I finally finished an entire part of it

[amadathy]

Adventure 1 Quarter 1

A stubborn ray of sunlight worked its way through the miniscule crack between the shutters, determined to snatch Chester away from whatever his mind was occupying itself with as he slept. It crept up the pillow he rested on, and began pulling on his whiskers. Chester remained asleep. The sunshine then graduated onto Chester's pink nose and began dancing around. Sleepily he swatted at it with his panther-sized paw, but to no avail. He lazily rolled over, but remained asleep. Well, this just would not do. The light looked around a moment, before spotting Chester's mirror on the other side of the room. Slowly but surely, it climbed up the bureau, over a brush, a few blank scrolls, and a half-empty saucer of three-day-old milk, to the speckled mirror, hung on the wall. The ray of light sprung off the shiny surface, just barely making it back to Chester's pillow, took a moment to regain its footing, and slapped him in the face.

The Great Cat squinted and groaned; rolled over in an attempt to hide from another meaningless day. After a few minutes of trying, however, it proved to be no use - the sun was indeed up. It was time for him to get out of bed and attend his apprenticeship as a scholar yet again. He blinked a few times, his diamond eyes adjusting to the new bit of light, as the dream he was snatched away from faded into nonexistence. He had dreamed of a dense jungle, full of green, and little furry things to pounce on and devour. He had dreamed of others like himself - Great Cats - of all shapes and patterns, living the way he was meant to live. Prowling through branches. Stalking down shaded pathways. Bounding through bushes. But the sun, upon waking him, dried this dream up like a tiny stream; Chester didn't remember it. He hadn't remembered one of his dreams in years.

He tried not to think as he rolled off his pillow, stretching his front paws far out in front of him, clawing at the floor, his sandpaper tongue curling between his massive canines, his tail curled high over his rear haunches. He shook the sleepiness off of him as he slunk past the dusty mirror, once again making the decision to move it. He poked his head out the back door to his rain catcher. It was three-quarters empty.

He tried to ignore his shoddy reflection as he took a drink. It would just remind him how much better he used to look. Way back when. Back before the monotony of the same thing day in day out drove every ounce of purpose from his mentality. Back before he got too depressed to eat. In reality, it had only been a few months, but to Chester, it had seemed an eternity since he last felt that he was serving any purpose to the world; and another eternity still, before his apprenticeship would be over, and he could take on the title of scholar. What did that even mean, anyway? Scholar? Would it mean he was smart? Smart enough for what? Smart enough to teach others? Would the knowledge somehow make him a more worthwhile being? Would they some how allow his spirit to remain after his biological life ended?

These were questions Chester had given up asking himself months ago.

At the library he sat, blankly staring at outdated maps of places he knew he'd never see. Tropical islands, hidden valleys, frozen deserts; Dwarven mountains, Centurion flatlands, and the Gods only knew what inhabited the seas. But what did it really matter what was on the other side of the planet? Especially in a place like Tartarus. It was such a closed-minded town. Chester mused on this for a while. For being so militant, it sure wasn't very smart. There were no universities at all, and the newest book in the library was at least ten years old. While being waterfront was a tactical location, the northern and western boarder was the Eidolon Forest, which was all well and good, but one wouldn't think such a stronghold would rely on a "Forest of Nightmares" reputation to prevent attackers from using the lack of defenses to their advantage. Though to the south, there was indeed a wall, protecting the town's citizens from harm. Not like the protection was entirely needed; nearly everyone in the town took up some form of fighting. There was even a giant pit in the town square where fighters could sharpen their skills, or settle personal grievances, battling each other out.

Ahh, The Pit. When Chester was younger, it had disgusted him. The whole concept of violence never really appealed to him to begin with, but to have a place exist for the sole purpose of it was downright appalling. That was when everything else seemed to serve a purpose though, and recently Chester had begun visiting The Pit after his apprenticeship each day. He enjoyed sadistically timing the Clerics; how long it took them to hop to their feet, and fully heal whichever poor sap had just been beaten. Perhaps on some level he hoped to see them, just once, take too long, and smudge The Pit’s clean slate of no fatalities.

