The Interview
The gate shuddered open with the weight of old chains and older grudges, and as the four of us stepped beneath the raised timber, the air shifted. Not metaphorically. Not poetically. Literally. A ripple of attention struck us like a wall of spears.
Eyes. TOO MANY EYES. My tail twitches as they land on Master.
All of them recognised us. Not just vaguely. Not with the idle curiosity you give travellers. This was the recognition of neighbours. Enemies. Allies. Complicated tangles of reputation.
Embercrack’s capital, Mawmine, sits one valley over from Mire. They trade with us. They fight beside us when the marsh beasts surge. They complain about us. They mutter about me. They whisper about my master. And goblins cross both territories like cracks in the same piece of stone.
So of course when the guards on the gatehouse lean forward and their eyes fix on us, something sharper flickers behind their faces. The captain at the gate steps forward, hand lifted in a gesture meant to look neutral but failing miserably. His gaze darts between me, the goblin, then my master. Recognition sharpens in stages.
And because recognition calls for certainty, the dice fall.
PERCEPTION CHECK (Clan Embercrack – group roll)
17 Survivalist bonus: +2 Local familiarity bonus: +3 Spotting known troublemakers: +2 Total: 24 – Critical recognition
They know exactly who we are. The captain’s jaw tightens. His breath hitch-catches. His fingers flex once against the hilt of his blade. “Bogcloth,” he mutters under his breath. “Marsh folk.” Then his eyes snap directly to me. To the cat. To the Beast of Embercrack. To the memory of a priest screaming before he fell silent forever.
I give him a slow smile, my tail curling once around my master’s hip with lazy, deliberate possession. His pupils shrink. He turns, looking at his men, nodding once with that unspoken order soldiers give only when danger stands polite in front of them. And then his gaze slides to the goblin. The goblin freezes. Raises a hand. Gives a little wave. “’Lo.”
The captain inhales sharply. Because the combination of me + goblin + my master is not coincidence. It is a pattern. The dangerous kind.
Pontune steps forward instinctively, her noble training activating as if she can somehow salvage diplomacy with posture alone. Her red dyed Pure Class eyes draw attention instantly. The Embercrack guards flinch, they may be survivalists, but they still recognise Pure Class when they see it. They still respect the social hierarchy that governs all of Redstone Hold.
But theirs is not a bowing respect. It is the wary respect you give a viper. An apex creature of a different ecosystem. “Pure Class Alderian,” one guard mutters. “Escorting… that.”
Pontune bristles. I roll a shoulder, unconcerned. Their insults are scraps beneath my claws. The captain finally speaks. “You’re a long way from Mire.”
My master’s voice answers first. Cold. Even. Detached. “We travel where we need to.” That tone scares them more than any threat.
The goblin steps forward. “Might be passin’ through. Might not. Depends who’s askin’.”
“Not you,” the captain snaps. “Stay quiet.”
The goblin mutters something that might be profanity or prayer.
My master’s eyes scan the surroundings with noir precision, mapping exits, rooftops, lines of sight, guard density, the patterns of Embercrack patrols stitched across the dockside island. I feel it. Through the bond. The calculations. The angles. The deductions forming like ice crystals under pressure.
The captain sees something in my master’s expression he doesn’t recognise, and that discomfort hits his men like a ripple. He squares his shoulders. “State your business,” he demands.
Pontune opens her mouth, but my master is faster. “We’re tracking stolen steel.”
Silence. Not shock. Not confusion. Recognition. Something clicks behind the captain’s eyes. Because Embercrack is a Kratocracy. A rule-by-strength clan obsessed with the politics of resource, dominance and metal. Steel is power. Steel is prestige. Steel is life.
A shipment rerouted under their nose is not a crime. It is an insult.
My master continues, voice still flat, still emotionally hollow. “And I have information the Order will want buried.” The guards tense. I watch, delighted.
