Misae

 

Slipping with ease through the shadows below deck, the salty smell of the sea compliments that from the wooden floors stained with tangy varnish. Gracefully maneuvering underneath a chair and coming to rest behind a barrel, I pause.

Squeak. 

With ears perked slightly, angled perfectly to funnel added revealing sounds from my prey. Desire to investigate surges through my body. Lowering my head closer to the ground, I take slow, deliberate steps towards the source of the noise.  

Squeak. 

My prey has not heard, it will not expect the attack. The hunt continues. Inching forward, drawing ever closer, moving until the minuscule amount of light offered through the cabin windows reveal the swishing grey tail of my quarry.  

Squeak. 

My butt raises and adrenaline courses through rear haunches as they prepare to launch. Anticipating the thrill of the pounce, my claws ache to sink into the depths of furry greyness.  

Steady. 

Springing from the ground, my lithe body launches forward gracefully flying through the darkened cabin. Anticipating the victory, my right paw stretches forward with extended claws, seeking blood.  

Promptly, the furry little demon darts just out of reach. Frustrated about the missed bullseye, the dart at least hits the board. Ivory claws plunge into the base of the dragon’s tail. Appalled at my inaccuracy yet thrilled by the victory, I am not yet satisfied.

More is needed.

Retracting my claws to let the pointy gray beast attempt to flee. Watching with curiosity as it scampers around the corner, pathetically trying to hide. How disappointed I am that the inflicted wound had dramatically decreased the creature’s speed, the thrill of the hunt wanes. Pridefully raising my lithe body, there is no need to hide anymore. Jubilantly strutting to show the dragon that it can’t get away unless I choose to let it go.  

Wait, did I call it a dragon?

What is a dragon? I know that word. How do I know that word? This stream of thoughts, it’s been over two-hundred great cycles since they’ve coherently flowed like this. …And how do I know that?

Snapping my attention back to the rat, the poor rascal thinks it is sneaky. It thinks it got away. Taking shelter within the space between two large crates of elven provisions, it hunkers down. 

Yes, those taller creatures on board are elves. How do I know this? Why do I now just realize this? My mind is working in different, older ways. I am not a young cat, and I’ve weathered many great cycles with these elves. More great cycles than even the oldest of them have experienced.

Squeak. 

Does the rat want to die? Disinterestedly looking back towards the cowering rat. Such an easy feat it would be to catch. Nah, I don’t care about that anymore, there is something more important to attend.  

Gracefully trotting over to the crate of elven food while casting a quick eye at the rat, just so that it knows that I am allowing it to live. Of course, looking to live, the rat only understands the grace I offer at a fundamental level, if at all.  

Majestically leaping onto a crate and stoically standing at the top I steadily survey this elven merchant ship and sense the presence of the other felines onboard. Most of them sleep, some hunt, none are like me. My white, furry paws feel tainted and deserve a thorough licking. Pondering for a moment about my situation, who I was long ago, who I was most recently, and who I am now. Those fleeting memories are not important anymore. 

Having most recently been an ordinary white cat, one of many felines attended to by the elves. Graciously did I offer my services on board this ship to control their rodent population. We have a nice and easy life on board, there is plenty of hunting fun for those of us that desire, although it’s usually easier to rouse the sailors into sharing morsels of their own tastily cooked delicacies.  

Well, it was with us. I can’t classify myself as one of them anymore.  

On that matter, what am I? Why am I? Different, for sure. 

Standing on top of the crate of elven provisions, I take a swift nibble from some exposed elven bread. With the return of mana, I do not need food anymore, but I still like it. Leaping to a nearby stack of bottles, I quickly read the elven inscription on the labels. This port is of exceptional quality.

Licking my lips, I doubt the sailors would be drinking this. No, this is for trade. Alas, my services weren’t free, and it is time that I collect. It is decided, I will charge the elves a rodent collection fee. Sinking my claw into the cork, and then, with a mighty tug, I pop it out. The thirsty rat stares on with jealousy as I’m now free to lap up the spilled sweet wine pouring out of the tipped bottle.  

Banking on my distraction and taking initiative, the rat begins to slink away.

No, I will not allow this insult.

Swiftly pouncing on it, my sharp teeth pierce its filthy neck. The rat promptly goes limp following the satisfying crack of its breaking spine. A swift kill not often afforded a rat. Dropping the kill near the open bottle of spilled wine, one final payment will fulfill my end of the bargain. 

