We reach 12 Kiln Lane after mid-morning. The house sits alone at the path’s end—low, old, thatch sagging. Stone lifts pale plaster, patched and hairline-cracked. No ornament. Just a heavy door set deep, dark-paned windows, terracotta jars crowding the step. The place is sealed—simple, sturdy, watchful.

A man kneels before it, hunched over a pottery jar, drawing careful marks on the clay. Must be Aldous. Slim, pale under clay dust. Short dirty-blonde hair, sleep-hollowed hazel eyes. Stained work clothes, reinforced knees, scarred hands rougher than the jar. The smell of kiln smoke and wet clay drifts over even from here.

Bertram steps forward, pipe in hand.

“Aldous, my good man! I’m glad to say that I can finally lift your spirits about the chicken problem.” He gestures at me. “You see, this exotic out-of-towner, Vespera’s the name, decided to take on your request to deal with your misbehaving poultry. I also got our local warrior Threadscar to help. Oh, and there’s this stray teenager we picked up along the way. So fret not, Aldous, about your poultry situation! This posse of killers will make short work of it all. Then we could all head to town and drink ourselves stupid in celebration.”

The moment Bertram says posse of killers and make short work, something tightens in Aldous’ expression. Worry.

He stands, brushes clay dust off his trousers with deliberate care.

“Bertram, I appreciate you bringing help. Truly. But this isn’t a culling. It’s an extraction.” He gestures toward the back of the property. “The infected birds are quarantined in the coop. Locked. It stays that way until we have a plan that doesn’t start with knives. Come to the yard—I’ll show you the setup and explain what needs to happen.”

He turns and walks toward the yard without waiting for acknowledgment. Melissa follows immediately. She moves like she trusts her own eyes. Bertram ambles after them, curious but unhurried.

I’m still standing at the front of the house like I missed the cue.

“Right behind you, Aldous,” I call, following with easy, prowling steps. “Let’s see what’s got you so spooked about your poultry, meow. I’m very interested in hearing about this ‘extraction’ you have in mind.”

The yard opens up behind the house—a wide stretch of grass marked with geometric patterns in thick salt lines. Twelve chickens peck and cluck like nothing’s wrong. On the far edge sits the coop: simple wooden frame, wire mesh opening into darkness that smells sharp and acrid. Burnt clay.

I catch movement—Rill, hurrying to catch up. She doesn’t want to be left behind.

Bertram wanders in, pipe still in hand, surveying the setup with mild curiosity. Aldous doesn’t acknowledge him. He walks straight toward me instead—close, closer than conversational distance—and drops his voice low.

“You took the contract, so you get the explanation first.” He gestures toward the wire mesh coop. “Those five birds in there are infected with something that came from buried ceramic. Not folklore. Not temperament. An actual entity that’s anchored biologically now. I have a containment vessel that can trap it if we extract properly, but the process will provoke violent resistance from the host. I need someone who can restrain a flailing chicken without panicking, without improvising cruelty, and without deciding that killing is ‘simpler.'” His hand moves to the leather thong around his neck. “The key to that coop stays around my neck until I’m standing there with the vessel, the geometry is stable, and everyone understands this is a procedure with rules. Can you work under those terms?”

He isn’t testing my strength. He’s testing my restraint.

My eyes—one ice-blue, one amber, both steady—meet his.

“I can work under those terms. Restraint. No shortcuts. You keep the key.” I flick an ear; the silver hoops catch light. “I’ve held plenty of things that didn’t want to be held, Aldous. Show me the geometry. Explain the procedure. I’ll follow your lead on this—it’s your vessel, your birds, your entity. I’m here to make sure it goes into the container instead of into someone’s throat.”

Melissa edges in to listen; Rill hovers behind her, intent.

Bertram wanders over to where Aldous and I stand. A few free-roaming chickens trail after him, pecking casually at his boots.

“Aldous.” His eyes narrow as he rubs his forehead slowly. He tilts his pipe to drop ash onto the grass, then slides it behind his apron. His gaze moves to the precise geometric patterns drawn in salt. “All these years I’ve known you, I’ve supported you on your artistic projects, but… this is a bit too much, don’t you think?”

The chickens keep pecking. One investigates Bertram’s heel with stubborn curiosity.

“That request at the Registry said…” Bertram continues. “How did you word it again? That the chickens were possessed by the spirit of your mother-in-law? I’ve never even known you to be married, but besides, you also said you wanted the chickens gone.” He gestures toward the coop. “What the hell is this now about birds getting infected with something that came from buried ceramic? What’s this ‘entity’ you speak of that lives in pottery? Are you sure you haven’t gone off the deep end, my friend?”

Aldous turns from me to face Bertram directly. His voice stays measured.

“The posting said ‘mother-in-law’ because I needed help fast without advertising a ward breach at the Registry where anyone could overhear. You know how gossip travels in Mudbrook.” He gestures toward the coop. “As for ‘gone’—smell that? Burnt clay. From chickens. That’s not normal, Bertram. You work with organic materials daily; you know what decay smells like versus what corruption smells like. This is the latter. I didn’t invent the geometric patterns for decoration—they’re containment boundaries that have kept twelve birds safe out here while five infected ones stay locked inside.” His eyes meet Bertram’s. “You’ve known me long enough to know I don’t do things without reason. I’m asking for procedural help, not validation. Vespera’s agreed to the terms. If you’re here to assist, I’ll explain the full extraction process. If you’re here to diagnose my mental state, you can wait by the fence.”

Bertram shifts his weight.

“You sound quite convinced, I admit, but… I mean, you misrepresented your request to Copperplate at the Registry. If he catches wind of this, he’ll spend a whole afternoon with his quill to the books.”

I let them have it. Bertram’s doubt. Aldous’ control. If the potter’s delusional, he’s functionally delusional.

Bertram nods, but his eyes stay worried.

“Sure, I know you to be a master craftsman at your particular trade. I value all the pots you sold me. They’re sturdy, and those drawings you make on them are quite nice.” He pauses. “It’s just… you’ve never been the same since the kiln explosion. Even you should be able to admit that.”

Bertram glances toward Melissa and Rill. “Anyway, you think there’s some ‘entity’ thing inside your chickens, then sure, let’s deal with it. So… you want the muscle here to help you contain your possessed chickens in that vessel? I mean, I guess you could squeeze a chicken into it if you pressed hard enough, but it will hardly take five. And they wouldn’t survive either.”

Aldous pulls the containment vessel from his satchel—glazed ceramic, intricate patterns catching the morning light. He holds it out toward the tanner.