Pontune watches, horrified. The goblin watches, impressed. And the captain watches my master the way a hunter watches another predator—one he cannot measure properly. He gestures sharply to his men.
“You three,” the captain says, pointing at my master, me, and the goblin, “walk with me. You” he tilts his head at Pontune “stay close, Pure Class. No one here wants a diplomatic mess. But make no mistake…”
His eyes settle on me last. “…we remember the Beast.” My ears flick. My tail curls around my master’s waist in a slow intoxicating coil. “I remember Embercrack too,” I purr back. The captain looks away first. Which means we walk in as equals. Not prisoners. Not threats. Not outsiders.
Just players on a board where Embercrack now realises they are missing pieces. The gate shuts behind us with a heavy wooden thud.
The hush of the gatehouse hangs behind us like a velvet curtain as we cross into Clan Embercrack territory. There is something cold and strange in the air here, different to the orderliness of the Oak’s island or the raw, reedy wildness of Mire. Here the marsh thickens but seems almost domesticated, paths carved, stones set with unnatural regularity, a discipline to the disorder that makes the world itself seem like a sullen soldier under inspection.
Our footsteps thud over the bridge, echoing in a hollow way. I keep close to Master, tail curled tight about his arm, brushing the backs of his fingers with the tip as if warning every hostile eye that this one is not prey.
Behind us, Pontune’s pace is clipped and dignified, almost defiant. The goblin, still resentful from his rough handling by the Order, lingers just a step behind me, rubbing the spot where the knights’ gauntlet dug into his shoulder. No one speaks. Even the breeze seems wary of this place.
The gatehouse towers, black with damp iron plates, the Embercrack banners hanging limp in the stale air. Two guards in iron-capped helmets stand on either side of the door, their eyes hooded, flat with suspicion. One squints at us, at me, at my ears, at the goblin, at Pontune’s red-dyed eyes and then at Master’s unmistakable posture. I see, in that long, sharp look, the cogs turning, calculating. I bare my teeth just enough to show I notice.
"Well, well," the taller of the pair calls down, accent unmistakable, Mawmine miner class, that deep, flinty edge. "If it isn’t Bogclutch's pets come out to play. Bringing a goblin over our bridge in broad daylight, brave, or stupid. You know the rules."
Master answers without a hint of deference, voice cold and clinical but a clear lie "I have dirt on the Order. Accounts, smugglers’ routes, ways they run shipments past your outposts, half your sergeants are on their payroll, but I doubt they’re honest with you about it." He says it with all the emotion of someone reciting the names of local trees, face unreadable, eyes cold.
For a second, nothing moves. The two guards share a long, silent look. There is no bravado here, no threat, just a calculation, a test of whether what Master carries is worth a confrontation. The taller one, with a muddy iron gorget, finally spits to the side. "You’re lucky it’s not Varkuun’s thugs on the gate, outsider. Come on through. Don’t start trouble and you might leave with all your teeth."
As we move through, I throw a glance over my shoulder. more a warning than thanks, before we’re led by a sullen recruit down a winding gravel path that curves along a low ridge above the marsh. Embercrack banners hang everywhere: battered cloth, sometimes painted onto rusted iron sheets, sometimes little more than faded marks on the wood of a post. Every building here is squat, practical, made to survive flood and fire. Soldiers lounge everywhere, some cleaning gear, some repairing boots, some just watching us with that same flat-eyed suspicion.
We are led into a low, square building at the centre of the settlement. It is nothing like the Order’s marble and silver: here the floors are packed earth, the walls blackened stone. Everything smells of sweat, boiled water, iron, and tannin, the scent of a hundred meals eaten in hurry and a thousand stories traded over battered mugs. The room we’re shown to is simple, with a heavy iron stove and a battered table. The door closes behind us, and only then does the tension begin to seep from my muscles, just a little. I keep myself pressed so close to Master that our leather armour creaks.