Instinctually hastening to the upper deck and unable to remember the last time I’d left this ship. Above deck, a gray tomcat, the dominant male of the ship, lays confidently on top of a barrel. An immediate aversion towards the creature weighs down on me. It's as if he had wronged me in the past. Revenge would be sweet, how easy it would be for me to go knock him off that barrel, to tear into his hide with my radiant claws. A sense of urgency forces me to shake those thoughts from my head, I do not have time for these games. There’s too much at stake. 

The elves keep a clean ship. They would never insult their ancestors, woven with magic into the living vessel.

Being in dock, the great sails of the vessel are lowered. The ship had been tied and anchored to a massive dock near a grand city. I know this place, Throckton, home to those wretched Thraks who continue to savage the planet, hoarding it's resources for themselves. It’s of no wonder that the other elves have banished them to this island. The venom in my gut tells me that I’m an unwelcome guest. Luckily, my small stature allows for easy evasion of unwanted attention. 

Proudly leaping from the edge of the ship onto the dock. My glorious reflection in the crystal waters below looks back at me. My body is tone. My fur is white and pure. If I am feeling particularly spicy, I can alter my fur turning it radiantly gold and lighting up a large area. It’s a great scare tactic when situations become dire. Only moderate in size for a cat, only fools dare tangle with my claws. For a feline of sorts, I’m quite the specimen.

Running down the dock towards the Portside Market Security Gate, a foreboding sense of urgency propels me forward. I know that it is here, and only here, the only place on the entire island where anyone of non-thrak descent can go. This land only offers welcome to the thraks, the domesticated animals they use to work and eat, and their pets. No doubt I’ll have to blend in as one of those if I am to venture beyond these gates. 

The good thing about looking like a cat, security gates mean nothing to me. Leaping onto a wagon near the front of the line gives my paws a rest. A long journey lies ahead which would not be good for weary paws. 

Scrutinizing the wagon, it holds many elven wares to be sold in the market. I perch on a barrel as L’Tanios, the elven merchant with forest green hair, stands casually while he has his items checked, documented, and taxed. After all this time not much has changed.  

An insolent thrak guard looks down at me, his grubby hands reach toward me. Feeling offended about the attempt to pick me up, I hop out of the way. My luxurious fur will not be tainted by his hands. Another guard scans the contents of my abandoned perch. He should have trusted the official seal of my butt being on the barrel and not waste our precious time.  

Jumping and spinning one-hundred eighty degrees in mid-air, and then skillfully landing to face the threat behind me, broken glass from a shattered mirror. A guard apologizes to my pet elven merchant for cracking his mirror. The spindly armed merchant politely informs the guard of the mirror's price, and the guard issues a ticket for him to retrieve its value at the market treasury. It’s nice to see the issue being handled so professionally by both the guard and the merchant. No battles fought. No anger, retaliation, or blood being spilt.

No, just a simple apology and a congenial way to resolve the problem. That is unlike the last time I was here.  

Staring at the glass with a big crack across its face, my stunning visage reflects. Golden irises rimmed with fiery oranges and yellows stare back; they can shine like the sun if I so wish them to. Yes, I am of the Dragon. My heritage is great indeed. 

Leaping back atop my perch and offering a meow as thanks for the ride. L’Tanios rubs under my chin. Has he no respect for personal space? Not wanting to cause a scene I allow him that small victory before spinning around to show him my hind-end and then proudly taking a new spot on another barrel. 

Trumpets start blaring. So loud and annoying. The guards act on high alert. “Sorry everybody, we are on lockdown. The market is closed for the day. Return to your vessels, but do not leave.” 

So much for the free ride. Taking my cue and leaping from the barrel, I dash across the road into some nearby shrubs. Although the mana thread is faint, it pulls me in the direction of the Great Temple. All that I can do is hope that I’m not too late.  

Once in the bushes, a wave of fatigue saps me. “Hmm?” Why am I so sleepy? Yawn. Beginning to feel a bit wobbly on my feet, which is highly unusual. Maybe if I just lie down here for a just a moment, then perhaps… Just take a little nap. Yes, that should help me feel better. Heavy eyelids shut out the light of the world while smoke rises in the distance.