“The vessel isn’t for the chickens, Bertram. It’s for what’s inside them.” His voice stays calm, precise. “Look at the glaze composition—cobalt oxide with salt-fired stoneware, fired at cone ten for structural integrity. The geometry etched into the surface creates a spiritual anchor. When we perform the extraction properly, the entity transfers from the biological host into the ceramic matrix.”

Aldous extends the vessel closer. “The chickens survive. The threat gets contained. That’s the difference between my work and what you’re imagining. This is craft, not butchery. Feel the weight of it if you don’t believe me.”

Bertram takes it. His hands turn it over slowly, examining the glaze patterns, the etched geometry, testing the weight.

“I’ve never known a better potter than you, Aldous. I recognize great craftsmanship. But when I spend hours making saddles, belts, boots… I don’t expect them to catch ‘entities.’ Whatever an ‘entity’ may mean in this occasion.”

He passes the vessel to me. Cool ceramic settles into my feline hands—heavier than expected, dense with that structural integrity Aldous mentioned. Bertram holds Aldous’ gaze through the potter’s glasses.

“You posted the request, and your chickens are in trouble. You’re in charge here. If you believe we should sing a chant or something while holding your chickens, I’m nobody to argue.”

Aldous doesn’t rise to it. He turns his full attention to me instead, steps closer so he’s addressing me directly rather than the whole group.

“Look at the etching along the rim—that’s the anchor geometry. When we extract, the entity will resist leaving the biological host. The patterns create a spiritual gradient, a pressure differential that pulls it toward the ceramic matrix instead of dispersing or jumping to another living thing.”

He points to specific glaze marks without touching the vessel.

“The extraction happens in stages. First, we isolate the primary vector—the large speckled hen. I’ll position the vessel near her head while you restrain her wings and body. The geometry does the heavy work, but she’ll thrash violently when it starts. Your job is to keep her contained without breaking bones or letting her escape the salt boundary I’ll draw around us. Once the entity transfers into the vessel, I seal it immediately. The other four birds should stabilize once the primary anchor is severed.”

His hazel eyes meet mine—ice-blue and amber both steady.

“Questions before we go to the coop?” the potter adds.

I turn the vessel in my hands, studying the etched geometry along the rim. I trace the glaze beside the etching, careful not to cross it.

“Where exactly do my hands go on her so I’m not blocking the anchor when she thrashes?” I meet Aldous’ eyes. “The other four—are they linked to her, or just infected? And timing—do you start the extraction the moment I have her secured, or should I watch for a signal?”

Behind me, Melissa stands positioned where she can hear clearly. Observing the procedural briefing. Calculating failure points and emergency responses without interrupting. The teenage girl is closer to Melissa than to us, absorbing every word with quiet intensity.

Aldous doesn’t pause. He pulls the leather thong over his head—key catching morning light—and moves toward the coop door.

“Proximity matters. The vessel needs to be within a handspan of her head for the gradient to engage properly. Your hands go on her wings first, folded tight against her body, then secure her legs so she can’t kick or claw when the thrashing starts. I position the vessel near her beak, angled so the anchor geometry faces her directly.”

He fits the key into the padlock.

“The networked effect—it’s more like removing the source infection. The speckled hen is the primary anchor. The other four birds are secondary hosts, tethered to her. Once we sever the primary connection, the entity loses its strongest foothold and the symptoms should resolve in the others within hours.”

Click. The lock opens.

Behind me, Bertram’s voice drops low, directed at Melissa.

“I’m guessing you’ve dealt with weirdness before. Gods know what you’ve had to kill through your mercenary work.” Brief pause. “But doesn’t this feel… This feels off to you too, right?”

Aldous lifts the padlock free. The burnt-clay smell punches out.

“Timing: I start the extraction the moment you have her secured and I’ve drawn the salt boundary around us.” He looks at me. “No signal to watch for—you’ll know when it starts because she’ll fight like she’s being burned alive. Keep her contained. Don’t let go. Don’t break the salt line. The geometry does the rest.”

“Feels off, yeah.” Melissa’s response comes flat. “But Aldous just opened the door. I’m going in.”

She moves past and steps through the coop entrance into darkness.

THE END

Three people. A middle-aged man, probably a local, looks like a tanner from the stains on his hands. Some kind of feline woman, exotic, dangerous-looking in a way that makes my spine straighten. And Melissa. “Threadscar” Melissa. Right here.

The tanner watches me approach. I can feel his eyes tracking me, probably taking in the sweat, the stick, the way my grip tightens when I get within speaking distance of Melissa.

“Who’s this kid?” he says. “I don’t recall seeing her in town. A girl friend of yours, Threadscar?”

The words hang there. Girl friend. Like I’m here for tea and gossip.

Melissa’s voice comes flat.

“She’s the girl from the north road. Watches me train. Not a friend. She follows.”

The words hit clean. Not harsh, just… factual. She isn’t telling me to leave, but she isn’t claiming me either. She follows. Like I’m a stray that keeps showing up at her door.

Movement to my left. The feline approaches with casual grace, tail swishing behind her. Her eyes are different colors, and they flick between me and Melissa like she’s cataloging something.

“Well well, meow. A girl who follows a warrior. What’s your name, kitten? And what’s with the stick?”

Great. Now I’m being patronized by someone who looks like she walked out of a story I couldn’t afford to hear the end of. But the question’s direct enough, so I answer it the same way.

“Rill. My name’s Rill. The stick’s a broom handle—wrapped so I don’t splinter my hands to hell. It’s what I’ve got, so it’s what I use.”

The tanner taps ash off his pipe, amusement pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“Do you make a habit of sweeping the outskirts of town with a headless broom handle?” His gaze shifts to Melissa. “You have a curious admirer, Threadscar.”

Threadscar. The name clicks into place.

She doesn’t step in. Doesn’t tell them I’m wasting time. Just stands there, expression flat, like she’s watching something unfold that she hasn’t decided matters yet.

The feline woman moves closer. Her hand reaches out before I can decide whether to pull back, and she pats me on the head—light, almost playful. A gesture you’d give a stray that showed up on your doorstep.

“You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that,” she says. “Most kids your age would’ve stayed home with a broom that still had bristles.” Her mismatched eyes study me. “Mrow, so what are you hoping to learn from our friend here? How to turn household objects into weapons, or something more… mmh… specific?”

I want to shove her hand off. Want to snarl. But that would prove I’m exactly what she thinks I am—a kid who can’t take a light touch without losing my shit. So I don’t.

She asked what I’m hoping to learn. That’s real. That’s a question with weight.

“Something specific. I’ve been copying from a distance for six months—watching Melissa train, trying to figure out what the hell I’m doing wrong. But I don’t know the basics. Stance, guard, footwork, the stuff you need before anything else makes sense. I want someone to teach me that. Not wave me off or tell me I’m too young or that I should go home and help my family. I want real instruction.” I lift the wrapped broom handle slightly. “The kind that turns this into something that works.”