Chester was in for a treat today. A young Half-Orc sauntered in, with nothing but a small shield on his right forearm. He stood nearly seven feet tall, and with his massive muscular build, must have weight twice as much as any given human. Chester guessed him to be maybe twenty-five years old. Seeing Orcs or Half-Orcs around town was pretty rare, and even rarer still, to see one in The Pit, as almost no one was willing to take the beating ensured by challenging one. Three off-duty city patrolmen were willing though; armed and ready to spar this unarmed Half-Orc. This unarmed Half-Orc caught Chester’s attention; twenty-five is a rather young age for an Orc; and he’s left-handed... how strange. As the fight ensued, something on the Half-Orc gleamed, reflecting the sunlight into Chester’s eyes. It was a golden rope around his waist, serving as a belt. Some would see it as tacky, or pompous. Others, as high-class and confident, factoring in the lad’s skill as a fighter. Chester, on the other hand, had studied the Orcs, and knew exactly what the golden rope meant - Royalty. Not too many others were aware of this, however, because few bothered to read up on the Orcish society. Most people knew about the Drow genocide lead by the Orcs two decades ago, and that was enough for them. Chester had studied this too; a petty lover’s quarrel when it got right down to it. But I suppose that’s what you get for kidnapping the husband of the Leadress of Stanlow. The silly dark-elf vixen really should have known better; everyone knows how easy it is to set off an Orc.

Chester’s musing was interrupted by the howling of the twelve-year-old warriors-to-be watching the fight from the stands nearby. One of the fighters was lying on the ground, a Cleric at his side. The Half-Orc had picked up his sword in his left hand and knocked one of the other two men against the far wall. His belt shimmered again, sending Chester into a hypnosis of, “What’s a royal Half-Orc doing in Tartarus?” Future Orcish leaders are sent out into the world for a year or two to gain experience and knowledge, ensuring that they will be just and fair leaders, but what did Tartarus have to teach this fellow? Hell, it could barely teach its scholars’ properly. He thought about this a few moments more, before he tossed the whole thing aside and just watched the fight.

His lust for mindless violence satisfied, Chester headed off to the tavern to quench his thirst. He half-mindedly sauntered down the dusty street, and pushed through the door into the dank, familiar sanctuary of the bar. The thick smell of alcohol, like the fighting pit, used to turn his stomach, but had now become a mind-numbing comfort. Hopping onto a barstool, and quickly balancing himself, like clockwork, his usual drink sat right in front of him.

“Hey Chester,” said the barkeep, “Anything new?” A cynical scoff as he was lapping up his bowl of cider answered, ‘Is there ever?’ just as it had yesterday, and the day before. A similar scoff from the bartender ended their conversation as he turned to serve another patron. Anyone else may have deemed this to be rude, but the barkeep didn’t mind the temporary delay, as he knew that Chester was only a few more drinks away from beginning his daily mope about life.

A few more drinks indeed, and Chester had a depressed buzz overwhelming his apathy, as he talked out loud to who’s ever ears were picking up his words. Mostly, though, he was just talking to his fifth saucer of cider.

“Wuddya s’pose it’s all for, eh? *hic* The sun comes up. We run ‘round like… like fairies with one wing plucked *hic* off. The sun goes… goes down.. and we jus’ keep doin’ it.” Another sip of cider. “I can tell you… I’ll tell you.. the ‘zact number of.. the last twelve generations of Garmorth empriss’ss and all the *hic* shtuff they did, but have I ever seen the Flying City? No. Is this Great Cat gonna ever see enythin’ like that? No. I’m just gonna *hic* gonna sit here, at this fine tavern, and get piss drunk ev’ry *hic* day, til my brain fills so much with useless shtuff that my… tha my… my furry li’l head jush’ pops!”

“Tis a shame seein’ him like this day after day, Brian,” the redheaded waitress whispered to the bartender, “you really shouldn’t serve him so willin’ly. He’s goin’ to wind up hurtin’ himself.”

