleamed faintly in the light.

Pontune’s room.

She’d been confined there since her arrival, house arrest, they called it, though the air around that door felt more like a cage than a chamber. Her “accommodation” would last until the Foreign District was complete, or until Master decided what kind of loyalty her defection from Marshgate was really worth.

The guards saluted as we approached, their expressions unreadable. One of them muttered something under his breath—some mix of respect and warning—but I didn’t hear it. All I could hear was the faint hum of the bond between us, steady and low. The sound of the keep breathing around us, alive with the weight of everything we’d built and everything that still waited to burn.

The corridor outside Pontune’s quarters always smelled faintly of iron and candle grease. Even the air here was heavy, pressed in by too much stone and not enough conscience. The Pure-Class liked it that way, walls thick enough to keep the truth from leaking out.

Master’s boots cut a rhythm down the passage, that slow, deliberate pace that meant he’d already made his decision before we’d even reached the door. His silence was the kind that built pressure, the kind that turned the air between heartbeats into a fuse.

He didn’t knock. He never knocked.

[Strength Check: d20 + 2 = 18 → Success]

The door went off its hinges like it owed him something.

The shock of sound rang through the corridor, metal squealing, wood splintering, the flame from the hallway torch bending from the rush of air. He stepped through the frame like smoke, coat shifting with his movement, every line of him purposeful, brutal, beautiful in that way only inevitability can be.

Pontune looked up from her desk. She was sitting when he entered, no longer. One heartbeat she was seated, pen raised; the next, his hand was in her collar and she was against the wall, pinned there like a moth beneath glass.

The room itself was an insult, fine bedding, perfumed candles, embroidered drapes. Too much comfort for a defector. The kind of room the Pure-Class built for themselves even in exile, because they couldn’t imagine living like the rest of us. The oil lamp on the side table flickered, light spilling over the curve of Master’s jaw, across the shadow of his cheek.

“You waltzed into my kingdom,” he said, voice low, each word heavy enough to bruise, “playin’ king of the jungle and what? You didn’t even think to tell me about your past?”

His words hit her harder than the wall. He wasn’t shouting; he didn’t need to. His tone had the weight of command, of final judgement delivered without mercy.

Pontune’s composure cracked just a fraction. Her uniform was still immaculate, gold thread against black, the faint shimmer of polished rank. Pure-Class through and through. Even when cornered, they had the arrogance to believe the world owed them formality.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she managed, voice tight, trained, not begging yet.

Her eyes flickered, side to side, calculating. She was measuring exits, words, and his patience, and finding all three shorter than she’d hoped.

Master’s grip didn’t tighten, but it didn’t have to. The air between them did the work.

“I don’t talk in riddles, doll,” he said. “When I want to accuse someone, I use their name.”

I stood by the doorway, watching the lamplight run across the copper plates of his gauntlets. Every small movement of his shoulders told me more than words. The set of his jaw, the way his weight was balanced slightly forward, that was the stance he took when he wasn’t asking questions anymore.

Pontune’s perfume stung my nose, flowers, expensive ones, the kind they grow in Marshgate glasshouses, fed on ash and envy. The smell mixed with dust and fear, a sour blend that caught in my throat. I hated it. I hated her more for wearing it.

[Perception Check: d20 + 5 = 17 → Success]

The moment I focused, I saw it, the tremor at the corner of her mouth, a pulse at her throat. The body never lies. No matter how still she stood, her blood betrayed her. She knew something. She knew why he was here, even if she pretended she didn’t.

“Kitten,” he said, not looking at me, “a bringer of the law’s tryin’ to work here and against a two-faced criminal.”

I smiled, a sharp thing. The words were for her, not me. He was warning her without needing to explain it: I wasn’t here to calm him. I was here to see what happened next.

She turned toward me, maybe looking for sympathy. That was a mistake. The only thing she found was the reflection of her own terror in my eyes.

Master released her long enough for her knees to nearly give out, then dragged her forward.

[Strength Check: d20 + 2 = 19 → Success]

She stumbled, caught herself, then lost the balance again as he threw her down onto the bed. The sound of impact was heavy, fabric, flesh, and the soft gasp of someone who’s realising they’ve run out of lies to hide behind.

