The Ambush

I drew a slow breath through my nose, the forest’s smells collapsing into layers, moss, rot, iron, sweat, until one cut through the rest like a knife. That tang. That particular mix of burnt oil and tanned hide. Marshgate. My chest tightened before the word even formed in my mind.

The scent coiled in my skull like heat. I knew it too well; it lived in the leather around my throat. Black-market Alderian work, the kind that came from the Steppe-Marsh border workshops in the southwest, where Marshgate’s smelters turned animals into currency and labourers into ghosts. That same scent had clung to the collar Master bought me there: high-quality, yes, soft as silk, but made under torchlight and threat. Every stitch had history, and it stank of control.

The fever started low, a thrum beneath my ribs that climbed like static. The memory of its markets came back in flashes: dwarven overseers with red-dyed eyes barking orders from stone balconies, their female governor ruling like a hammer over the anvil of the city; smoke rising from the forges that never cooled; the cries of merchants haggling for goods and bodies both. The place was a hybrid of tyranny and trade, part industrial fortress, part bazaar,and even from Mire Point, its shadow fell long.

The smell brought it all back. The collars hung from hooks like trophies. The way their guards looked at me, as if I were a thing to measure, not a person to face. The heat from the forges had sunk into my fur that day and never quite left.

My claws pressed lightly against the haft of my spear, every breath quickening. I could almost see their insignia in my head. Marshgate agents, maybe scouts, maybe hunters. My pulse sharpened to a point. The forest dimmed around me, sounds folding inward until all I could hear was my heartbeat and that faint, hateful scent.

“Marshgate,” I hissed under my breath, voice too low for anyone but Master to catch. My ears pinned back, and the fever crawled behind my eyes as I began scratching the ground under me.

Whoever they were, whatever they wanted, they carried the stink of the city that had once put a price on my freedom. And that was enough to make my blood run wild.

Athletics Roll: 1d20 + 8 → 16 + 8 = 24 (Success)

Master moved like the forest itself had stepped aside for him. His boots barely cracked a twig as he reached the base of the oak beside us, hands sliding into the bark’s grooves, muscles tightening as he climbed. The roots were slick with moss, but he found purchase quick, using the old growth knots like rungs. His cloak merged with the shadows as he rose, deliberate, silent, deliberate again, until he reached a branch high enough to overlook the glade.

Athletics Roll: 14 +6 DEX +2 (Feline Agility) +3 (Protective Fury instinct surge) = 25

The moment Master’s weight vanished higher into the canopy, the bond between us pulled thin, like a thread strung across glass. My pulse snapped fast; the world pitched sideways for a heartbeat. I didn’t think. I moved.

My claws bit into the bark, legs coiling, muscles screaming as I launched upward. Splinters scraped my palms; my tail lashed for balance as I scaled the trunk in two breaths, not caring for stealth, only for closeness. The air felt colder the higher I went, the distance stretching between us like something alive and hostile.

The bond thrummed, faint, strained, the ache behind my eyes turning white-hot. I gritted my teeth and lunged for the lowest branch Master had used, swung myself up, then again, faster. The bark tore at my hands, but I barely felt it. I could see him now through the leaves, silhouette sharp against the gold light, calm as a statue while my heartbeat thundered loud enough to wake the forest.

The bond steadied. The pull eased. My breath came in ragged bursts, but the panic slipped back beneath my ribs where it belonged. I crouched beside him, tail trembling with leftover fury. My voice came out low, half growl, half purr. “Don’t climb that fast again,” I muttered, claws still sunk into the bark.

Below, the Marshgate scouts still lingered, unaware that the forest now watched them from above.

Perception Check (to spot Master and Aliza): 1d20 + 3 → 9 + 3 = 12 (Fail)

The scouts shifted below, unaware of the eyes above them. There were three, maybe four,  their shapes half-swallowed by the underbrush. I could make out their movement now that my senses had settled: quiet, practised, but not nearly enough for the forest.

The lead one, a thickset Alderian with a bald scalp, gestured with two fingers. They fanned out in a loose triangle formation, a typical Marshgate recon pattern, meant for encirclement. One peeled left, slipping between the ferns; another crouched near a moss-covered log, crossbow drawn but not yet cocked. The third remained kneeling at the centre, head bent low, examining something pressed into the mud.