“He does it to himself Wendy, dear, he really does. His last three drinks I gave him were just apple juice.”

Chester looked down at his half-empty saucer, as if waiting for a reply. The saucer said nothing. He lapped up another sip. Still nothing. The whole tavern seemed to go quiet as Chester stared distantly into his drink. He never knew exactly how long he stared at the saucer, but he did it every night. Usually the next thing he would remember is the sun prying him from his slumber the next morning, but something caught his mind’s eye. The tavern door creaked open for the umpteenth time, and a bulky young Half-Orc plodded up to the bar and slid into the seat next to Chester. He looked surprised to see the Great Cat sitting at the bar; just as surprised as Chester was to see the Half-Orc he’d seen at The Pit earlier that day. Chester didn’t even realize he was gawking until the royal warrior brought his hand up and patted him between the ears.

“Hi big fella, who do you belong to?” asked the Half-Orc.

“Now jush a minute,” burped Chester. The Half-Orc pulled his hand away, startled. In an attempt to finish his statement, Chester raised his paw in the air, matter-of-factly. By the time he finished saying, “I don’t *hic* belong to anyone,” he had lost his balance and fallen off of the stool.

“Oh,” realized the Half-Orc, sipping a cup of mead the bar keeper had served him, “you’re a Great Cat.”

“You bet that gold-weaf belt you’re wearin’ *hic* you’re majesshy.” Chester made some extravagant sarcastic motions with his paws. He was still not aware that he had fallen over. A flame ignited behind the Half-Orc’s eyes, as he glared down at the drunken feline. He took another swig of his mead.

All of a sudden, a loud clash rang out from the corner of the room. A table was over turned, and one man lunged at another.

“Thief!” he shouted.

Chester made a floppy attempt to roll over. The Half-Orc stood quickly and turned with a look of readiness on his face. He looked down at Chester, and with his foot, shoved him under a table in the corner. Though his hiding spot was safe, Chester couldn’t see anything but rustling legs and feet. The entire bar had broken out into a giant brawl.

Chester watched with terrified excitement as the Half-Orc picked up a bar stool and swung it into a man, sending him flying across the room and knocking all of the legs off the stool. Three of the stool’s legs clattered to the ground; the half-orc caught the other in mid-air, and took a defensive stance.

Out of nowhere, a child tumbled under the table where Chester was hiding. A second look revealed that the child was not a child, but a full-grown Halfling. The Halfling tumbled to a cautious stop and held up an expensive-looking pocket watch in the little light that glimmered under the table. He beamed at his treasure, and sat up. He looked quickly over at Chester, who once again was gawking. The Halfling looked out at the bar fight, and then back to the Great Cat.

“Oops,” he shrugged playfully; looked at the watch, and pocketed it. Chester’s realization that this three-foot Halfling caused this huge bar fight was interrupted by a blood curdling scream. The commotion was on the far side of the room; the two poked their heads out from under the table. The room smelled of sweat and alcohol. Three quarters of the patrons had cleared out; only a few ragged stragglers remained. The Half-Orc was standing on the staircase behind the bar, chair-leg in hand. Near the entrance, a young man sat up against a toppled table, with an ivory dagger handle sticking out of his gut. The barkeep stood up slowly behind the bar. Upon seeing the injured young man, he leaped over the counter and rushed to his side. The Great Cat crept out of his hiding place.

“Lord Hanely?” asked the barkeep, “Lord Hanely. Oh no, oh no!” Lord Hanely’s wails of pain turned into gurgling coughs. “Somebody get a Cleric!”

Chester woke up quick and alert the next morning. The events of the night before replayed in his head in such a manner that he couldn’t tell if they had actually happened or not. His head didn’t throb, like it usually did, but instead felt hollow; his thoughts seemed to echo amongst themselves.

He wandered into town, looking for some evidence of last nights events. In the square, he came upon a small crowd of people gathered around a platform where a nobleman was making a speech. While the nobleman himself was nothing out of the ordinary, he had around him four patrolmen standing watch. Chester made it just in time to catch the end of the man’s speech.

