Everybody wants to be a cat…. (WoD)

Things were not going well.

Stretchslow unraveled himself from his vantage point, a bell tower high above the bustling city, its denizens scurrying from task to task like ants on a hill. The constant movement of people below usually soothes him, but not today. Today was different. He curls one arm loosely around the stone pillar supporting one corner of the steeple and turns his gaze up and outward, over the lake and across the plains surrounding Avalon. The heaviness in his gut does not ease as he takes in the beauty of the scene; instead, it grows, spreading and gnawing at him like a hungry rodent. Things were not going well at all.

A soft miaow from the vicinity of his left ankle causes him to shift his dark eyes down to the beat-up old tomcat rubbing around his calves in an ecstasy of indulgence, its yellow eyes turned up to him in eager supplication. He knew it was time to feed the animal, his only companion for the last hundred years or so, and he smiles humorlessly as the cat stares up at him with expectant eyes. At least food was easy to come by here in the shining city. In the Undercity of Milwaukee the cat had to fend for itself, and it had learned that opportunity knocks but rarely. Eat when you could; you never knew when your next meal would crawl by.

Words to live by. Stretchslow grins, a strange expression on his normally solemn face. He leans down and caresses the old tom’s scarred cheek, feeling the thick, rumbling purr beneath his fingers, the blood coursing hotly under ragged skin. His only companion. The cat lets out a yowl of annoyance as his master’s hand absently clenches into its ratty fur. He had more than one companion now, a group of others like him who saw what he saw, fought the battles he fought, and the sensation of being part of a whole is alien to him. The cat writhes in his hand, scratching and spitting, and a series of gashes open themselves on his arm if by magic as the cat’s claws flash like lightning. Suddenly made aware of his actions, he releases the animal who takes the opportunity to flee to the opposite side of the tower with a series of hissing and growling noises. Stretchslow laughs at it as it tries unsuccessfully to smooth its rumpled fur. The old tom pointedly ignores him as it continues its ministrations.

There was something odd about being a part of a group of people rather than watching over them from afar. There was an immediacy, a closeness, that both warmed and chilled him on a primal level. He was a monster, and he traveled in the company of other monsters, and he did so to keep even more monsters from ruling the world. How strange was that?

The blood welling from several parallel gashes on his right arm drips onto the stonework beneath his boots, and the sound of each drop as it hits seems to bring another thought to mind. They were coming into winter, a long winter, one from which the world may never awaken from, and the thought of this glorious city trapped in ice and its residents(oh, such busy little creatures they were, and so happy) sold into lives of slavery and brutality makes his brow furrow in frustration. The White Foxes were coming and no force on earth seemed strong enough to keep them from gaining that treasure which they seemed to most desire; Asu’a. The keep within a keep, the secret that Avalon held close to its bosom and cradled like a sleeping child. The origin of the magic that made it possible for these people to live out their lives in relative safety and peace prosperity. The power of the Light.

He lifts his right arm and runs his tongue out, licks his wounds clean as the battered old tom grooms his ragged coat. The similarity between the two has always struck Stretchslow as amusing, but there is no amusement in his eyes as he returns his gaze to the city below. Time was growing short. He and his comrades must go north, and soon, to discover what secrets the White Foxes held within their icy stronghold. And to discover what they wanted with Asu’a. He only hoped they were up to the task.

A pale face wreathed in sorrow drifts into the forefront of his thoughts. Kate, another member of the Society and a companion of sorts, had rejoined him at the palace not long after sunup, her face a mask of bloody tears and her eyes portals into despair. Only gentle questioning and the offer of a shoulder to weep upon had opened her up enough to tell him that she had gotten more than she had bargained for during her entertainment of last night. She’d said no more, but the love marks on her neck and breast and the raw hurt in her hazel eyes told him all he’d needed to know. He’d always respected her for her independence and self-reliance and he silently damned her for losing those qualities now, right before a mission that could cost them their unlives and the world its freedom. 

Love was another foreign concept to Stretchslow. He knew it existed, knew it drove people to do some unpredictable and crazy things, but he had never felt its fire or surrendered to its warmth. It made brave men cower and kind men brutal; it brought nations to their knees and kingdoms to ruin; it blinded the visionary and deafened the perceptive. Love made those who, previously, had nothing to lose, lose their edge, like a knife blade used for sawing saplings. A wave of irritation washes over him and he lets it roll, lets it wash over and past him until it dissolves. He couldn’t fault Kate. She’d been drifting for half-a-century now, and maybe she was feeling the pull that this city, this haven, gave off, succumbing to the lure of stability and safety. Maybe she’d lost her mind. Whatever the reason didn’t matter. In the course of one night Kate had lost her edge and things like that did not bode well for the job at hand.

He returns his gaze to the shimmering lake and the green plains surrounding the city. He listens to the birds as they call and the steady murmur of the cityfolk as they go about their daily business. He stands, filing each sound, each image, into his brain as a man starving at a banquet. Who knew when he’d see it again, if ever? The events of the past few weeks were coming to a head and if he wasn’t careful he would find himself without his.

(Quick disclaimer- Some references here are Copyright of Tad Williams. He is a brilliant author and I have been waiting a long time to use some of his books as sourcebooks in a WoD game. Go. Read Tad Williams. He is the wins. -Rebecca)