I focused harder, tail still flicking in irritation. They were following tracks, our tracks. The faint indentations from Master’s boots and the light claw marks from my step. One of them muttered something under his breath, a guttural dialect of Alderian-Redstone, the kind used by Marshgate’s lower enforcers. I caught only fragments: “Two… fresh… eastbound.”

The one on the left, slimmer looked up suddenly, squinting into the treeline. My muscles tensed, hand gripping my spear. For a breath I thought he’d seen me. But his gaze drifted past, settling instead on a crow that hopped along the branch below us. He scowled, spat into the leaves, then signalled that all was clear.

They were moving again, slow, methodical, toward where we’d paused before climbing. One reached into his pouch and drew out a narrow iron rod with etching marks along its length. A sensor wand, Marshgate issue, used to track magic residue or psionic signatures. The kind of tool smugglers and witch hunters both carried.

They didn’t know we were above them, but they knew something wasn’t right. Master’s shadow shifted beside me, still and deliberate. I glanced down again, three bodies threading closer together under the green light, heads tilted, weapons ready, the smell of leather and oil thick enough to burn. If they took three more steps, they’d be standing directly beneath the tree.

Opposed Roll: Perception vs Stealth
- Marshgate Lead: Perception +3
– Master: Stealth +7 (Dex +3, trained +4)
Cover advantage from elevated position: +2

Rolls:
– Marshgate Lead: 1d20 + 3 → 8 + 3 = 11
– Master: 1d20 + 9 → 13 + 9 = 22 (Success)

The lead scout never saw it coming.

Master moved with the stillness of a hunting cat, the faint creak of the crossbow lost beneath the forest’s breath. Even I could barely hear the winding mechanism as he lifted the copper-iron weapon, braced it against the branch, and levelled it downward.

The sunlight filtered through the leaves, catching the gleam of the bolt’s head for half a heartbeat—then the string snapped forward.

[Attack Roll: Crossbow (Dex +3, proficiency +2, copper-iron +4) → +9]
Roll: 1d20 + 9 → 17 + 9 = 26 (Hit)
[Damage: 1d8 + 3 + 4 (weapon bonus) → 8 + 7 = 15 damage]

The bolt struck the lead scout clean through the throat. There wasn’t even time for him to shout—just a wet gasp and the dull thud of metal and leather collapsing into ferns. Blood sprayed across the moss in a dark fan, and the other two froze where they stood. For an instant, the forest forgot how to breathe. Then the nearest one shouted, panicked:

“Contact! High ground!”

Crossbows snapped upward, one firing wildly into the canopy. The shot buried itself harmlessly into bark two feet below our perch. I felt my tail curl tight around the branch, claws gripping deep into the wood, heart thrumming with the thrill of it. The smell of blood hit me before it reached the ground. They knew now. They’d found the hunters, but it was already too late.

Reloading was a whisper more than a sound, the faint click of the mechanism lost beneath the wind. From our perch, the chaos below unfolded in a tight circle of confusion: one man scrambling toward cover, another crouched low with his crossbow half-jammed, the corpse of their leader bleeding into the moss.

Attack roll (Crossbow +9):
1d20 + 9 → 15 + 9 = 24 (Hit)

Damage roll (1d8 + 7):
1d8 + 7 → 5 + 7 = 12 damage

The bolt tore through the air and found the second scout just as he ducked behind a tree. It punched clean through his shoulder and pinned him to the bark, the force of it cracking the wood. His scream shredded the quiet; he dropped his weapon and clawed at the shaft, eyes wide with disbelief.

The third one swore in Marshgate tongue and broke for the slope, stumbling through the brush, trying to drag his wounded comrade with him. His breath came ragged, his steps uneven, panic taking hold before any tactic could.

Below us, the wounded man was still alive, twitching, the iron tang of blood thick in the air. The forest seemed to lean closer, listening. I glanced toward Master, the light flickering through the branches painting his face in shards of gold and shadow. One more shot and there would be silence again.

[Aliza’s Reaction: Protective Fury Triggered]

The instant the surviving scout’s crossbow lifted toward the canopy, my instincts lit up like fire through dry grass. The air snapped, the bond’s hum surged, and I moved before thought could catch up.