“Therefore, the gracious Lady Kapplan has ordered that all present in the tavern last night, please come forward for questioning in regards to the murder of her son, Lord Hanely. That is all. Thank you.”

The crowd disbanded in a flurry of whispers. Chester dissected the news one word at a time. He snickered at the ‘gracious’ Lady Kapplan. That lady probably couldn’t even spell ‘gracious.’ And the word ‘vengeful’ would be a more suiting description. Violence, while not the only language she understood, was definitely the only language she spoke. And Chester wasn’t going to be the idiot who stepped forward about the bar fight, and into the range of the vengeful Lady’s ‘gracious’ sword. It was unusual that Lord Hanely had died though. The Pit trained not only the best fighters, but also the best Clerics for miles. A stab wound to the stomach should have been nothing. A shame really - he was a nice enough young man. Not the sharpest arrow in the quiver though. He was known to disguise himself and play cards with local sharks in the tavern, often losing a small fortune.

At the library Chester laid three books out in front of him - one on watches, one on daggers, and one on curses and enchantments. He flipped through all three simultaneously. For the first time in almost a year Chester was interested enough in something to focus on it completely. The whole scenario was morbidly exciting, a welcome change of pace; he could research something that was actually relevant to his life now. Why couldn’t the Clerics heal the injury? Was it something about the dagger? What happened to the Halfling? Why did he want that watch? What happened to the Half-Orc?

Two very short hours into his studies, he found a drawing of what looked like the same dagger he saw in Lord Hanely’s gut the night before. The passage beside it read:

The mythical Jabilo Dagger is said to be made from the femur of a Kione witch doctor once he has died. Cremation hardens the bone whilst removing flesh and marrow. Once clean, a split is made halfway down the bone and the two separate blades are sharpened with strips of rough palm. The handle is packed with sand to prevent it from collapsing and carved with symbols telling the story of the witch doctor’s life. It is said that a wound from such a knife will never heal without care from another Kione witch doctor. This information was given to a scholar by a merchant who was trying to sell the blade at a ridiculous price, claiming they are very rare, only two being made in a lifetime. It was never confirmed, but if it’s true, perhaps the price wasn’t quite so ridiculous.

Chester rolled his eyes at yet another inadequate text in the inadequate library. Still, if there was any truth to the article, it would explain why the Clerics couldn’t heal the young lord. He closed the book, picked it up gently in his mouth, and walked down the aisle to return it. On the way back to his seat, he picked up a book on tribal peoples so he could look up “Kione.”

The pages of the new book weren’t as yellow as the pages of the last, and the colors in the pictures hadn’t faded completely away yet. It even had a table of contents and Chester was able to turn directly to the page about the Kione tribe. He purred at the convenience.

Kione island is a tangled mass of kelp, sand, and driftwood that floats around the world in no discernable pattern. The Kione are a tribe of pigmies that live on the island. Their constant exposure to the sun and kelp give them an olive green skin tone, deep sunken eyes, and dry yellow hair. They grow between three-and-a-half and four-and-a-half feet tall, and are very skinny with long legs and webbed feet.
They’re rather eccentric and generally friendly, spending most of their days creating and practicing rituals to entertain their Gods. They’ll gladly share these rituals with any ships that happen to cross their path. They love the feel of cloth and will trade rare Kione Berries for even the cheapest fabrics.

“’Scuse me.”

Chester’s reading was interrupted.

“’Scuse me,” the voice repeated. Chester looked around and saw no one. He stood on the bench and turned around. On the floor in front of him stood a Halfling, the top of his head barely reaching the Great Cat’s knees.

“Yes?” said Chester.

“Is that the book on watches?” asked the Halfling.

“What?” Chester glanced over his shoulder at his three books laid out on the table. “Oh. Yes it is.”

“Are you done with it?”

Chester looked over the little man as if to make a meal of him. “No,” he said reluctantly, “But I’m not using it right now. Just bring it back when you’re done.”