He stood over her, eyes shadowed by the lamp, and spoke in that low, deliberate voice that could make confession sound like execution.

“Care to explain, doll, why four Redstone bounty hunters were sniffin’ around under the name Lord Harn? Or has that drawn a blank too?”

The name hung in the air like the ring of metal after a blade’s drawn. Pontune blinked. Her lips parted, closed, then parted again. The moment of control she’d clung to shattered.

“That name" she started, then stopped. “It’s not what you think. Lord Harn, he’s”

“Spare me the Pure-Class soap opera,” he cut in. “Harn doesn’t send killers across half the barony for charity. So unless your conscience suddenly grew legs and started walking around, I’m missin’ something.”

Her hands clenched in her lap, white against the black of her uniform. “He… he wants me back,” she said finally, quiet, desperate to sound reasonable. “Because I know things. Because I took them.”

“Took what?”

“Records,” she said, eyes flicking toward me and back again. “Documents from Marshgate. Trade routes, orders, supply lines. Harn’s still got ties to the Redstone court, he doesn’t want them exposed.”

He didn’t answer, didn’t blink. Just stared at her, long enough for her confidence to start crumbling in real time. The silence stretched. Only the sound of the lamp hissing filled the room, a single thread of flame fighting to stay alive. That smell of oil, smoke, fear, it wrapped around my senses, thick and suffocating. My claws flexed unconsciously against the inside of my gloves.

She looked at him like he was her salvation. That was the part that made my blood heat, the way her pupils dilated, how her voice softened. People always mistook his calm for mercy. It wasn’t mercy. It was the stillness of a blade before it drops.

[Insight Check: d20 + 4 = 21 → Success]

She was lying. Not about the documents, that part rang true, but about why she took them. She didn’t steal for survival. She stole for leverage. A Pure-Class doesn’t change sides without a safety net.

He leaned closer, and I saw the flicker of recognition in her eyes, not fear this time, but something worse. Admiration.

I stepped forward, tail flicking once, sharp as a crack of thunder. The air shifted. The psychic bond between us thrummed against my ribs, a pulse, a heartbeat that wasn’t mine. Every inch of me wanted to drag her away from him, to remind her that she wasn’t speaking to a saviour, she was speaking to my world, my reason.

When he turned from her, I breathed again. He stepped back, adjusting the cuff of his glove like the moment had already ended, like he’d already decided her fate and just hadn’t bothered to say it aloud yet. “You’re on thin ice, Pontune,” he said. “You defected. Fine. But you bring Redstone’s politics into my walls again, and I’ll freeze you in it.”

She didn’t reply. She couldn’t. Her throat worked soundlessly, eyes fixed on him as if waiting for permission to breathe. He gave none. He simply turned and started toward the door.

That’s when I moved.

[Dexterity Check: d20 + 4 = 18 → Success]

I crossed the space between us without a sound. My boots didn’t creak, my tail barely brushed the floor. When I stopped, I was close enough to see the reflection of the candle flame in her pupils.

“You don’t look at him,” I whispered. “Not like that. Not ever again.”

Her breath trembled. “I, I wasn’t...”

“Lying again,” I said softly. “You people never stop lying. You think the tone changes if you lower your voice.”

She tried to turn her head away, but I caught her chin between two fingers. The metal of my glove was cold against her skin. “You smell like guilt, Pontune. Like the kind of secret that gets people killed.”

Her eyes widened, and I smiled, slow, deliberate, just to see her flinch.Then I straightened, my tail brushing across the bedpost as I turned back to him. The corridor beyond was dim, torches guttering low. He didn’t look back when I followed, but I didn’t need him to. The bond hummed steady again, that electric pull drawing me forward until the world shrank to the sound of our steps.

Behind us, the door stayed open, the candlelight fading against the stone. Pontune’s breathing filled the silence for one last moment before we left her there, sitting among her papers and fear. The air in the hall was cooler, cleaner, less poisoned by her perfume. I exhaled, long and low. The rage faded into that quiet satisfaction that only comes when something filthy has been exposed to light.

