We push open the heavy door of the Pepper Supply keep, the sudden wave of scents and sounds hitting me. The air inside is thick and warm, heavy with the mingled aromas of spiced meats roasting over the small firepits in the tower sections, fragrant pepper and exotic herbs from the trade goods, the sharp tang of sweat from bodyguards and merchants who have travelled far and the underlying musk of unwashed wool and leather from servants resting on the benches. My nose wrinkles slightly at the overwhelming blend but I breathe it all in deeply, cataloguing every note, the faint metallic hint of iron from the guards chain mail, the smoky wood from the fires, even the subtle fear sweat of a lesser merchant haggling in the corner. My tail lashes once behind me. The fancy rug in the centre is a deep teal with intricate patterns, soft under my boots yet worn from countless feet, stretching the length of the hall like a merchant’s boast of wealth.
To the left, guards sleep on rotation in simple cots and bedrolls, their iron chain mail and square shields stacked neatly nearby, soft snores mixing with the low murmur of conversation. To the right, supply crates and barrels are stacked high, spices, dried fruits, bolts of cloth, and sealed amphorae of wine or oil, guarded by a watchful servant with a ledger. The benches lining both sides are packed with merchants in fine but travel stained tunics, their bodyguards standing vigilant with spears and shields, servants scurrying with trays of food or messages. The atmosphere is one of calculated commerce and wary rest, low voices haggling over prices and routes, the clink of coins being counted, the crackle of fires in the tower sections where pots bubble with stew, and the occasional burst of laughter from a group sharing a drink. Ladders lead up into the towers to the roofs, and the open plan makes everything visible, yet it feels claustrophobic to my instincts, too many eyes, too many potential threats near Master.
My cat hearing picks up the subtle details, the rustle of silk as a merchant shifts, the soft clink of a bodyguard adjusting his helm, the distant lowing of pack animals, even the faint heartbeat of the man nearest us who eyes us warily. My nose twitches at the peppery spice that gives this place its name, sharp and warming, mixing with the woodsmoke and human scents. I get my bearings quickly, mapping exits, the positions of the guards on rotation, the supply areas that could be useful and the ladders to higher vantage points. Everything a cat would notice, the slight draft from the arrow slits, the way sound carries in the open hall, the way the fancy rug muffles footsteps but not the creak of the wooden floor beneath.
“Stay close, Master,” I murmur against his ear
Soon enough the merchants surge into their full exchange, the open hallway of the Pepper Supply keep exploding into a crowded marketplace of shouting voices, clinking coins, and heavy scent. Bodies press in from every side, merchants in fine travelnstained tunics shoving crates and sacks across the fancy teal rug, bodyguards shifting with spears and shields, servants weaving between them with ledgers and trays. The air thickens with pepper, roasted meat from the tower firepits and the sharp metallic tang of iron armour. My tail lashes once in irritation before coiling tighter around Master’s waist, pulling him flush against my armoured side as I bare my fangs at anyone who brushes too close.
The chaos dies down almost as quickly as it began, the crowd thinning and that is when one merchant’s gaze lands on Master’s steel redstone noble sword.
His eyes widen. “A Redstone noble, here of all places ? I thought you lot were too busy back in the hold fighting among each other to care about the island.” Master answers with that cold, calm voice I adore, the words cutting clean through the lingering noise. “I got this of a corpse I made.” The merchant flips instantly, face reddening, voice rising in a furious shout that draws every eye. Guards are called. A single one comes striding over, iron chain mail clanking, square shield raised, spear pointed as he shouts for us to halt, aggressive and full of authority in this keep that is not theirs to claim. My ears pin flat, a low unstable growl building in my throat as more guards begin moving in from the benches and the tower sections, their medium helms glinting under the firelight, iron spears and shields forming a tightening circle.
There is no clear way out, the entrances are already watched, the ladders to the roofs too far, the open hall becoming a trap of chain mail and hostility over this so called misunderstanding.