Master sits first, claiming the chair at the head as if it’s his by right, eyes scanning the room, every surface, every tool, every face. Pontune folds herself into a chair with a noble’s poise, her red eyes hooded but sharp. The goblin slouches, arms folded, legs wide, eyes flickering for exits.
The Embercrack sergeant who brought us in stands by the door, arms folded. He looks me over, a catgirl, wild, half-feral by reputation, and everything about my posture says: "try to touch, and I’ll put you in the ground." He hesitates, then focuses on Master.
"Touch her and i'll put you in the ground" Master hits back calmly.
His voice then slices the quiet that occurs afterwards, "Some Embercrack tea, please, my good sir." His face is a mask, calm, impersonal, the same deadpan he wears when examining a corpse or interviewing a murder suspect. I see the tiniest flick of surprise in the sergeant’s eyes. It is not a request that can be easily refused. The sergeant nods and shuffles out, leaving us alone for a moment in the lamplight.
Perception +5 for my enhanced senses. d20: 13 + 5 = 18
I note every detail: a faint trail of mud on the floor, suggesting a messenger hurried through here recently; two new mugs on the shelf by the window, one chipped, one polished; a half-burnt letter poking from the stove’s ash door; faint echoes of marching feet outside, an officer’s voice, muffled but sharp, someone is giving orders, not the routine kind, more urgent.
When the sergeant returns with a battered tin pot and three thick-walled mugs, Master takes one without a word, pouring the dark liquid. I watch his hands, steady, practiced. He sips, gives no sign of emotion, then leans forward, elbows on the table, the perfect picture of a man with nothing to lose and a secret to sell.
I flick my tail across his thigh, a little reminder that I am always here, always listening, always ready to bare my claws. Through the bond, still just within range, I can feel him cold and precise, running calculations, setting traps. My claws drum on the table, impatient.
He opens, lying once again but quietly: "The Order’s losing control in the West Forest. There’s a bandit chief running a dozen smuggling routes through Driftwood Hollow, and the Order can’t stop it. We’ve tracked him through goblin territory, but the trail’s gone cold here. The last shipment was steel, Order marked, but not their standard caravan. Someone with Order connections is moving metal out of their own stores. We know who bought the steel, and where it’s headed." He says it like a confession, but every word is a lie. I can feel it through the bond, fabricated, improvised, but so carefully stitched together it’s almost convincing.
d20 Charisma for Master: 5 + 3 + 3 (Tactical Genius) + 1 (Natural Leader) = 12.
The sergeant’s eyes narrow, but he nods. "You’re a long way from Mire Point. The Oak wouldn’t let you cross their islandunless they had a stake, what’s their interest?"
Master shrugs, expression unreadable, almost bored. "Their interest is keeping the roads open. You want to pretend you run this part of the marsh, but half the trade flows under their watch, and they know every smuggler, every thief, every informant. They want this bandit chief gone because he’s costing them. I want him gone because he’s costing me. You help us, you get the steel and the Order’s headaches are your problem, not mine. I get the man behind it."
The sergeant studies him, then shifts to Pontune, noting the red eyes. "And you, Pure Class? Why’re you out here, slumming it with Bogclutch and non Alderian vermin?"
Pontune’s chin lifts, pride flashing. "I am not here to answer questions from an under-officer. My business is my own and Clan Embercrack’s, should your commander require my statement." The room chills a little as she fixes him with her coldest noble stare, every inch of her breeding and upbringing weaponised.
He is about to retort when I let a low growl rattle from my chest. His gaze flicks to me, then back to Master. "You ought to muzzle that thing, you know. The cat’s too wild to trust. She’ll bite you in your sleep."
Master doesn’t even glance at me. "She bites anyone who isn’t ME. Which is precisely the point."
The sergeant barks a short, bitter laugh, but there’s a respect in it. "No accounting for taste. The bandit chief, you said? There are half a dozen here in Driftwood Hollow. You’ll want Lord Harn. Man knows every rat-hole from here to the marsh’s edge. If someone rerouted steel, he’ll know who took it, or who was meant to receive it."