Much to his annoyance, the Halfling hopped onto the bench next to Chester and began flipping through the book right there. He sat back down and shifted uncomfortably. The Great Cat tried to concentrate on his reading, but the little brat was making humming noises as he slapped the pages around. Chester glared at him through the corner of his eye.

The Halfling had dark hair, almost black, that glimmered sapphire where the sunlight hit it. His skin was a peachy color with an ever-so-slight teal tint to it. In the known history of the world Halflings existed, but never did anything worth writing down, so Chester didn’t know very much about them. Except that most of them were thieves. This Halfling had apparently found the page he was looking for, and Chester watched him pull a familiar watch out of his pocket. The watch was oval shaped with an off-white face, a polished limestone back, and a silver rim holding it together. It had a D-shaped crown with a medium-sized silver chain attached to it. The Halfling set the watch down next to the picture in the book and compared the two. He nudged Chester.

“Hey Cat, what’s this say?” he demanded, pointing to the article next to the picture.

‘The nerve!’ thought Chester. He growled under his breath. “It says that you’re a thief. The one that caused the fight in the tavern last night, and that when Kapplan finds you, she’s going to make a broach with your scalp.”

The Halfling paused for a moment and then looked at the Great Cat. “That’s not what it says!” Chester smirked to himself. “That’s not what it says,” he repeated. “And as soon as Kapplan kills a dozen or so people, she’ll be satisfied.”

“Lord Hanely died for what you did,” said Chester, “What does that mean to you?”

The Halfling shrugged. “It wasn’t me who stabbed him.”

“Precocious little runt,” muttered Chester, hopping off the bench. Sad part was, he was right - Lady Kapplan would take her fill of lives, be them guilty or innocent, and be done with it. He sauntered through the archaic archives and squinted as he stepped out of the library. It was time for a break anyway.

A familiar feeling pricked at the Great Cat’s gut as the smell of fish wafted into town from the harbor. He followed it instinctively and found himself in an old familiar restaurant.

“Chester!” chirped a doe-eyed waitress, “Where have you been?”

“Hiii,” said Chester. He didn’t remember her name. “I’ve been… Around… Working.”

“Neat!” she said. “Would you like your usual.”

‘Usual? I have a usual?’ thought Chester. “Sure,” he said. He took a seat at a small table and moments later he had a fish sandwich and dish of water in front of him.

“Did you hear about the fight at the bar last night?” gossiped the waitress. Chester had just taken a bite of his sandwich, and looked around the empty restaurant. He nodded through his chewing. “Lord Hanely was stabbed to death. So bad that the Clerics couldn’t heal him. People have come forward about it too. They think it was an Orc come into town a week or so ago. I never saw him, but they said he was nine feet tall and ripped a barstool in half with his bare hands. Lady Kapplan’s gonna find him and hang him, just you watch. And if I see him, I’m gonna tell the city guards. That guy is dangerous. They said he beat fifteen patrolmen in the pit the other day with his bare hands.”

Chester swallowed his bite, turning this gossip over in his mind. He chose his words carefully. “If he can beat fifteen patrolmen with his bare hands, how does Lady Kapplan plan to apprehend him?”

“With nets,” said the girl, bubbling with excitement. She walked away and Chester enjoyed the rest of his meal in solitude. The waitress’s story was amusingly over the top. And luckily there was no mention of a Great Cat. But Chester wasn’t comfortable with the idea of the Half-Orc taking the fall. He didn’t seem to have anything to do with Lord Hanely getting stabbed, other than being there. And being a Forerunner of Stanlow, the future leader of the Orcs, it would cause major political unrest if Lady Kapplan used him as a scapegoat; last time someone upset the Orcs, an entire race was wiped out. This left Chester with a difficult decision: He could either come forward about what he knew about the bar fight and put himself in danger, or he could keep quiet about it and put the entire city of Tartarus in danger.