The tanner exhales slowly, shaking his head.

“Can’t help but admire your determination, kid, but that stick looks like it’d break the moment you whacked a wolf’s head.” He glances at Threadscar, who’s been silent, just watching. “Local guard’ll give you training. Threadscar’s not the sociable type.”

Like I’m here begging for scraps.

The feline moves before I can respond. She slings an arm casually around Melissa’s shoulders, pulling her close with the kind of ease that says they know each other—or at least that the feline woman doesn’t give a damn if they don’t. Her tail curls lazily behind her.

“Months of watching from a distance with a headless broom, mrow?” Her mismatched eyes lock onto me, studying. “That’s not importuning, Bertram—that’s commitment. Most people give up after a week when nobody hands them what they want. You’ve been grinding alone for half a year.” She tilts her head, and I feel like she’s reading lines I didn’t know I’d written. “So here’s my question, kitten—what made you start? What happened six months ago that made you pick up that stick and decide you needed to learn how to hurt things?”

I meet the feline woman’s eyes.

“Six months ago, I saw her.” I nod toward Melissa without looking away from the exotic animal-person. “I was on a supply run to Mudbrook—dawn, cold, nobody around—and I saw her training by herself. No audience. No performance. No wasted motion. And she had scars—real ones, the kind that say ‘I have done things and survived them.’ I looked at her and I thought: that’s what freedom looks like. Not hoping someone notices you. Not waiting for permission. Just capability so undeniable that the world has to make room.”

I pause. Breathe. Don’t flinch.

“I went home that day and realized I didn’t have that. I was just… tasks. Endless tasks. Fifth priority for food, first priority for ‘Rill, do this.’ I could see my whole future: marry local, help run the waystation, disappear into the wallpaper. So I wrapped a broom handle in cloth because I didn’t have anything else, and I started showing up where she trains. Copying. Guessing. Probably doing it all wrong. But at least I was doing something. At least I wasn’t standing still.”

Bertram puffs on his pipe, something like appreciation in the slow exhale.

“Your folks run the waystation from the north road?” His voice comes careful. “You may be ditching a stable life for the opportunity to die bloody and broken in a ditch somewhere. That’s assuming nobody stole your dignity first. This world is more cruel than you’d think at your age… and it takes from you whatever it pleases, whenever it pleases.”

Melissa’s been still this whole time—watching, flat expression, giving nothing. But now she moves—shrugs off the feline woman’s arm and pulls me close against her side. Solid and real. My pulse kicks up.

Something flickers across that exotic woman’s face, too fast to catch. Then she steps back, tail swishing as she creates space.

“Mmh. I think you two have something to discuss without me hanging off your shoulder, meow.” Her mismatched eyes flick between us. “I’ll be right here. Watching. Learning. You know. Bard things.”

I step out from under Melissa’s arm and drop to my knees.

Hard ground. The broom handle rests across my thighs. Back straight, gaze level.

Bertram’s pipe lowers slowly.

“This kid seems to be made of stern stuff,” he says. His gaze shifts to Threadscar. “Too bad about her slim frame and the broom handle—but if you’d consider a disciple at any point, you could do much worse than this dedicated admirer.” He pauses. “That said, we all think we can take anything with the right attitude… until you get a mace to the face.”

Melissa’s expression stays flat. The silence stretches—that feline woman watching, the millrace rushing steady.

I stand. Not backing off—just refusing to stay collapsed at her feet like I’ve already given up on being her equal someday. I knelt to show respect. I stand to show I mean to become something worth teaching.

That silence—it’s doing something. Either making a decision or unmaking one.

Bertram’s eyebrows pull together. His gaze shifts from the feline woman to Melissa, to me, then back.

“Has… anything been resolved? I feel like something important has passed over my head.”

The feline woman’s eyes flick to him, then settle back on Melissa and me. Her tail curls lazily.

“Mmh, Bertram…” A slight smirk touches her mouth. “I think something important just happened. But whether it’s been resolved?” She glances at Melissa. “Not my story to tell.”

Standing here empty-handed feels incomplete. I extend the wrapped broom handle toward Melissa, holding it out with both hands.

“This is what I’ve had,” I say. “Six months of guessing with this thing. If you’re willing to teach me—actually teach me—then I want to start with real fundamentals. Not copying advanced forms I don’t understand. Not pretending I know what I’m doing. Just… the basics. Stance. Guard. Footwork. The stuff that makes everything else possible.”

I keep the broom handle extended. Voice steady. No begging.

“Take it. Look at it. See what I’ve been trying to learn from. And if you think I’m worth teaching, then show me how to do it right.”

Bertram lights his pipe, the flame briefly illuminating his face.

“This kid’s got heart,” he says around the stem, “but a poor sense of timing.” He exhales smoke. “We weren’t in the vicinity just for a stroll. Our fluffy cat-folk bard here—” He nods toward the feline woman. “—had taken a request to deal with some demonic poultry, and Threadscar, as our local veteran, had decided to act as backup. I’m just along for the ride.”

Demonic poultry.

Melissa takes the wrapped broom handle from my hands. Her grip shifts it through small, controlled motions—testing weight distribution, checking the balance point, examining how the cloth sits, whether the wrapping will hold or slip under pressure. Like she’s reading something I didn’t know I’d written.

“Six months with this.” Melissa’s voice comes flat. “The wrapping’s competent. You understood the problem—splinters, grip failure—and solved it functionally. Weight’s forward-heavy. That’s the handle design, not your mistake. Balance point’s here.”

She taps a spot roughly two-thirds down the shaft.

“You’ve been training with a weapon that fights you on every swing. That builds bad habits fast, but it also means you’re strong enough to compensate without knowing you’re doing it.”

She flexes the handle slightly, testing for structural integrity.

“It’ll snap if you block anything metal with commitment. You know that already or you wouldn’t be here asking for real instruction.”

First time anyone’s acknowledged it as real. My throat tightens. I don’t let it show.

Melissa turns the wrapped handle over one more time, flexes it slightly, then stops. Her gaze shifts from the broom handle to me, flat and assessing. Then she extends her longsword toward me, hilt-first, blade angled safely to the side.

“Here.” Her voice stays flat. “Hold this. Feel the difference. Weight, balance, how it sits in your hand. That’s what you’ve been trying to learn with a stick that fights you.”

I stare at the hilt. Battle-scarred leather wrapping, crossguard showing wear at the edges, the kind of weapon that’s seen actual use. She’s handing it to me.