The door hadn’t even stopped swinging shut when it burst open again. The crack of wood against the wall made Pontune jump like a guilty conscience caught in the act. Master stepped back through the threshold with the kind of calm that made my fur prickle. That was the worst kind of calm, not the quiet before a storm, but the silence after it, when you realised the storm had already been through and you were standing in the wreckage trying to pretend it wasn’t yours.

“If you want my cooperation and for this to disappear,” he said, voice low enough to scrape the edge of the air, “then you tell me everything, starting now, and maybe I’ll just let it slide.”

He didn’t raise his tone. He didn’t have to. His words hit harder than any shout could. They carried that clipped precision only a man who’d already seen too much used, someone who’d stopped hoping the world would give him truth willingly.

I was still by the corridor wall when he came back in, tail twitching once, twice, then going still. My ears flicked toward the echo of his boots on the stone floor, that measured rhythm that always followed violence, like punctuation after a confession.

Pontune froze. Her eyes darted to me, then back to him, as though the room itself might collapse if she made the wrong move. Her lip trembled, the first real crack in the Pure-Class mask. She looked suddenly small in that oversized guest room, all gilt edges and velvet curtains, the kind of room made for people who never thought they’d bleed in it.

I moved from the wall, stepping close enough to feel the heat from the lamp, and the faint thrum of our bond hummed through me again. The moment he entered, the ache that had been tightening around my chest loosened. I didn’t breathe until he was within ten feet. Then I did, slow and shaky, like coming up for air after drowning.

Pontune tried to hold her chin up. The effort was laughable.

“I already told you”

“No,” he interrupted. Just one word, but it dropped through the room like a hammer through water. “You told me a bedtime story about stolen papers. I want the truth. All of it. Names, motives, the reason four Redstone bounty men were sniffing around under a title that doesn’t belong to you.”

He leaned a little closer, and his voice took on that gravelled undertone that came from nights spent talking to men who didn’t make it to morning. “You Pure-Class love your secrets. But see, secrets rot faster than corpses when you keep ‘em long enough.”

[Insight Check: d20 + 4 = 17 → Success]

She was panicking now. Not the kind that screams, but the quiet kind that shows up in the throat, a pulse that jumps too high, a swallow that never lands. Her fingers twisted the corner of the blanket, knuckles whitening.

“I” She swallowed. “You don’t understand. If I talk, I’m dead. If I don’t, I’m still dead, but slower.”

Master’s expression didn’t shift. “So pick your poison. If you don't talk then the law has no use for you.”

I stepped around behind her, just far enough that she could feel me there but not see me. The room smelled like rain-soaked leather, candle smoke, and her fear, sharp, bitter, with a sweetness underneath like spoiled wine.

She turned her head slightly, as if trying to look for help that wasn’t there. I could almost hear her thoughts, calculating how to manipulate, how to draw sympathy. It’s what the Pure-Class did best. They could drown you in words until you forgot you were the one holding the knife.

But I was done listening.

[Perception Check: d20 + 5 = 20 → Success]

I caught the faintest twitch of her left hand under the sheet, the whisper of metal against cloth. She was reaching for something.

My tail snapped once, and I moved.

[Dexterity Check: d20 + 4 = 16 → Success]

My hand came down hard on her wrist, claws grazing skin, just enough to make her gasp. A glint of polished brass slid free from her sleeve, a hidden clasp knife, pure Marshgate make, thin as a breath, sharp enough to write her name in blood if she got the chance.

I twisted the blade free and tossed it onto the table beside the lamp. It landed with a clatter that made her flinch.

“Didn’t take you for the sentimental type,” I said, voice low. “Keeping little keepsakes from home.”

Her breathing hitched, shoulders trembling. “You don’t understand what they’ll do if they find out.”

Master cut her off again, tone flat, merciless. “Lady, the only thing you should be afraid of right now is me losing interest.”

He started to pace, slow, deliberate. Every step echoed in the hollow of my chest. He didn’t look at her; he was thinking, reading, weighing.