He idly dug through the satchel around his waist for a few silver coins to leave on the table and began walking back to the library. With any luck, that Halfling would be gone. Annoying little runt. He should be the one for Lady Kapplan to hang. It was more his fault than the Half-Orc’s. And even if he wasn’t the one who stabbed Lord Hanely, he was still a thief. ‘Maybe that’s what I’ll do,’ thought Chester, ‘I’ll turn in the Halfling as the killer.’

But much to his disappointment, the Halfling had left the library by the time he got back. He returned to his bench and stared down at the books he’d been reading that morning. They didn’t call out to him like that had before, so he closed the covers, returned them to their places on the shelves and headed out into town in search of the thief.

But how does one find a thief? To find a thief, you’d have to think like a thief. What does a thief think like?
Chester was at a loss. Occasionally he read about what other people did, but never how they thought. He’d always assumed that most other people were basically stupid and that if he associated with them too much, their stupidity might rub off on him. It had never occurred to him that he might want to find a particular person one day. He had come to a dead branch on his tree of knowledge.

He stopped walking and found himself at The Pit again. It wasn’t as lively as the day before; in fact, aside from a few confused spectators, it was completely deserted. No fighters. No Clerics. No Blacksmiths. No one. He walked up to the benches that overlooked The Pit. A note on a post read, “The Pit is closed until all involved in the murder of Lord Hanely come forward. By order of Lady Kapplan.”

‘Wow,’ thought Chester. The Pit had never been closed before. A lot of people were going to be very angry. A lot of very strong, very violent people.

As if his thoughts had made it so, a storm of displaced fighters came mobbing around the bend pulling a very large something in a fishing net. As they made their way towards Kapplan Manor, people cheered and applauded cautiously, eyeing up the catch. Chester hopped onto the tallest row of benches to get a better look. Above the men’s heads a very annoyed Half-Orc bobbed along, draped in netting. This was a problem. The town was literally a hundred or so yards away from war with the Orcs. Chester trotted down the bench to get closer. As the mob passed by, he followed alongside the prisoner.

“I know you’re innocent,” said Chester.

The Half-Orc looked the Great Cat over. With Chester on the bench they were about the same height. “Yeah, me too,” he said.

“Don’t worry, I’ll get you out of here. I can slice through these nets, no problem,” said Chester, flexing his claws.

“Don’t!” protested the Half-Orc with a strange calm. Chester stopped, confused. “Only three of them have any grits. The rest would scatter if I even make a fist. I can get out of this myself.”

“Then why don’t you?” called Chester from the end of the bench.

“These people are monsters. Not me.”

The Great Cat’s tail flicked back and forth as he contemplated his next move. The Half-Orc seemed to know what he was doing, but did he know of Lady Kapplan’s wrath? He couldn’t possibly and still walk so willing into her clutches. She would no doubt throw him in the dungeon and hang him in the morning. And the citizens would cheer, and throw their fists in the air, and revel in their own stupidity.

Chester couldn’t stand it! With a low roar he jumped off the bench and made his way through town. He decided to go to the tavern, where the whole mess started. Maybe he could find something there. Some vital clue; a footprint, a hidden weapon, a rotten Halfling. That Halfling! Now there was a useful piece of evidence. If Chester could find him, he could turn the runt in; free the Forerunner, rid the world of a nuisance, and prevent Tartarus from being trampled by Orcs. Easy as apple turnovers.

“Tavern’s closed,” grunted an oversized guard, stopping Chester at the door.

“Oh,” said Chester, thinking quickly. “I’m just looking for… my friend, a little dark-haired Halfling, about the same height as me. He has my watch.”

“Watch?” gruffed the guard, “This watch?” He held up the same pocket watch the Halfling had shown Chester that morning.

“Why yes, there it is,” said Chester, before he could stop himself. ‘Better play this one off before the guard puts chains and links together,’ he thought. He sat down with purpose, held his paw out and cleared his throat. “So if you would just give it to me, I’ll be on my way.”