“If you’re serious about real instruction,” Melissa continues, “you need to understand what you’re aiming for.” Her eyes lock onto mine. “Don’t swing it. Don’t test it. Just hold it and tell me what you notice.”

I take the longsword. Both hands wrap around the hilt. The weight settles—balanced. Centered. My hands are shaking.

I look up to meet Melissa’s flat gaze.

“It doesn’t fight me. The balance is clean. Centered. The broom handle pulls forward every swing—I have to compensate just to keep it under control. This?” I flex my grip slightly. “This feels like it’s waiting for instruction instead of dragging me around. The weight’s real, but distributed so I can use it instead of wrestle it.”

Bertram’s voice comes out more serious than usual.

“The tool of a trade few are prepared for, kid.” He taps his pipe, gaze steady on the longsword. “You’re holding in your hand metal that’s drunk the blood of many.”

Melissa extends her hand. I give the longsword back hilt-first, controlled, the way she handed it to me. She takes it with the same efficiency, then reaches for the wrapped broom handle still resting against her side.

“You’ve felt the difference now.” She extends the broom handle toward me, matter-of-fact. “This is yours.”

I take it. My work. Six months wrapped in cloth.

“You want real instruction. Stance, guard, footwork. Fine. But I don’t teach in a vacuum.” Her gaze shifts briefly to Bertram, then back to me. “We’ve got a job. Possessed chickens, north road. Vespera’s contract. I’m backup.”

A pause. She continues.

“Come along. Watch. See how movement works when stakes are real. You stay back. Don’t interfere. You observe—but this time you see the whole picture, not just me alone in a field. After the job, if you still want formal training, we’ll start with basics. That’s the offer. Decide if you’re coming.”

The feline woman—Vespera—adjusts the case slung across her back, tail swishing decisively. She starts walking without waiting for an answer.

“Well then. Melissa made her offer, Rill’s got her decision to make, and we’ve got possessed poultry waiting for us at 12 Kiln Lane. Meow, I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’d rather not keep a vengeful mother-in-law’s malevolent chicken waiting too long.” She throws a look back over her shoulder, mismatched eyes sharp. “Coming, or are we going to stand around the millrace discussing pedagogical philosophy until the damn birds organize a coup?”

“I’m coming.”

THE END

I step out of the Municipal Aid Registry—converted barn, old hay, bureaucratic optimism—into bright morning sun. Pleasant warmth for Mudbrook-on-the-Bend. My instrument case rides familiar weight against my back, dual blades settled at my hips.

Two people are approaching down the street. I recognize Bertram from earlier, and beside him—

Mrow. Interesting.

The woman beside him looks carved from scar tissue and sword practice. Longsword at her back, carried with enough casual competence to be part of her body. Threadscar, if Bertram’s earlier mention was accurate.

“Hey, what did I tell you,” Bertram says, addressing his companion but pitching it loud enough for me to hear. “A cat folk in the flesh. Isn’t she the darnest thing. Look at those whiskers.” He gestures in my direction like I’m a particularly fascinating market oddity. “Anyway, she’s got herself a mess with Aldous’ devilish chickens.”

My tail swishes once. Performing has its uses.

Threadscar’s gaze tracks over me—methodical, not curious. Weapons, instrument case, stance. Reading me like a contract with fine print. No wasted movement, no hurry. Just measuring.

When she finally speaks, her voice is controlled.

“You’re the one who took the chicken job.”

They have closed the distance now. Combat scars catch the light on her skin, small tells in how she holds herself. Someone who’s survived things that kill most people.

I smooth my whiskers briefly. Should I feel annoyed? I didn’t ask for help. But mostly I’m interested. That kind of survival leaves stories, and I collect those. Tactically speaking, if the “possessed poultry” turns out to be something wearing feathers ironically, having someone competent with a blade isn’t the worst idea.

And if things do get interesting, if there’s actual danger instead of just aggressive birds—

I shut down that thread before it can finish. Professional courtesy first.

“Mrow, that’s me. Vespera Nightwhisper, at your service.” I gesture vaguely toward the Registry behind me. “Seventeen birds, one allegedly possessed by a vengeful mother-in-law. Could be demonic poultry, could be grief and roosters. Either way, should be…” My heterochromatic eyes—amber and ice-blue—fix on her with genuine curiosity. “Educational.”

I tilt my head slightly, ears swiveling forward. “Bertram mentioned you. ‘Threadscar,’ right? He thought I might need backup.” Whiskers twitch. “What do you think? Do I look like I need saving from poultry, or are you just bored enough to see where this goes?”

Bertram produces a pipe from somewhere under his apron, tamping tobacco with practiced fingers. He lights it with a match, the narrow end settling at the corner of his mouth as smoke curls up. His eyes move between us like he’s watching theater.

“A way with words on this one, huh? That’s a bard for you, I guess.”

My attention is on Threadscar, because she’s the one who matters here.

She meets my mismatched eyes without blinking. No flinch, no fascination. Her voice comes out flat, professional.

“You don’t look like you need saving. You look like you haven’t worked this region before and don’t know what ‘possessed’ means out here yet. Could be theater. Could be something that bites back harder than you’re expecting.”

Her gaze flicks to my weapons—brief, cataloging—then back to my face. Filing information. Like she’s building a dossier in real-time.

“I’m not bored,” Threadscar adds. “I’m between contracts and Bertram thought the job might be more than one person should handle alone. If you want backup, I’ll assess the situation and act accordingly. If you don’t, I’ll find other work. Your call.”

Your call. No posturing, no pretense of saving the exotic newcomer. Just capability offered without strings. I respect that. More than respect it—I like it. This is someone who thinks in terms of practical outcomes, not spectacle. Someone who’s survived by being useful, not by being loud.

I pull the posted notice from my belt pouch and extend it toward her.

“Here. Read it yourself and decide if it’s worth your time.” My heterochromatic eyes fix on her, genuine curiosity sharpening the usual performance. “Bertram’s not wrong. I don’t know this region yet, and ‘possessed’ is vague enough to mean anything from grief-hallucinations to something that shouldn’t have a beak. If you’re between contracts and this sounds interesting, I’ll take the backup. If it sounds like a waste of your time, no hard feelings.” My whiskers twitch. “But either way, mrow, I’d rather know what I’m walking into before I knock on Aldous’ door.”

She takes it. Reads it like she’s checking for loopholes. Her eyes track across the text with the kind of precision that says she’s survived by catching the details other people miss. No commentary, no reaction visible on her face. Just information intake.

Bertram puffs his pipe, watching us. Taking his time. Then he gestures with the pipe stem, adding to his earlier introduction.

“To contribute to this meeting of warriors,” he says, voice carrying that folksy charm he wears like armor, “let me add some information that may or may not improve the quality of your trade: I know Aldous to be an honest tradesman. He’s been talking uneasily about those chickens for a good while now. Weeks, really.”