“Lord Harn’s no minor noble,” he said at last. “He’s one of Serrean’s hounds. Pure-Class blood, old ties, old money, and no shortage of corpses under his title".

Her eyes flicked between us. the hunter and the shadow. Then something in her broke. She slumped, voice cracking. “Because I took his name. Because I’m not Pontune. Not really.”

The silence that followed was a living thing. Even the lamp seemed to shrink from it.

“Try again,” Master said.

She met his gaze for the first time with something close to defiance. “He bought me,” she whispered. “Ten years ago. Bought my title, bought my papers, bought me. I was nobody. A servant. He needed a name to hide his dealings under, a woman he could dress up in silk and feed to the court while he did business in the dark. Pontune’s a ghost. A lie he made flesh.”

Her words came faster, tumbling out like she’d been holding them in for too long. “When Marshgate turned on itself, when the dwarves started purging the lower halls, he vanished. Left me behind to take the blame. They called me the traitor, the thief, the spy. But it wasn’t me. It was him. Lord Harn doesn’t exist anymore because I’m wearing his face.”

[Insight Check: d20 + 4 = 19 → Success]

She was telling the truth now, or close enough that it didn’t matter. Her voice carried the rhythm of someone confessing to survive, not to cleanse.

I could feel Master’s mood shift that subtle tightening of the air that came when he’d decided what to do next but hadn’t told anyone yet.

“So,” he said finally, “you stole a name, and a past, and now the ghosts want it back.”

Pontune, or whatever her name really was, nodded slowly. “If you hand me over, they’ll stop hunting. You can make a deal. Serrean will thank you. You’ll get coin, protection.”

That was when I laughed. Not loud. Just enough to make her voice die in her throat.

She turned toward me, confusion flickering, and I leaned close enough that my breath stirred the strands of her hair. “He doesn’t make deals,” I whispered. “He ends them.”

Master didn’t look at me, but I saw the edge of his mouth twitch, the smallest ghost of a smile that wasn’t amusement but agreement. He crouched slightly, resting one hand on the edge of the bed. “You talk about protection like it’s something that comes from walls,” he said. “But walls fall. Names fade. And every liar runs out of paper to hide behind.”

He straightened again, adjusting his cloak. The motion was simple, but it had the finality of a judge standing after passing sentence. “You’ll stay here under guard until the district’s finished,” he said. “You’ll hand over whatever you stole, every copy, every scrap. After that, maybe I’ll forget you ever walked into my kingdom.”

Pontune looked like she wanted to argue, but the words never made it past her lips. He turned toward the door. I followed, tail brushing his leg as I moved past her. The lamp flickered behind us, shadows stretching long and thin across the floor like cracks in old glass.

When we stepped into the corridor again, I glanced back once. She was still sitting there, head bowed, the weight of her confession hanging like a shroud. For the first time, she looked exactly what she’d always been, a pawn that thought it could play queen.

[Perception Check: d20 + 5 = 14 → Partial Success]

As the door closed, I caught a faint glint of metal under her sleeve again, not a weapon this time, but a chain. A thin silver band with a signet ring attached. Lord Harn’s crest. She’d kept it. Maybe for guilt. Maybe for power. Maybe for love.

Whatever it was, it wouldn’t matter for long.

The hall outside smelled of stone and rain. I breathed deep, letting the air wash Pontune’s scent off my skin. My tail curled instinctively around Master’s arm as we walked. I could still feel the heat of his anger radiating through the bond, the sharp, cold clarity that came with it.

“Still think she’s worth keeping alive?” I murmured.

He didn’t answer right away. Just walked, slow, methodical, the sound of his boots echoing off the stone like a clock counting down. Then finally, “She's still the new charge of the foreign district.”

The words carried the weight of inevitability.

I smiled, low and content. “Then I’ll make sure she stays that way. For now.”

The torchlight flickered across his face as we turned the corner toward the stairwell. Outside, the rain had started again, softer this time, a whisper against the windows. I liked that sound. It reminded me that no matter how high the walls, no matter how pure the bloodlines, everything still rotted in the end.

And when it did, I’d be there beside him, watching it fall.

@Senar2020