“Not so fast kitty, heh heh heh,” the guard snorted, a sick smile spreading across his face. Chester’s ears dropped and he clenched his jaw. “See, Lady Kap’in’s personal advisors figured that whoever owned this here watch musta’ also been the fella - er, mount’in lion - stabbed her son. So you ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

From behind, a rope was slipped over Chester’s head and tightened around his neck. He yowled and whipped around, swiping at the rope with his claws. It sliced clean on the first try. Free and able to breathe, Chester scrambled around and took off running through the first opening he saw.

Unfortunately, that was straight into the tavern.

‘Great,’ thought Chester. The door behind him creaked open and the Great Cat darted upstairs. He scurried into an open room and hid behind a chest of drawers. Had he just turned the other way, towards the road, he could have easily outrun even the fastest patrolman, but there was only one way in and out of the tavern, and Chester was trapped.

“Heeeeerrre kitty, kitty,” cooed one of the guards ambling up the staircase. Chester would have growled about this had he not been so scared. He hunched down between the dresser and wall and tried to listen through his panting. The guards milled about in the next room. There was a loud crash as one guard kicked over a desk. Chester flinched in his hiding place. A sadistic chuckle seeped through the wall. And then footsteps; into the hallway; louder; in the doorway; louder. Chester watched their fat feet plod closer and closer to his cover. He pressed his body close to the floor. Perhaps if he lay flat enough he could seep into the floorboards and disappear like a forgotten spill.

No such luck.

One guard heaved the dresser aside. Chester hissed, the hair along his backbone standing as quickly as himself. But it wasn’t fast enough. The smaller guard threw a net over the Great Cat; he lashed out at it and was instantly entangled. The first guard scooped up the corners of the net and carried his catch down to a patrol wagon, Chester yowling and thrashing the whole way.

“I got myself a Cat-fish,” said the large guard, hurling Chester into the wagon and slamming the door behind him. ‘A pathetic pun,’ thought Chester regaining his bearings. He lay still, wrapped in netting, catching his breath.

“He told me the watch we took off the Halflin’ earlier today belongs to him. Take him to Lady Kap’in,” said the guard to the driver. There was no reply, but hooves clopped against the packed dirt road and the wagon lurched forward. Chester began clawing at the net. When that didn’t work, he chewed on it. It had a peculiar taste. A bitter, woody taste. It was coated in resin, a technique some fishermen used to make their nets stronger. There was nothing Chester could do but wait. Hopefully, once at Kapplan Manor he would be put on a lead and walked to where ever they took him. That would be his chance.

But again, no such luck.

A guard approached the driver of the wagon as it pulled up to the manor.

“Keep this one in the net. He’s feisty,” said the driver.

“Jeese, it’s just one after another today,” replied the guard.

“Tell me about it,” said the driver, opening the back door. Chester lay there growling in a heap of netting. The chance of escape had gone from slim to none. The guard here was just as large as the last one, and he carried the Great Cat by the corners of the net. Chester didn’t bother struggling this time. He knew his brawn wasn’t going to get him out of this one. He’d have to rely on his brain. He looked the guard over as he hung upside-down in front of him, moving through the halls of the Manor.

“This is rather uncomfortable,” started Chester, “would you mind flipping me over.” The guard ignored him. “It would be no trouble. It would probably be easier for you to carry me if I was turned the other way.” The guard didn’t so much as look as Chester; just kept making his way towards where ever it was they were going. Blood was rushing to Chester’s head and it started to throb. “Now look here you oaf!” shouted Chester.

A metal door screeched open and Chester was dumped onto a cold hard ground coated with dirty straw. Free from the net, he scrambled to his feet just in time to see the cage door slam shut. He circled frantically. It was dark. He was in a cellar of some sort. The air was cold and wet; smelled like antique excrement. It wasn’t that the smell was particularly strong or foul, but that it so wholly saturated the air. There was no way to hide from it. It reminded Chester of when he’d first started working at the library. The basement was home to a colony of rats that would scare the other scholars when they went down to sort something. Chester took care of that problem within a few weeks; it had been his favorite part of the job until he caught the last one.

Chester’s eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness; he could see just as well as he could outside. Towards the back of the cage sat two figures; through the settling dust the Halfling and the Half-Orc eyed the Great Cat up.