Pontune speaks up, too quick, too eager: "We need to speak to Lord Harn immediately, on matters of trade and security... Of course..."
I shoot her a look, tail flicking, claws flexing beneath the table.
The sergeant stands, not looking away from Master. "You’ll wait here. I’ll send word to Lord Harn. Don’t leave this room until you’re called for, unless you want to try your luck with the guards outside. Someone will bring food. And tell your pet not to claw the table."
He leaves. Silence returns, thick as old blood. Pontune shifts in her chair, jaw clenched. "You shouldn’t antagonise them. These people are not like the Order, bribery will not work here, nor threats. They respect only strength."
Master doesn’t answer at first. He sips the bitter Embercrack tea, gaze cold and distant, already running scenarios behind those glacier-pale eyes. I stretch, tail snaking up his leg, ears twitching. "I can tear half of them apart before they can aim a crossbow," I purr, low, too close, knowing she hates it. "They aren’t Order. They bleed if you cut them."
The old goblin swagger creeping back now that we’re inside. "These lot’ll try to rough us up, but they’d rather have the steel and a quiet night. Harn’s clever, if there’s a profit, he’ll talk."
Pontune makes a disgusted noise, smoothing her leather jerkin. "This entire ordeal is beneath my class. I do not plan to stay a moment longer than necessary."
I bare my teeth in a grin, lopsided, savage. "You will stay as long as Master says. Or I’ll make sure you do."
Her hand goes to the knife at her hip but she doesn’t draw it, not with the goblin sniggering, not with Master’s presence like a shadow behind her.
He speaks, finally, tone detached, already onto the next move. "If they actually have Harn then this is all way too easy, the issue will be killing him though and getting out of here alive".
A soft knock at the door. A guard enters, carrying a tray, coarse bread, some fatty cheese, the reek of pickled fish. He sets it down and leaves. I eat, quick and territorial, claiming the seat closest to Master, watching the door, my tail coiling protectively.
The waiting is the hardest part. The hours pass in low voices, the scrape of knives on wood, Master and Pontune exchanging quiet plans, the goblin murmuring old Mire songs under her breath. I listen to the sounds outside, orders shouted, the rumble of carts, a brief fight that ends with a bark of laughter. All the while, the air thickens, the feeling of being watched growing until it feels like the walls themselves are closing in.
At last, the sergeant returns: "Lord Harn will see you. Don’t try anything. He’ll have you skinned and strung up if you cross him."
Lord Harn entered as if the world were built to let him walk through it. Tall, pale hair bound in a knot high on his head, armour polished but battered, eyes the colour of old iron left out in the frost. He did not bring guards. He didn’t need them. Men like him believed their presence was an armour all its own.
He shut the door behind him. Slowly. Deliberately. “Bogclutch.” The word landed between us like a thrown knife. Not respectful. Not mocking. Just identifying the type of threat we represented.
Then his gaze slid across the room and paused on the goblin. Recognition. Calculation. A slight narrowing of the eyes. Next his attention shifted to me. He stopped. Held. Stared. “The Beast of Embercrack,” he murmured. My tail bristled. My ears pulled back. A quiet growl slid into the air, low and thin, like a wire ready to snap. He smiled at that reaction. Of course he did.Only then, finally, did he look at my master.
And everything changed in his posture, only a fraction, but enough for someone like me to see it. Respect without subservience. Curiosity without fear. A hunter recognising another hunter. “Lord Protector,” he said, voice steady. “You kept me waiting.” My master didn’t answer. Silence, thick and deliberate. A noir blade of a reply.
Harn gestured around the room. “Why are you here.” Not a greeting. Not a courtesy. Just the start of the interrogation. My master responded with that calm, emotionless deadpan that made Order knights flinch and bandits reconsider their careers. “We want the man behind the steel rerouting.”