Bertram pauses, letting smoke curl. “He mentions that one of them looks… like he knows what he’s looking at. And he’s corrupted some of his other chickens too. Corrupted—that’s the word Aldous used.”

Mrow. That word lands differently than “possessed.” Corrupted implies spread. Deliberate influence. Not just one problem bird, but infection. Behavior changing, patterns shifting. That’s either the most elaborate case of anthropomorphization I’ve ever encountered, or there’s something at Kiln Lane that’s wearing chickens like masks and teaching the others to do the same.

My tail swishes once. Not performance—genuine unease, threaded with that dangerous curiosity that gets people like me into trouble.

Bertram continues.

“Could be, though, that Aldous really hated his mother-in-law and she happened to have some hen-like qualities. Never had a mother-in-law myself. Anna was orphaned young.”

Threadscar is still reading, unmoved by Bertram’s commentary. Filing it somewhere, probably, but not letting it interrupt her process. She doesn’t get pulled off-task by color or charm. Data first, texture later.

Bertram shifts his attention to me, lowering his pipe for a moment.

“I’m curious, miss cat. Do you waltz into battle with that instrument case at your back? That’s the tool of your trade, isn’t it?” His eyes crinkle with genuine interest. “Aren’t you worried that some counterattack may destroy your means to get money off taverns? I have a hard time picturing you putting down the case and shoving it back before you wield those sharp weapons of yours.”

Threadscar finishes reading, then hands the notice back to me. Her eyes find mine, holding my mismatched gaze without hesitation.

“I’ll go with you. If it’s just chickens, we’ll handle it fast and split the pay. If it’s something else, you’ll want someone who’s cleared pastoral weird before. We leave now, assess the site, execute the contract, done.”

The instrument case rides heavy on my back. Fair question. Most people don’t think past the weapons—they see the blades and assume that’s the whole story. But the lute-viol isn’t just a tool. It’s the only thing I actually care about without complication, without performance, without—

No. I’m not explaining that vulnerability to a tanner I met twenty minutes ago, no matter how earnest his pipe-smoke charm is.

Whiskers twitch. I offer him a slight smile.

“You’re not wrong to worry, Bertram. But I’ve been carrying her into fights for years now, and she’s survived everything I have.” I tap the leather with one clawed finger—the reinforcement shows in the thickness, the way the case holds its shape even when I move. Custom work, expensive, worth it. “The case is reinforced. Not just decorative. And honestly? Leaving her behind would be worse. I don’t perform well when I’m wondering if someone’s rifling through my things.” My tail swishes once. “This way, she stays with me. Always.”

I turn my mismatched eyes to Threadscar. She made her decision clean and professional. Just read the posting, assessed, committed. I want to see how she works when things get complicated.

“Right. You’re in. Good.” I nod toward the path that leads toward the old millrace. “We leave now, assess the site at 12 Kiln Lane, and see what ‘demonic poultry’ actually looks like before we decide how to handle it.” I glance back at Bertram. “Thanks for the backup—and the context about Aldous. ‘Corrupted chickens’ is delightfully vague. Let’s go see what that means, mrow.”

Bertram taps ashes off his pipe, eyebrows lifting.

“‘Bertram, thanks for the backup,’ as in stay behind while we head off to battle?” He says it lightly, but there’s genuine curiosity underneath. “I’m asking in case you wouldn’t mind an old tanner witnessing something intriguing in this lovely morning. If things get nasty, maybe I could knock some poultry unconscious with a well-aimed throw of my pipe.”

Threadscar’s expression doesn’t shift, but she takes a breath before she speaks. Running the calculation: civilian, noncombatant, knows Aldous personally, decent accuracy with small objects maybe. Liability in real combat. Potential asset for client context.

When she answers, her voice is controlled but final.

“You can come if you stay behind us, don’t touch anything that moves, and leave the moment I tell you to. No argument, no delay.” She looks at him flatly, then glances at the pipe in his hand. “If something goes wrong, you’re not my priority—keeping the threat contained is.”

She shifts her gaze back to me. Mission focus. “We move now. North road, Kiln Lane.”

My tail swishes once without permission. Right. Follow her lead. She knows the region. I don’t. Let her set the pace, watch how she navigates, learn the terrain through her rhythm.

But something else threads through my thoughts, something dangerous I need to strangle before it takes root. If this job turns into actual danger—if there’s something at 12 Kiln Lane with teeth where beaks shouldn’t have them—I’ll get to see how Threadscar works under pressure. Whether she freezes or gets clearer when the violence starts. Everyone tells a story when the stakes climb. I want hers.

I adjust the strap of my instrument case across my back, settling the familiar weight, then glance at Bertram. He’s still watching us, pipe smoke curling upward, expecting… something. Dismissal? Another round of banter?

My whiskers twitch. Quick smile.

“Thanks for the backup and the context. We’ll handle it.”

I turn toward Threadscar, fall into step beside her. My tail swishes with anticipation I’m not entirely proud of. “Let’s see what’s waiting for us, mrow.”

Behind us, Bertram’s voice carries confusion.

“I’m… receiving conflicting information.” A pause. The sound of him adjusting his grip on the pipe. “But that’s okay, I’ll follow from a safe distance. Maybe I could get Aldous to blabber something important about these demonic chickens of his.”

THE END

Some of the “short stories” of this fantasy cycle will read more like simple scenes. I’m okay with that. I’m gearing toward making them self-contained. You could check out any in whatever order you prefer, then seek possible other shorts leading to them, or from them. That fits how I’ve felt when rereading my Re:Zero fanfiction from years ago.

The rural streets of Mudbrook-on-the-Bend are mostly deserted at this hour—folks either at work or gathered at the Municipal Aid Registry, I’d been told. The air sits pleasantly warm on my fur, though the sun beats bright enough to make me squint. Small town. Tightly packed houses along a blue-green canal. Aging timber frames, steep tiled roofs. The kind of place where someone like me probably looks like she wandered out of a fairy tale.

There. An older man standing near the main path, pipe smoke curling up from weathered hands. I clock him immediately: tradesman’s apron, genuine smile-lines, the relaxed posture of someone who belongs exactly where he’s standing. No performance.

“Oh. Morning, ma’am.” His voice carries that easy rural cadence. “Nice weather we’re having, ain’t it? Never seen you around these parts. I hope that our quaint little town won’t disappoint a member of the cat folk too much.”

That slight wonder in his tone—he’s probably never met one of us before. My whiskers twitch. Part of me immediately starts calculating angles. He knows everyone here. All the local gossip, who’s hiring, what’s dangerous. I could purr, play up the cute factor, harvest whatever stories he’s got tucked away in that weathered brain. Easy material. But gods, I just got here and I’m already doing it. Already cataloging vulnerabilities, mapping the performance.

