The downpour
The first drop hit my cheek like a warning, cold and clean. The second followed almost instantly, and then the sky gave up pretending to hold itself together. Within seconds, the heavens tore open, and the forest was devoured by soun, rain hammering the canopy, slashing through the leaves, drumming on bark and stone and armour alike.
It came heavy, thick, endless. Every breath tasted of wet earth and iron. The air turned silver with it, mist and water folding into each other until the path ahead blurred into nothing but shifting grey. The ground softened underfoot, each step sinking into mud, roots slick beneath the boots.
I HATED it. Every drop felt like a slap, like the sky mocking me. The fur along my ears clumped together, heavy and cold, and my tail, traitorous, soaked through, dragged behind me in a line of dripping misery. The stink would come soon, the one that made my skin crawl, that sour musk of damp fur and shame. I could already smell the ghost of it.
The forest itself seemed to change beneath the downpour. The greens deepened into almost-black, and the trees bent under the weight of water, leaves trembling. The smaller creatures, hares, birds, foxes, vanished into burrows and roots, leaving the world hollow. All that remained was the storm’s own heartbeat, relentless and intimate.
Lightning flared once, far off to the south, followed by a growl of thunder that rolled across the hills. The light illuminated the shape of Master ahead of me, dark cloak plastered to his shoulders, hair matted.
I was a few paces behind, my claws clicking against wet stone whenever we crossed a stretch of exposed trail. The mud splashed up against my boots and legs, streaking the light blue fabric in brown, but I didn’t slow. I couldn’t. The bond between us thrummed even now, distorted by the storm but steady enough to pull me onward.
[Saving Throw – Constitution +3, DC 20 for Fur Stink] 1d20 + 3 → 11 + 3 = 14 (Fail)
The rain didn’t just fall, it attacked. Sheets of water lashed sideways, driven by wind that hissed through the trees like something alive. My cloak clung to me, heavy as a corpse’s shroud, and the damp crept beneath the seams of my cowl until even my ears ached. Then came the smell.
It started subtle, a ghost of musk beneath the scent of mud and bark, but it spread fast. The kind of stink that seeps into the fur no matter how tightly you press it down, sour and unmistakable. I could feel it rising off me, curling through the rain, and my whole body tensed in shame. My tail lashed once, twice, trying to shake it off, but that only stirred the air, made the reek worse.
I froze mid-step, a low, involuntary growl building in my throat. My claws dug into the wet soil. The rain drummed against my helmet, each drop sharp, mocking. I could feel it, the heat under my skin, the humiliation like a wound.
"ENOUGH" The word came out rougher than I meant, a snarl wrapped in breath. I turned toward Master, eyes bright through the curtain of rain. "WE'RE STOPPING HERE"
The forest around us offered little mercy, twisted roots, half-fallen branches, a slope that would flood before dawn but there was a hollow beneath an old willow, its trunk split open like a mouth. It would be cramped, miserable, but dry enough to think.
I pointed toward it with the edge of my spear, tone sharp, leaving no room for debate. “Shelter. Now. Before the mud swallows us or I drown in my own stink.”
I didn’t wait for his approval; I was already moving. My boots slid in the muck, tail dragging behind me like a sodden rope, but I reached the hollow and ducked inside. The bark was slick, but the space beneath was dry enough for breath to come easier.
Master didn’t even flinch when I disappeared into the hollow. No sound of pursuit, no muttered curse at the rain. Just that maddening, deliberate calm of his, the sort of composure that makes the world seem like it bends to him instead of the other way around.
Through the hiss of water, I heard the dull thud of his pack hitting the ground. When I looked back out, half-hidden behind the split willow, he was already setting up his tent as if this storm were a passing breeze and not the wrath of every sky god at once.
It was Alderian craft, deer leather, pale and worn smooth by years of use, stitched with that patient precision only his hands could manage. The hide gleamed under the rain like wet bronze, taut over the ashwood frame that unfolded with quiet clicks. He anchored it in moments, boots pressing down stakes that sank cleanly into the mud. Even the storm seemed to hush a little, as though it respected his refusal to care.
The tent wasn’t grand, barely tall enough for him to sit upright, but it was watertight, lined inside with a faint silvering of oil that turned every drop aside. I watched, ears flicking irritably, as he knelt to light a small lamp within. The glow spilled against the rain in gold ripples, too calm, too civilised.
My claws curled against the inside of the tree. “You’re impossible,” I hissed under my breath. “Rain coming down like the world’s ending, and you set up camp like it’s a market day.”
The scent of the oiled leather carried even through the rain, warm, earthy, clean. It made the sour stink of my fur burn hotter under my skin. I ducked lower, shoulders pressed against the inside of the trunk, rain dripping from my hair in slow, rhythmic drops.