The guard questions the merchant, the man’s voice rising in a frantic claim of intimidation and Master’s cold admission of murder. The guard turns on us next, iron spear still levelled, demanding why we are disturbing the steady flow of trade and coin in this Pepper Supply keep. Master answers with that calm, shadowed authority I live for, “Coin, that’s how the world works,” and simply hands over a single silver coin. The guard inspects it, then has the gall to say we look like we can do better. Master’s reply cuts deeper still, measured and sharp. “My, my, shake down me and every merchant will be wary of their so called protectors.” The words land perfectly. The guard’s posture crumbles, he lowers the spear, mutters something under his breath and walks away, the other iron clad figures peeling back with him until the circle dissolves and the open hallway returns to its merchant bustle.
I remain pressed hard against Master’s side and a unstable growl rumbles in my chest. My blue eyes never leave the merchant who started all of this, the one who tried to have us arrested, the one who dared raise his voice against Master in this keep full of spice and coin. Blonde hair falls across my shoulders as I step forward half a pace, steel spear still in hand, heater shield angled, body coiled with feline grace and pure fury. The scent of his fear mixes with the pepper and woodsmoke in the air, the fancy teal rug soft under my boots, the firepits in the towers crackling as if nothing has changed. Merchants and bodyguards watch from the benches, but none move to interfere now that the guards have backed down.
I lean in close enough that my cat ears nearly brush Master’s cheek, voice low and thick with possessive hunger as my tail tightens further around him. “He thought he could call the dogs on you… thought a few iron spears and a loud mouth would be enough.” My fangs flash in a dark smile,
I do not wait for him to speak or flee. I close the distance in three silent steps, steel spear tip lowering until it rests just above the fancy teal rug, pointed at the merchant’s chest.
A low, unstable growl rumbles from deep in my throat as I lean in close enough for him to smell the marshland leather and steel of my armour. My free clawed hand reaches back without looking, fingers curling into Master’s clothes to keep him pressed against my side.
My ears pin flat for only a heartbeat when the merchant waves his bodyguards down and has the gall to call me cute, the word sliding off him. I bare my fangs in a silent snarl, tail lashing once behind me, but Master’s calm reply cuts through the moment. “She’s feral.” Then his hand is on me, petting firmly along the curve of my ear and down into the soft blonde fur at the base of my neck. A deep, involuntary purr rumbles up from my chest despite the lingering urge to drive my spear through the merchant’s smug face. I lean hard into the touch.
Master turns to the merchant’s wares, baskets of tropical fruits, dried meats, jars of spiced preserves, dense cattail bread and sealed packets of smoked fish and game. The scents hit my nose sharp and rich, making my stomach tighten with real hunger. He glances at me with that knowing look. “Hungry ?” He knows full well I need twice what any Alderian does. I do not answer with words at first. Instead I move, fluid and deliberate, stepping closer to the stall while keeping my body angled to shield him. My free clawed hand reaches out and selects several of the densest items, thick cuts of smoked capybara, a heavy round of cattail bread still fragrant with herbs, two jars of the spiced tropical fruit and a generous portion of the dried game meat placing them firmly on the counter in front of the merchant without looking away from Master.
Only then do I speak. “Feed me, Master. I want what you choose for me… and I want enough that I can keep fighting for you when the next fool decides to call the guards.”
Master starts haggling, the merchant’s attempt at an up charge crumbling under that calm, measured pressure until the price settles at something fair. Coin changes hands, the tropical foods become ours and I stay pressed tight against Master’s side the entire time. We move across the open hallway of the Pepper Supply keep toward the storage area on the right, where tall bodyguards stand watch over stacked crates and barrels.
The scent of spices, dried goods, and iron armour thickens here but I ignore it, blue eyes locked only on Master as he simply sits down on the wooden floor right there among the crates and begins to eat, bread, meats, and fruit laid out without ceremony.
I drop down beside him at once while I take the portions he offers, tearing into the dense cattail bread and smoked meats with hungry, deliberate bites.