[Reaction Roll: Dexterity +4, Shield bonus +4 → +8]
1d20 + 8 → 18 + 8 = 26 (Success)

The shot cracked through the trees, but I was already between Master and the line of fire. My copper-iron kite shield swung up in a blur, catching the bolt mid-flight with a sharp metallic clang. Sparks danced against the forest light, falling like embers as the impact vibrated up my arm.

The scent of blood and iron mingled with the tang of hot metal. My tail lashed once, steadying my stance on the branch. The shield’s surface was dented but held firm, a smear of mud and resin marking where the bolt had struck.

Below, the Marshgate survivor stared upward, eyes wide. He’d seen it, the shimmer of the copper-iron alloy, the feline figure shielding a man the way soldiers shield kings. He hesitated, fear crawling up his neck. I tilted the shield aside and bared my teeth in a snarl, a slow grin spreading across my face.

The forest swallowed the word like a threat whispered directly into its roots. I could feel the pulse of the bond steady again. Master unflinching behind me, the world narrowing to two hunters in a tree and one fool still breathing below.

When Master dropped from the branch, the forest seemed to hold its breath. The sound was small, a soft crunch of loam beneath his boots, yet it carried the weight of a verdict. I followed before I realised I’d moved. The bark tore at my palms, air slashing across my face, and I hit the ground in a crouch, knees bending to take the fall.

The bond snapped tight again. That fragile, invisible line that tied me to him pulled itself taut like sinew, vibrating with the echo of almost-loss. The moment I felt it steady, the fury hit, hot and chemical, the kind that burns before it thinks.

"DON'T DO THAT AGAIN" I snarled at him. It came out sharper than I meant, too raw, too close. “You don’t get to vanish like that. Not up trees, NEVER out of reach".

Master adjusted his cloak as though my words were a change in wind, not a threat. Calm, clinical, deliberate, every motion measured in that cold arithmetic of his. He looked at me briefly, one brow arched. Then he turned toward the body on the ground.

The lead Marshgate scout lay half in the mud, the crossbow bolt still lodged deep through his throat. Steam rose from his blood where it met the morning chill. His eyes stared glassy and wide into the canopy, unblinking. Beside him, the second one, the one I hadn’t yet finished, writhed against the tree, pinned like an insect in an anatomy book.

Master walked closer, boots silent, the forest giving way under him. When he spoke, his voice was all noir cynicism,  low, even, the kind that makes smoke sound jealous.
“So,” he said, tilting his head toward the twitching man, “do you want the honours, or shall I?”

He said it the way one might ask who gets the last cup of tea. I stood still for a breath, listening to the forest recalibrate around us, the distant drip of dew, the low rustle of branches far above. My tail twitched once, twice, before I answered.

I could smell the man’s fear. It bled out of him faster than the wound did, sweat, copper, the sour tang of panic. And under it, that other smell, the one that made my stomach twist: Marshgate oil and Alderian leather. The same scent that clung to the collar at my throat. The same one that haunted the workshops where slaves sewed their own chains.

I stepped past Master slowly... spear dragging a shallow groove in the mud. “You shot him,” I said, my voice softer than a whisper. “I’ll finish it.”

The surviving scout’s eyes rolled toward me. He was young, no older than twenty-five, maybe, and still clung to the idea that mercy could exist. I crouched before him, the spear’s haft balanced loosely in my hands, the point tracing idle shapes against his collarbone.

“Marshgate sent you.” It wasn’t a question.

He tried to speak but choked instead, coughing through blood and fear both.

“They always do,” I continued, quiet, almost tender. “They never learn.”

Behind me, Master watched, silent, inscrutable. He never interfered when I got like this. Maybe he knew there was no use. Maybe he understood that rage, when shaped properly, was a kind of language.

I leaned closer until I could see my reflection in the wet gloss of the scout’s eye. “Do you know what this place is?” I asked. “You’re standing in the borderland of two warlord regions. You think your dwarf mistress rules the south west ? That her iron forges mean power ? Out here, the trees don’t care who forges what. The marsh eats iron just as easily as it eats bone.”

His breath hitched. I could almost see the moment he realised the hierarchy he’d carried in his head meant nothing here.

