[check out this short story on my personal page, where it looks better]

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

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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.