When he finally looked toward me, I caught the faintest glint of amusement in his eyes. It wasn’t mockery, not quite, just that same unbearable calm that said I told you so without saying anything at all.
“Fine,” I muttered, dragging myself out of the hollow, mud streaking my legs and arms. The rain clung to me in rivulets, my tail flicking miserably behind. “Enjoy your perfect little tent, Master. I’ll just sit here and rot like a half-drowned rat.”
I stalked over anyway, because spite only carries you so far before the cold wins. The air inside his tent was immediately different, warmer, drier, the faint smell of lamp oil and tanned leather. I stopped in the entrance, dripping, glaring at him with all the defiance I could muster.
“You could have told me,” I said, voice sharp, but too tired to be truly venomous. “You know what rain does to me.” He didn’t look up right away, still adjusting the lamp, the picture of serenity. The silence stretched long enough for my anger to trip over itself and fall into something else, irritation fraying into reluctant, exhausted relief.
When he finally glanced up, I sighed through my teeth, ears drooping slightly. “Move over,” I said, quieter this time, crawling inside without waiting for permission. “You win. I hate the rain more than I hate being wrong.”
The rain hadn’t stopped, it had just learned rhythm. A slow, relentless drumming that blurred the world into one long, grey heartbeat. The kind of sound that gets under the skin if you let it. The forest outside was gone now, swallowed whole by the downpour. No trees, no sky, just the hush of water and the smell of old earth trying to breathe.
Master didn’t move through it like other men did. He didn’t fight it, didn’t curse at it. He just existed in it, like the rain was something that happened to everyone else. The tent stood where he’d pitched it, small and neat, defiant against the storm. Alderian deer leather, stretched tight over an ash frame, water sliding down its sides in long silver streams. It wasn’t luxury, but it had the quiet arrogance of something built to last.
Inside, the lamp cast a thin circle of gold around him, enough to paint his jawline in shadow and catch the gleam in his eyes, those eyes that always looked like they’d seen the punchline to a joke the rest of the world hadn’t heard yet. He sat cross-legged, the weight of the day still clinging to him like dust, cloak hanging heavy from his shoulders. Calm. Unbothered. Irritatingly composed.
I was less fortunate. My fur clung to me like wet moss, every drop of rain another insult. The stink was setting in now, sour, bitter, personal. I hated that smell. It wasn’t just dirt or damp, it was exposure, humiliation bottled in scent. I could almost feel it seeping into the canvas, contaminating the air. My tail twitched in protest; my ears drooped low. The part of me that wanted to curl up and vanish warred with the part that wanted to claw the storm to pieces just to prove I could.
He looked up at me from where he sat, that ghost of amusement flickering at the corner of his mouth. Then came his voice, that dry, gravel-and-velvet tone that could sand down tempers or start wars depending on the direction of the wind.
“You’re acting like a kitten,” he said, the words flat but rich, slow and deliberate, like a man rolling a smoke that he didn’t plan to smoke. “All claws and complaints. Every time the sky opens up, you act like it’s got a vendetta.”
It wasn’t a scolding. It was worse, observation. The kind that saw too much and gave away nothing.
I froze halfway through a shiver. “I’m soaked,” I snapped. “And you...", “And you..."
But he didn’t let me finish. His hand came up, steady, gloved fingers finding the back of my ear. The touch was precise, disarming, not tender, but deliberate in the way that made me want to sink into it anyway. The scratch was small, rhythmic, a wordless command to breathe. My body betrayed me immediately; my ears flicked once and then relaxed, my tail giving a lazy sweep across the floor.
“Come now,” he murmured, voice low enough that the rain had to strain to hear it. “You know we always have a tent. World falls apart, kings die, rain keeps falling but I keep my camp dry.”
That was him in a sentence. Pragmatic to the point of poetry. Cynical enough to find comfort in repetition. The kind of man who’d seen too much chaos to let sentiment get in the way of a good shelter.
He pulled his hand back and reached into his pack, a dark, oiled thing that creaked softly when he opened it. From inside came the smell of smoke and salt. He withdrew a strip of venison jerky, dried hard and cut thin, then another for me. Water canteens followed, their metal catching the lamplight like a promise that civilisation wasn’t completely lost to the mud.
“Dinner,” he said simply, handing me a strip. The corner of his mouth twitched, the faintest ghost of irony.
I took it, chewing mechanically, the texture tough, the flavour earthy. It was the kind of food that didn’t pretend to be comforting, just necessary. The water that followed was cold and metallic, washing down the taste of salt and smoke.
The tent creaked softly with the weight of the storm outside. The sound of rain hitting leather became a kind of lullaby,ceaseless, imperfect, hypnotic. Shadows danced across the canvas in the lamplight, shifting as wind pushed against it.