I close the distance between us, letting myself catch the full scent of him: leather oils, curing agents, pipe tobacco.

“Morning to you too, meow.” I let my whiskers twitch with genuine amusement. “And don’t worry—I’ve played worse venues than ‘quaint.'” Something about his unpretentious energy makes it easy to drop the armor, just a fraction. “There’s something charming about a place that still smells like honest work instead of… performance. You’re a tanner, yeah? I can smell the curing agents from here.”

He takes a couple of steps back without thinking—not fear, just automatic adjustment to proximity. Most people either lean in with curiosity about the exotic cat-girl, or retreat because they’re threatened. This is different. Unconscious. Natural boundary-setting. The smile on his face stays honest.

“I’m a simple tanner, alright, miss.” He gestures down at his hands. “Probably could tell too by the stains in my skin that never quite go away. Name’s Bertram. Seems like I’ve spent a lifetime crafting saddles, belts, boots and the likes with these two hands of mine. A good life, not complaining.”

He takes a long drag of his pipe, exhales slowly. His gaze shifts to my back, my hips.

“As for you, my goodness… That instrument case slung across your back and those… peculiar weapons at your hip. You must have had quite the adventures. Well, if you’re looking for work or to perform, look no further than our humble gathering spot, the Municipal Aid Registry. Posted a request myself for reciprocal services.”

Reciprocal services. The phrase catches in my mind like a claw on silk. What does that even mean in a place like this? Barter system? Trade work? Could be dangerous, could be hauling leather, could be absolutely anything. But he’s local, established, comfortable. If I’m going to find real work here—the kind that strips away performance and leaves only survival—I need someone who knows where the bodies are buried. Metaphorically. Or literally, mrow, depending on what kind of town this actually is beneath the quaint surface.

I need to test this again. Feel out his boundaries properly.

“Reciprocal services, mmh?” I let my curiosity show in the forward tilt of my whiskers. “That sounds intriguing. What kind of work are we talking about? Something dangerous, or just the usual hauling and heavy lifting?” I step closer, closing the distance he created. “I’m always interested in… collaborative arrangements. Especially with someone who knows the area.”

His wide, simple smile doesn’t change, but I catch a small frown creasing his brow as he registers how close I’ve gotten.

“Oh, my request? Just the usual thing, keep it posted there at the Municipal Aid Registry’s bulletin board when I can spare the fee. You see, my Anna…” Something softens in his voice. “Ah, what a dear she was. My great love. Thirty years we had together until the winter fevers took her. I’m grateful for that time, but I’m not looking to replace her. I appreciate my quiet too much these days, and I’m not getting any younger.”

He takes another drag of his pipe, perfectly comfortable.

“So, the posting. I request a handjob, and offer one in return. Fair exchange, no romantic complications. You see, a good handjob is like good craftsmanship. You need to understand what you’re working with, adjust to feedback, take pride in the result.”

Oh gods. He’s… he’s talking about actual handjobs. Not hauling work or tanning work or some tradesman metaphor I misunderstood. Reciprocal handjobs. Posted at the Municipal Aid Registry like it’s… carpentry services.

Mrow… this is… I mean, I’ve played a lot of towns, seen a lot of arrangements, but posting for mutual masturbation services at the town bulletin board with the same casual energy as requesting roof repair? The complete lack of shame in his delivery—”a good handjob is like good craftsmanship”—he genuinely believes that. He’s explaining his sexual barter system the way he’d explain leather-working techniques.

I keep my expression neutral, let my whiskers stay still. Don’t react. Don’t give away whatever the hell I’m feeling right now, because I’m genuinely not sure. Surprise? Amusement? Professional curiosity about small-town sexual economics? This is material, definitely material, but I need a second to process.

Bertram takes my silence in stride, another casual drag of his pipe as he looks into my eyes with that same untroubled calm.

“Hmmm… Maybe this is a human matter. Don’t know if cat folk engage in handjobs. I’ve lived in Mudbrook all my life. People know me, knew my Anna. They know my work is good and I’m honest in my dealings.”

He gestures with his pipe-hand toward the street.

“That said, a traveling bard like yourself will maybe want to check out the other work. Us locals can get fed easily on our produce, so we can do with reciprocal handjobs, but you have to… carry provisions and such for the trip, right? Anyway.” He points at a building that looks like a converted grain barn, larger than the surrounding structures. “There’s Mudbrook’s Municipal Aid Registry. Copperplate’s in charge. Good fellow. Been here before any of us showed up. Just be patient with him, he operates at… his speed.”

He’s genuinely waiting for my response. And the thing is… mrow… I’m not actually offended or shocked. I’ve done stranger things for worse reasons. But this is information. This tells me something about Mudbrook that I didn’t expect—there’s a whole sexual economy here that operates with the same casual pragmatism as trading eggs for flour. That’s information I file away.

“Are you alright, miss? Cat-folk’s faces aren’t that easy to read, not for a Mudbrook leatherworker anyway.” He tilts his head slightly. “You have quite the peculiar eyes, I must say. One ice-blue, the other amber. Is that something that happens to your kind?”

He’s asking about my heterochromia because my face isn’t giving him the information he wants. Fair enough. Cat faces are harder to read for humans.

I let my tail swish slowly, thoughtfully.

“I’m fine, don’t worry. Just thinking, mrow.” My whiskers relax a fraction, showing him I’m not offended or disturbed. “And yeah, the eyes—heterochromia’s not super common among cat folk, but it happens. My mother had it too, though hers were both shades of green. Mine decided to be dramatic about it. As for your arrangement—refreshingly pragmatic, but I need provisions more than handjobs at the moment, mrow.” My whiskers twitch. “Does everyone in Mudbrook operate on this kind of system, or just certain folks?”

Bertram steps back to let a young man pass, planks of wood balanced on his shoulder. The kid nods at the older leatherworker without breaking stride. Bertram nods back, takes another drag of his pipe, taps the ashes out against his boot.

“System… can be called that, I guess. Folk used to offer deals over ale, but then they’d forget the finer points and there’d be fights.” He grimaces. “Good old Copperplate fixes all that. The man… or whatever it is… keeps records like it’s his religion. Keeps us grounded and sane.” His voice softens. “Ever since my Anna died, I’ve gotten plenty of answers thanks to those proper proceedings. Mudbrook-on-the-Bend is a simple town. Fair dealings. Well-crafted tools and materials. Straightforward, honest people. That’s how we like it.”

I should move. The Registry’s where the real work is—dangerous contracts that pay in coin, not sexual services. Combat work. That’s what I came here for.