“You came for him,” I said, flicking my gaze toward Master. “You followed his trail from Mire Point. The governor must be nervous, hm ? Her defectors are thriving. The little empire of mud and reeds frightens her.”

The man swallowed, shaking his head weakly. “Orders… we were told”

“Lies.” The word cut through his excuse like a knife. I pressed the spear tip under his chin, enough to make him tilt his head back. “You were told to watch, maybe to take him alive if you could. But you weren’t prepared for me. None of you ever are.”

My tail lashed once, a flicker of motion I couldn’t stop. The fever that had started when I smelled Marshgate now boiled behind my ribs. I remembered the workshops, dwarves barking orders, the smell of burning fur, the sound of leather being cut for collars like mine.

The forest had gone back to pretending it didn’t care about death. Cicadas shrieked somewhere unseen, the wind stirred through the canopy, and the smell of pine sap began to overtake the stench of blood. I wiped the last streak from my shield and let my pulse slow to match the rhythm of the world again.

Master crouched beside the dying man, the weight of his presence folding the air around him into something still, surgical. The man’s breath came in jerks, shallow, wet sounds, the kind that meant he wouldn’t see the next sunrise. Master didn’t rush. He didn’t need to. He simply adjusted his sleeve, rested one gloved hand on the man’s chest to steady him, and spoke in that voice that could peel the truth out of anyone, not by threat but by inevitability.

“Your orders were?”

He didn’t even inflect it as a question. It was a statement, an expectation.

The man coughed once, a fine mist of red spattering his chin. “Not… not Marshgate,” he rasped. “Not the governor.” His eyes fluttered open, darting between us. “Pure Class… from the Hold. Redstone. Pontune, she, she’s wanted.”

That name hit like a subtle change in air pressure. Even the forest seemed to flinch. Pontune, the woman we’d left arguing with Blacktallow just hours ago, still playing guest in our keep, still acting like she belonged to a different order of the world.

Master’s expression didn’t change, but I saw his jaw tighten. “Explain.”

The man’s words came in fits, broken by his collapsing lungs. “Rival bloodline. Serrean… wants her taken, alive. Says she’s… leverage. Against the… Redstone council.” He coughed again, breath rattling like paper.

My tail lashed once. He shouldn’t have said that last word. Master leaned forward just enough that his shadow swallowed the man’s face. “Who sent you?”

The man swallowed, a wet sound. “Anvil Class. Contracted by… Lord Harn. Said Pontune’s defection humiliated Serrean’s envoy. Wanted her back under chain or in a grave.”

The name Harn was familiar, one of the Anvil aristocrats who’d tried to buy Mire Point land and failed. A self-styled patriot of the Pureblood cause, obsessed with the idea that Redstone nobility should rule all of Alderia.

Master’s eyes narrowed slightly, that measured cold back in full. “So this wasn’t about me.” The dying man’s mouth twitched. That earned a low laugh from Master, humourless, dry, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes. “They always say that.”

The man shuddered, chest hitching, and then the light went out of him entirely. Just another corpse in the underbrush, another pawn sacrificed for a cause so petty it didn’t deserve a name. Master straightened, brushing the dirt from his cloak. “Pure Class infighting,” he said finally, tone flat. “Of course. Serrean politics. They’ll eat themselves before they ever manage to govern.”

I watched him for a moment, then looked down at the body. The words still buzzed in my head like a fly that refused to die. “You think Pontune knew?”

He gave a small, grim nod. “She always knows more than she says. But if this is true…” His gaze drifted east, toward Mire Point’s distant skyline, just visible through the gaps in the trees. “Then she’s a liability. And liabilities have to be handled.”

I stepped closer, tail coiling around his leg almost unconsciously. “Handled how?” He didn’t answer right away. The silence stretched between us, full of thought and calculation. Finally, he looked at me, calm, clear, inevitable.

“We find out how far her blood reaches,” he said. “Then we decide whether to cut it.” Somewhere far off, a crow cried out, harsh and hollow. The forest was already swallowing the bodies, returning to indifference. And as we turned back toward Mire Point, the truth lingered in the air like the last breath of smoke after fire: the war hadn’t started yet, but the pieces were already moving.

@Senar2020