I looked at him, that perpetual calm in the set of his shoulders, the line of his mouth. His hair clung in damp strands, dark against his pale skin, but he didn’t seem to notice. The lamplight painted him in sepia, a figure half between soldier and ghost. He’d been born for this kind of quiet ruin.
“Maybe I am acting like a kitten,” I said eventually, chewing slower now, words half lost to the rain. “But you’d miss it if I didn’t.”
That earned me something small, not laughter, but close enough. The faintest breath of it through his nose, a tiny tilt at the corner of his mouth. The kind of smile a man gives when he knows you’re right but refuses to say it out loud.
He leaned back against the tent wall, hands resting loosely on his knees. “Maybe,” he said at last. “But I’d appreciate it if you acted like a dry one.”
I scowled at him, but it didn’t stick. The warmth of the lamp and the steady rhythm of his voice were already working their way through the edges of my irritation. The tent felt smaller now, not claustrophobic, just close. The world outside could have been miles away.
He reached for another strip of jerky, tearing it with the ease of someone used to hunger. “You ever notice,” he said quietly, almost to himself, “how rain makes everything honest? Can’t hide much in weather like this. The mud doesn’t care who you were before it swallowed you.”
I blinked, caught off guard by the thought. “That supposed to be comforting?”. He shrugged, gaze steady on the lamp flame. “It’s supposed to be true.”
We ate in silence after that, each bite loud against the storm. The smell of oiled leather, burnt lamp wick, and smoked meat filled the small space. My fur began to dry in uneven patches, warm again where the air trapped between us. The bond hummed faintly, a quiet, invisible pulse that matched the rhythm of the rain.
Outside, thunder rolled over the hills, low and distant. The forest murmured under it, the creak of soaked wood, the whisper of wind through drowned leaves. The world was being washed clean, one heartbeat at a time. Inside, he sat there, eyes half-lidded, breathing steady. I curled in closer, not because I needed to, but because the quiet made it easy. The rain pressed against the tent walls, impatient, endless.
He didn’t look at me, but I could hear the smirk in his voice when he finally spoke again. “Next time,” he said, low and tired and faintly amused, “try not to pick a fight with the weather.”
I huffed, eyes closing as exhaustion crept up the edges of my mind. “Next time,” I murmured, “make the weather apologise first.”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The lamp flickered once, twice, then steadied, its glow breathing soft against the canvas. The sound of rain softened, dulled by the rhythm of our breathing.
The silence between us held like a blade. Outside, the rain hadn’t so much stopped as grown bored of its own violence. The drops slowed, heavier now, rolling down the leather in fat streaks that caught the fading light. The forest exhaled, water dripping from the branches in long, steady sighs. Inside, it was close and warm and too small for thinking.
I’d finished chewing the last of the jerky before I realised how long I’d been staring at him, at Master... the lamplight turning the sharp edges of his face into something carved, severe. He was still, always still, the kind of stillness that draws orbit whether it wants to or not.
“I suppose we’ll be staying here a while then, huh?” I said finally. The words came soft, calm, almost too calm. Like a whisper dropped into a pond.
He glanced up, that same unreadable look in his eyes, the sort that could be patience or indifference depending on how the light hit it. He didn’t answer, and that was all it took for something in me to tilt, just a fraction, enough for the quiet to fracture.
The stillness didn’t last. It never did.
A laugh slipped out of me, short, sudden, wrong in the mouth. It startled even me. “A while,” I repeated, the tone already changing, too light, too sharp. “That’s rich. You say it like we’ve got anywhere else to be. Like this isn’t the grand design, hm?”
I shifted onto my knees, the motion feline, restless. My tail dragged through the dirt floor of the tent, leaving a dark streak. The smell of rain and leather mixed with the last ghost of smoke from our meal.
“Funny thing, isn’t it?” I went on, words gathering speed. “The world out there’s choking itself on mud and blood, but we’re in here, in this little tent, dry, warm, pretending the storm’s not trying to drown us.” I smiled that kind of smile that didn’t belong on a face that claimed peace a minute ago. “Almost domestic.”
He didn’t interrupt. He never did; he’d seen it too many times to waste breath trying to stop it. That only made it worse. His silence gave me space, and I filled it with everything that didn’t fit anywhere else.
“You sit there,” I said, voice lilting, almost playful, “so calm, so certain. You light a lamp, tear your jerky, drink your water, like the world can’t touch you. And me? I’m supposed to sit quiet, purr nicely, and be thankful for the roof you built over my head.”