“I appreciate the explanation. Thanks for the local orientation, Bertram. If I survive whatever job I pick up, maybe I’ll come back and you can tell me more about Anna over a drink. She sounds like she was worth those thirty years.”

The converted grain warehouse sits open-sided toward a patch of grass and trees, timber construction weathered but solid. The bulletin board dominates one wall—crowded chaos of notices, some full sheets, others torn scraps, layered and pinned unevenly like sedimentary history. A service counter suggests this used to be a loading bay. Mixed crowd of locals scattered around tables with tankards. Civic business conducted in warehouse setting. The air smells of old wood, spilled ale, and something else—ink and parchment, sharply chemical.

That’s coming from the tortoise-person behind the counter. Copperplate. Has to be. Short and stocky, ancient-looking, dark-olive scaled limbs extending from a bronze domed shell. Cream plastron visible at the chest. Charcoal-gray hooked beak, amber round eyes behind reading spectacles. He’s wearing formal sleeve cuffs and a fitted waistcoat that somehow dignify the whole turtle-in-a-warehouse aesthetic. The smell of ink and old parchment emanates from him like a profession made manifest.

He’s currently handing a posted notice to a woman who… mrow. She’s built like violence made flesh. Muscular, heavily scarred, the kind of body that tells stories about surviving things that should have killed her. She takes the notice from Copperplate’s clawed hand with careful precision, stares at it for a moment. Her expression goes distant. Then she turns and heads for the streets without a word.

The board’s chaos hits me immediately—a cluster of stained parchment and competing desperation layered over each other like archaeological evidence of small-town needs. An alibi notice at eye level, hastily scrawled with crossed-out attempts: WANTED: Someone to tell my wife I’ve been working late (I’ve actually been at the pub). 2 copper. Convincing liars only. A man rewrote this multiple times before posting. Performance stacked on performance. I move on.

Behind me, someone enters—pipe tobacco, leather oils, curing agents. Bertram. He heads to the tables where locals are gathered with their tankards.

I let my attention drift back to the board. Let me check the birthday musician notice next, see if there’s actual danger on offer or if Mudbrook only provides low-stakes human misery.

“Good morning, Mr. Copperplate.” Bertram’s voice carries from the counter, that same easy rural cadence. “Hope you haven’t been getting any trouble other than the usual. By chance, do you know if anyone has taken interest in my request? I’ve been building up some pressure lately, with this saddle commission for the merchant’s daughter and all.”

The birthday musician notice sits just below the alibi request. I scan the text:

MUSICIAN NEEDED: Play at my daughter’s birthday. She’s 7. You will be required to perform “The Happy Donkey Song” seventeen times minimum. 3 copper, earplugs not provided.

Behind me, the tortoise-person’s voice emerges—slow, deliberate, each word separated by noticeable pauses like he’s processing language at a different speed than mammals.

“One moment… Bertram. I must… complete… the current… notation… before responding… to your inquiry.”

Bertram’s voice carries easily.

“Take all the time you need, old friend. Have you noticed, by the way, our newcomer? A cat folk, no less, in our little Mudbrook. Must be a musician unless she’s carrying loot in that instrument case of hers.”

I’m hyper-aware of the weight of attention from the tables—multiple sets of eyes tracking the exotic cat-woman. I’m the circus that wandered into town.

Seventeen times. Minimum. The words sit on the notice like a threat. I read it again, making sure I’m not hallucinating from road exhaustion. A seven-year-old who’s learned to weaponize repetition. Old enough to understand cause and effect, young enough to have zero mercy. And the parent who posted this knows exactly what they’re asking for. They wrote “minimum.” They know their child. They’re desperate enough to pay a stranger three copper to endure what they can’t face themselves.

“Oh, if Anna, poor Anna would have been here today.” Bertram’s voice softens with memory. “She often talked about seeing some exotic folks. Couldn’t go anywhere, of course, on account of her weaving… And all my leather work. And I don’t think she ever heard music played live, did she? Hmm, maybe that one time a young merchant came by with a flute… Or was it drums?”

I hear him drink, the hollow sound of a tankard being emptied.

My attention drifts back to the notice. Seventeen repetitions would strip away every bit of performance, every shred of artifice. By repetition twelve I’d be completely raw—just muscle memory and survival instinct, the song reduced to pure acoustic reflex. That’s the kind of clarity I chase, just… from a different angle than combat. Not violence-clarity, but repetition-clarity. Mrow… but three copper. That’s insulting compensation for that level of psychological endurance.

“Mr. Copperplate, do you still remember what I asked?” His voice carries confusion now. “Wait, what did I ask again? Was it something about Anna? I swear all the leather dyes are seeping into my brain. I come across a fellow Mudbrooker along the street and they greet me nice and I can’t tell if a handjob was involved.”

The weight of attention presses against my fur like humidity. I don’t need to turn around to know exactly what’s happening at those tables—the locals, mainly men from the scent signatures, chatting with that animated energy that comes from having something exotic to admire. I catch fragments of conversation, none of it subtle:

“—never seen a tail that fluffy—”

“—the way she moves, gods—”

“—bet she’s got claws under that—”

I’m the entertainment of the week. Maybe the month. Provincial setting, limited exposure to non-humans, and here I am in my road-worn leathers with weapons at my hip and an instrument case across my back.

I keep my focus on the bulletin board, let them stare. My tail does its own thing—slow, thoughtful movements that have nothing to do with their entertainment and everything to do with processing what I’m reading. The birthday musician notice still sits there with its seventeen-repetition threat. The alibi service with its suburban deception. Neither offering real danger. Neither stripping me down to anything honest. But there are other notices layered across this board like archaeological strata.

A water-stained notice near the bottom, tear-marked: URGENT: Recover my dignity from the bottom of the well. Also maybe a bucket. Dignity preferred but bucket acceptable. I blink. Move on.

“Hey…” Bertram’s voice cuts across the converted grain barn. “Damn, I don’t know your name. Cat folk. With those weapons at your waist, the chickens request may be more up your alley. Or my request about reciprocal services. That’s been up for a good while. I always respond in kind, on a leatherworker’s honor.”

Mrow. He’s being helpful. The scratch of Copperplate’s quill continues behind me. Future historians will read about Bertram publicly recommending his reciprocal handjob services to the exotic cat-folk stranger, rendered in perfect archival notation.

Bertram’s voice carries again, this time directed at Copperplate:

“I guess there’s much to record with a newcomer in town, ain’t there? My goodness, you’re going to run out of ink this morning.”