Harn didn’t laugh. He didn’t smirk. He didn’t even blink. He simply rolled his shoulders once, as though shrugging off a heavy cloak. “Straight to business then.” He moved to the table, placed both palms upon it, and leaned forward. The lantern light split across his face, carving new lines into the harsh geometry of his features.
Pontune stiffened when he looked at her. Then "How good it is to see you my dear". Her breath caught in her throat. My tail froze mid-curl. My master’s mind sharpened like a scalpel inside the bond. Pontune’s voice came out small. “My name is Pontune.” Harn gave a lazy, cold, devastating smile. “Not to me.”
The goblin looked between them, eyes gleaming. She didn’t know the context, but she recognised power. And shame. And the collapse of a person’s mask. Harn straightened and circled the table like a man examining livestock. “You ran from your debts,” he said to Pontune. “From your obligations. From ME.”
A tremor passed through her. “You forged documents for House Serrean,” Harn continued. “You smuggled steel through our channels. You used Embercrack’s name in negotiations you were not authorised to make. And then…”
He chuckled. “…you tried to start over.”He stopped at my master’s shoulder, studying him. “And you found him. Interesting choice.”
My master raised his gaze, a cold detective’s stare that suggested he had already mapped every blood vessel in Harn’s throat.
Harn nodded once, a small acknowledgement of the silent threat. “Let’s do this properly,” he said, stepping back into the lamp glow. “Persuade me. I want to know if your reputation is smoke or steel.”
Persuasion Check 5 +1 = 6 Tactical Genius +3 = 9 Natural Leader +1 = 10 Roleplay circumstance (Harn already respects him) +5 Status bonus (Lord Protector) +2 Final total: 17 – success
Harn’s eyes tightened, just a fraction. “You don’t bluff,” he murmured. “And you don’t bow. Mire chose well.” He turned and sat on the edge of the table. “So. You want the man behind the steel.”
My master: “Well I'm clearly not here to kiss your forehead now am I ?” Harn’s voice lowered to a blade-thin whisper. “It’s me.”. "I know that already, why do you think I'm here ?" Master replies.
Pontune jolted. The goblin hissed. My tail lashed sharply. Harn raised both hands, as if presenting himself at auction. “Clan Embercrack has enemies. House Serrean has enemies. The Order of the Oak has enemies. All of them need steel. All of them need routes that aren’t on ledgers. Pontune provided the paper. I provided the muscle. And Serrean looked the other way.”
He leaned forward. “But if you want all the records… the shipments… the names… the buyers… then you must do something for me in return.”
Pontune whispered, “Don’t.” She knew. She remembered. She feared. Harn pointed at her. “Take her.” The room went still.
“Remove her from Embercrack control. Wipe my claim of guardianship. Adopt her into Mire, if that’s what you call it. Make her yours. Or kill her. Either solution frees me.”
Pontune staggered back as if slapped. “You signed yourself into my household,” Harn said. “You sold your name for protection. For privilege. For Serrean access. Now you’re dead weight.”
Harn turned to my master again. “You take her. I give you everything.”
My master’s mind shifted, clicking through consequences like tumblers in a lock.
Harn wasn’t finished. “And there is one more matter.” He tilted his head at me. “You bring her into Embercrack again. You walk freely. You ask for tea. And you expect we’ve forgotten the priest you tore apart in Mawmine’s courtyard.”
My claws flexed. My ears pinned. A soft, almost delighted growl slid from my throat. He didn’t flinch. He smirked. “You are either very bold, or very loyal.” My tail wrapped tighter around my master. He was the only thing that grounded me in this place filled with memories of blood and screaming.
Harn folded his arms. “So, Lord Protector. Decide.” He pointed at Pontune again. “Take the stray noble who used to be my asset.” Then at the table full of marked ledgers. “And gain every secret Embercrack has on steel.”
His gaze sharpened in a way that meant he was no longer bluffing. “If you refuse… I will kill her myself and Serrean will think you did it.” Pontune gasped.