I leaned closer, the distance between us shrinking until I could feel his breath against my skin. “Do you ever wonder, Master,” I whispered, “what I’d do if you weren’t so steady all the time? If you broke, even for a second?”
My smile widened, wrong and beautiful in the same breath. “Maybe I’d fix you. Maybe I’d ruin you trying.”
The tent was small enough that the tension had nowhere to go. My laughter came again, soft, delighted, cruel around the edges. I traced a finger down the seam of the tent wall, smearing a thin line of condensation. “I could make this place interesting,” I murmured. “Start talking to myself, maybe. Or to you, when you’re too quiet to notice the difference.”
He didn’t rise to it. He never did. That made something electric spark under my skin. The kind of thrill that’s half anger, half fascination.
Then, in the next breath, the switch flipped again. My voice softened, no warning, no reason. “You know I wouldn’t really leave,” I said, almost tender now. “Not in the rain. NOT EVER.” I say eyes fixated...
I leaned back, arms wrapped around my knees, the manic brightness in my eyes cooling to something small and tired. The kind of vulnerability that shows itself only when it’s sure no one believes it’s real.
“You keep me alive out here,” I said, tone slipping into something rawer. “You think I don’t know that?”
He reached for the canteen, passed it toward me without a word. The gesture was ordinary, but it pulled the thread of my mood taut again, too much kindness, too soon after the edge.
I took it anyway, drank too quickly, the cold metal biting at my lips. “You shouldn’t be so kind,” I said, half-laughing, half-chiding. “Makes me forget I’m supposed to be dangerous.”
The lamplight flickered as the wind pressed against the tent, and for a moment, our shadows moved across the canvas like ghosts trying to remember how to be human. The tent creaked again. The storm had eased ino drizzle, a soft percussion against the leather walls. My voice dropped with it, the manic brightness fading back into quiet.
“Maybe it’s better this way,” I whispered. “Rain outside, silence in here. You and me. No one left to tell us what we are.”
For a moment, the world held its breath again. Then I smiled, smaller this time, almost human. “Guess we really are staying here a while.” The lamp hissed as a drop of water fell from the seam above and hit the flame. The light sputtered, dimmed, then , fragile, stubborn, alive.
He then unfolded the bedroll with the same careless elegance he used for everything that mattered. The leather whispered as it hit the ground, the kind of sound that belonged to habit more than comfort. He moved like a man half-shadow, every gesture efficient, never wasted. When he spoke, the words carried that lazy, weary music his voice always had, the tone of someone who’d long since stopped expecting the world to make sense but still insisted on narrating it anyway.
“We better get comfy then,” he said, smoothing the fabric flat with one hand. The lamplight slid across his knuckles, gold and tired. “I’m sure your fur will dry by morning. Then tomorrow, we can turn those eyes of yours on the Marshgate defector.”
That last line landed like a spark in a pool of oil.
The sound of the rain dulled for me, became background noise. The air between us thickened. Something deep in my chest twisted, the way it always did when he started talking about other people. Other eyes. Other names.
My tail bristled before I could stop it, fur standing on end, droplets scattering in a fine arc. “My eyes?” I echoed, the words sliding out slow, dangerous, a purr with a crack running through it. “You make it sound like they’re for hire. As if you can point them anywhere you like.”
I leaned forward, closing the small space between us until I could feel the heat of him through the rain-cold air. My hands pressed against the floor beside his, claws biting faintly into the leather. “They aren’t a tool, Master,” I murmured, voice trembling somewhere between affection and threat. “They don’t turn. They don’t wander. They stay fixed right here.”
My tail flicked once, a sharp, restless motion, brushing against his leg before curling possessively around it. “Only you,” I said, lower now, a whisper shaped more by breath than voice. “Always you. Only you.”
For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to nothing but that, his stillness, my breath, the small crackle of the lamp between us. The bond thrummed so loud I could almost taste it, copper and heat and something close to pain. Then, as quickly as it had come, the fever broke. I blinked, drew back an inch, the taut wire inside me slackening with a small shiver. My tail uncoiled, smoothed down again, though the tip still twitched like it was remembering anger in its own language.
A faint laugh slipped from me, soft, unsteady, almost self-mocking. “Listen to me,” I said quietly, shaking my head. “I start sounding like one of those temple zealots when I get wet and tired.”
I sank down onto the bedroll beside him, tucking my knees up beneath me, the damp air pressing close around us. “You’re right,” I murmured after a moment, the words calmer now, cooler. “We’ll deal with the defector tomorrow. Pontune, Marshgate, whoever else wants to play noble politics.”
My head found his shoulder without asking permission. The movement wasn’t quite gentle, it never was, but it landed there, solid, claiming the space. “But for tonight,” I added, quieter still, eyes half-closed, “I’m not looking at anyone else.”