Movement catches my peripheral vision. Bertram’s stepping away from the counter, boots scuffing across the warehouse floor. He circles around a couple of tables—the ones with the men who’ve been cataloging my existence like I’m the most interesting thing to happen to Mudbrook since the last time someone fell into a well—and heads for the bulletin board. Not toward me exactly, but toward his own posting. The reciprocal services one.

He stops with his hands on his hips, looking up at his notice. I’m standing close enough that I catch his muttered words.

“Hmmm…” He’s reading his own posting, lips moving slightly. “‘Hygiene acceptable, all digits functional’… Could have worded that better, maybe. It’s just these damn dyes, the stains are so hard to get out.”

He examines his nails, holding his hands up to catch the warehouse light.

“And these dark crescents, don’t even know how I could begin to scrub them out unless I cut my nails.”

I’m stalling. The chickens notice is still there. Bertram’s reciprocal services posting sits higher up where he can review his own nail-hygiene marketing. I should just pick one and move on. Let me see what passes for possessed poultry in Mudbrook-on-the-Bend.

HELP WANTED: My chickens are possessed by the vengeful spirit of my dead mother-in-law. Or they’re just mean chickens. Either way, I need them gone. 1 silver, or take the chickens.

One silver or take the chickens. That’s… actually decent pay for livestock removal, possessed or otherwise.

“That’s more up the alley of a proper adventurer like you, miss cat,” Bertram says. “I know the guy, he makes most of the local pottery, and also has quite a collection of chickens. Demonic hen, I’ve heard him repeat. Veritably devilish.”

The scratching finally stops. Copperplate lifts his claw, ink still wet, and fixes his amber eyes on Bertram through his spectacles.

“Bertram. To answer… your original inquiry… no one has… registered interest… in your reciprocal… services posting. The record shows… no approaches.”

Bertram looks back at Copperplate across the converted grain barn, his expression cycling through confusion—like he’s forgotten they were even having a conversation—then recognition, then something brighter for just a moment. Finally, it sours into disappointment.

“Oh, damn it. Nobody?” His voice carries genuine hurt beneath the frustration. “It seems that after the novelty wears off, Mudbrookers don’t want to be repeat customers. Fair transactions and mutual benefit aren’t what they used to be, are they? Maybe it’s the tannery staining, and that smell of newly-worked leather.”

I watch as Copperplate’s claw hovers over the ledger for a long moment. Then it descends, scratching across parchment with religious devotion.

I let my attention drift back to the bulletin board. The chickens notice sits there with its straightforward desperation. Could be genuine combat danger. Could be difficult livestock removal with homicidal poultry.

“Demonic mother-in-law spirit sounds more promising than seventeen performances of ‘The Happy Donkey Song,’ mrow.”

“I don’t think you’re getting any more juice out of the request, miss cat. What you see is what you got.” Bertram pauses. “If you’re gearing up to take that chicken contract, we could find our local veteran. She’s one tough broad, that one. Scarred from head to toe it seems. Always carrying around that longsword of hers. I reckon you two together could handle chicken demons.”

The woman I saw earlier. The one who took a notice from Copperplate with that focused intensity, then left without a word. Heavily scarred, built like violence made flesh. That tracks with “local veteran” perfectly.

Partnering up. I came here to strip away performance, to find that crystalline clarity that only comes when survival is the only option. Adding another person complicates that. Means witnessing. Means someone else’s assessment of how I handle danger, what that reveals about me.

Stop procrastinating. Take the fucking notice. Commit to something instead of endlessly circling like my tail’s chasing itself. If the chickens turn out to be genuinely possessed or magically corrupted, I get the violence-induced composition clarity I’m chasing. If they’re just mean livestock, well—at least I’ll have moved forward instead of standing here being entertainment for gawking locals.

“You’re right, Bertram. I’m overthinking this, mrow.” My claws grip the edge of the parchment. “Let me just take the chicken notice and we can figure out if we’re dealing with actual demons or just aggressive poultry.”

The notice pulls free from its pin with satisfying resistance. I hold the parchment, feeling the weight of commitment settle across my shoulders like the instrument case.

Bertram’s already moving, boots scuffing across the warehouse floor as he follows me toward the counter. His voice carries that encouraging energy people get when they’ve successfully convinced someone to stop overthinking.

“Good, good. If I see Threadscar around, I should tell her you’re gunning to take care of our local chicken problem once and for all. Two fierce women in a poultry battlefield sounds better than one.”

I close the distance to the counter. The tortoise-person’s amber eyes track my approach through those reading spectacles, though his claw never stops moving across the ledger. Up close, the scent of ink and old parchment emanates from him much stronger.

“Mr. Copperplate, I’d like to register this contract.” I set the notice on the counter between us. “The chickens. Need the address and any additional details you have on file about the situation.”

The scratching stops. Copperplate’s clawed hand lifts the chickens notice with a glacial deliberation that suggests he’s moving through a denser medium than air. He holds it at reading distance behind those silver spectacles.

“I will now… review the documentation. This ensures… archival accuracy.” His claw descends to the ledger. “Before proceeding… I require the contractor’s… full name… for the permanent record.”

Oh. Right. I haven’t actually introduced myself. Just walked in, grabbed a notice, and demanded registration like I assumed bureaucratic telepathy was part of the service. Mrow.

“Vespera Nightwhisper.”

Copperplate’s amber eyes lift to meet mine through those spectacles.

“The record… will reflect… your registration.”

His claw descends. More scratching. This is going to take a while.

Behind me, I catch movement—Bertram heading toward the converted grain barn’s exit. His voice carries over his shoulder.

“Alright, I’ll look for Threadscar. That old warrior is always up for some action, and gods know we don’t get much of it here. Of any kind, these days.”

His boots scuff across the threshold and he’s gone, pipe-tobacco scent fading as he hits the streets of Mudbrook-on-the-Bend.

Bertram will find that veteran, which means I’m committed to whatever violence or embarrassment this job offers. Can’t back out now without looking like a coward who fled from poultry.

Finally, Copperplate’s claw lifts from the ledger. His amber eyes fix on me.

“I have verified… the notice contents. This contract was filed… by Aldous the potter. His workshop… is located at… twelve Kiln Lane… eastern district… near the old millrace.” He pauses. “The supplementary… documentation… indicates seventeen chickens… on the property. The specific… problematic hen… is described as ‘the large speckled one… with the malevolent stare.'”

His eyes blink—a full five seconds, like his eyelids operate on their own timeline.

“Payment is one silver… upon resolution… or you may claim… the chickens… as compensation. Both options… are legally binding. Do you… accept these terms?”

“I accept the terms, mrow.” My tail swishes once. “Twelve Kiln Lane. I’ll handle the demonic poultry situation.”

THE END

I generated the following video about this story. Some genuinely hilarious images.