My ears flicked first, catching the tone in his voice.
My master didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t posture. He didn’t threaten. He simply stood. That was the command. Pontune and the goblin froze mid-breath, then my master turned his head slightly, just enough for them to understand. “Out.”
Pontune’s mouth opened, closed, opened again like a broken hinge. The goblin grabbed her sleeve, tugged once. That was enough. They slipped out the door with muttered objections and flat-eyed fear.
Harn watched them leave with bored amusement. “Whatever,” he said, waving a hand. “If you want privacy for your beast before you beg”
My master raised his hand. Not a threat. A calculation. I felt it in the bond like a gear sliding into place.
Intelligence Check (Master) 16 Int +4 = 20 Tactical Genius +3 = 23
My tail coiled tight. My claws flexed lightly into the bench.
My master reached under his cloak and drew out the Ice Goblin rune. That old shard of Glavlinkin heritage hummed the moment it touched open air. It wasn’t a sound but a vibration, a cold pulse that made my whiskers twitch and my breath frost between my teeth.
Harn straightened, an instinctive recognition flickering through his eyes. “A rock ?” he said unimpressed.
My master’s hand tightened.
The rune flared.
Constitution Check (Master) 18 Con +2 = 20 +3 = 23
The temperature in the room collapsed.
Stone cracked. Lantern light shrank into a trembling blue ember. The air itself stopped moving. And Lord Harn froze mid-sentence. Mid-blink. Mid-breath. A statue of ice, elegant, crystalline, deadly still. His expression caught in the moment of dawning fear.
The room went silent except for a faint creak of expanding frost.
My master lowered his hand, brushing a dusting of frozen vapour from his fingers. “For all the gods,” he said quietly, “that one just wouldn’t shut up. And magic is supposed to be extinct.” I laughed under my breath, delighted and vicious, tail swaying in a smooth, predatory arc. My fur bristled from the cold, but I pressed myself tighter against him anyway.
He nodded at the frozen lord, now already beginning to develop hairline fractures down the armour plates. “Right, kitten,” he said, utterly casual, “I’m drinking some tea. As you can see, that ice is already melting.”
I tilted my head with a toothy grin, ears forward, tail flicking.
The rune frost wasn’t ordinary ice. It wasn’t water frozen solid. It was supercooled crystalline binding. A matrix grown inward from the victim’s own body heat bleeding away into the rune spell. Once the spell’s temperature stabilised, the outer layers began to sublimate, turning the surface brittle, porous, ready to crack.
The first snap cut the air like a bone breaking inside a glacier. A second. A third. I didn’t need to be told. I bounced lightly to my feet, tail curling eagerly behind me as my master stepped to the side, allowing the effects to run their natural course with calm, clinical detachment.
“Supercooled materials,” he murmured, “fracture under their own internal tension once the heat gradient equalises.”
I purred. Loud. A deep, rumbling, territorial satisfaction as hairline fractures raced across Harn’s frozen form like lightning trapped beneath glass.
My master lifted one boot. Light. Clean. Minimal force. He tapped the frozen statue at the sternum. The physics took over. The internal stress reached its limit. The crystalline bonds that held his body in perfect sculpted stillness gave way. And Lord Harn broke apart in a soft cascading collapse, like shattering porcelain dropped in slow motion.
No gore. No blood. The rune frost consumed moisture before it could spill. What remained was a scattering of pale, brittle fragments across the floor. Armour plates crumbled into cold flakes. Bones cracked into chalk-white shards. Nothing recognisable. Nothing salvageable. Nothing a court could resurrect into testimony.
I knelt in the debris, tail swaying, ears perked, watching the frost melt into thin vapour and nothing more. My master sipped the Embercrack tea he’d set aside earlier. I let a grin grow across my lips, sharp, feral, amused. “Well,” I purred, stretching, claws tapping delicately on stone, “at least he shut up in the end.” My tail curled around my master’s ankle.
