CHAPTER 03 - MITTENS MASSACRES SOME RATS

Emerging from the final cluster of wooden homes before the shore, Mittens the cat surveyed the wharf area. As the lifeblood of the village, the docks were always the busiest place in town. Over a dozen humans were visible, engaged in their inscrutable human tasks. Most were puttering about the two water-flyer trees resting against the two wooden docks. A few sat at the end of the docks, holding sticks, and a few moved boxes and bags around the large wooden not-homes.

Mittens knew they were not homes, because nobody lived inside. At night, no light shone under the large doors, and no scent of fire hung on the buildings. Instead, the two buildings seemed to exist as a waypoint for wooden boxes larger than Mittens, evenly-shaped stones, and other miscellaneous bags and barrels of unknown purpose.

The two buildings were prime hunting grounds - the absence of humans living in them seemed to draw in the gray wharf rats, and Mittens never lacked prey. Despite the humans’ seeming indifference (seriously, there were so many holes and cracks, it was like the buildings were made for rats), the cat had taken it upon himself to control the rat population. Sometimes, when one of the humans saw him carrying a rat corpse, they would pay tribute with a fresh fish. Not that Mittens would catch rats for the humans, but it was certainly correct for them to pay tribute to his prowess.

Stalking along the side of the gravel path, which extended from the docks, through the village, and to the opposite edge of the village, Mittens kept an eye out. One of the dock workers spotted him with a “Ho, Mittens!” and some warbling. Mittens ignored him - there were rats about. He could smell them.

The setting sun cast long shadows, and the cat took full advantage. Gray fur melded with shadows, and nary a whisper of sound marked his passage as he hunted. A pointed, whiskered nose poked out through a gap in the warehouse wall, carefully listening and smelling for humans or predators. Unfortunately for the rat, that caution was proven insufficient when sharp cat claws dug into its furry snout.

Mittens quickly pulled the rat out of the gap, placed his other forepaw below the neck, and pulled the spine apart. Hunting hundreds or, perhaps, thousands of the mindless pests had endowed the cat with a particular set of skills. Since wharf rats were particularly filthy, he preferred not to use his teeth whenever possible - the taste lingered, and watching humans slaughter other small beasts had inspired him to develop this new technique.

A light ding followed, as always, shortly pursued by the unusual sound of ascending chimes. Mittens paid the sounds no mind, and ignored the box filled with squiggly lines floating in front of him. If any Rifters had been [Inspect]ing him, they would have been amused to see his nameplate change from “Cat, [Bane of Rats]” to “Cat, [Nemesis of Rats].”

The gap in the wall of the warehouse practically called out to the Nemesis. He was certain that more rats were hiding inside - he could feel them. The hole was only slightly larger than his head, but that was enough. Mittens squeezed inside.

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The sun had long set, and the two moons had started their stately meander across the darkened sky. One very self-satisfied cat sauntered up the gentle slope from the shore to the village proper, docks now silent and abandoned. Behind him, a small pile of rat corpses and dismembered bits sat outside of a warehouse, the only evidence that a Nest had been hidden within. The largest corpse, a [Wharf Rat Spawner], was torn into several pieces - the thing had been as big as Mittens himself, but bloated and barely able to move. Clearing the Nest had shunted the corpses and cat outside, where the previous gap between boards was no longer visible.

Sneaking through the tunnels and dug-out rooms of the Nest had taken the better part of two hours, and it seemed the humans of the village were asleep, houses dark and streets quiet. Only Rifters went about their business as normal - some stood, stock-still, by the dock where a ferry would arrive in the morning. Some of the strange travelers went to or from the imposing forest outside town, smelling of blood and ash. A small group of them stood in the open area in front of Mittens’ house, animatedly waving their arms at the building, warbling in their sing-song tone, pointing at the road into the forest, and otherwise carrying on. Standard Rifter behavior, as far as Mittens was concerned.

Barely visible in the wan moonlight, the gray-furred cat stalked along the nettle hedge to the rear of the house. There was a smaller building there, constructed of some strange black stone with yellow lines on it. None of the villagers ever visited the building, and as far as Mittens was concerned, it was his own personal house. There was no door, but small window holes at the top of each wall were enough for a common housecat to squeeze through.

In the distance, Mittens could hear shouting, clanging, and the occasional roar. The sounds seemed to be from the north, the opposite side of town from the docks, and the small group of Rifters standing in front of Mittens’ house had grown. They were now quieter, and held onto the bizarre sticks, claws, and other, more incomprehensible objects that the belligerent wanderers always seemed to have with them.

The small, silent, nigh-invisible terror of rats bunched his legs, calibrated his tail, and leapt many times his own height, barely reaching the bottom edge. He scrambled, rather ungracefully, to squeeze through the barely-cat-sized aperture, eventually landing, for the second time that day, in a tangle of furry limbs. This time, not even a squirrel was present to laugh at him, so a brief grooming session was enough to restore his tarnished dignity.

The room itself was less dark than one would expect, lit by a softly-glowing gray-and-white orb floating in the middle of the square floor. This orb is why Mittens claimed the building as his own - even in the dead of winter, with crunchy hard water covering the land, the orb remained warm. It kept the room dry and comfortable through the worst storm, and nobody, humans or beast, bothered Mittens inside. It was truly a home made just for him.

The cat, homeowner, hopped on top of a metal-edged wooden box place at the perfect place to provide access to the top of the orb, climbed onto the gently-curved surface, circled in place three times, closed his eyes, and settled down for an extended pondering session.

The cat-heater, for its part, slightly brightened. Angular silver lines of light ran across its surface, and it pulsed gently. Outside, the sound of roars, screams and shouts drew nearer, and the scent of fires burning followed the wind. Flickering lights danced through the air, and muffled explosions threw sprays of blood and wood chips.

Mittens, for his part, napped.