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"I'm thinking of a number," Klarion announced. He slumped, boneless, in the crook of a plush armchair placed haphazardly in the middle of one of the Uncanny Valley’s many boggy little swamps, his spindly legs and shiny black dress shoes thrown across the opposite arm, ankles smartly crossed.
Teekl sat in his lap, curled up with her paws tucked beneath her body—perfectly comfortable in spite of the unnaturally thin, bony musculature of her witch-boy cushion. Her perch was perfect, allowing her to hear her master’s every idle thought while also being in an optimal position to protect him… if you considered an average house-cat capable of such a thing, which Teekl certainly did. A soft purr rumbled through the feline familiar’s body, her tiger-striped orange fur ruffling up around her fluffy chest, warmer than she had any right to be. The very picture of contentment.
That is, until Klarion had to go and open his big mouth.
One of Teekl’s eyes lazily slanted open at Klarion’s question, the crimson orb glittering brighter than any gemstone in the dark. "Mow?"
"A number, Teekl. It’s between one and ten."
Ah. Typical witchy nonsense, or some asinine mortal game he’d picked up somewhere. Ever since he’d escaped that insipid Carnivale Rosa, her master had been all about the various mayfly amusements of the mortal realm, flitting from one insignificant diversion to the next. She was beginning to suspect he had far more admiration for that Sandy Hawk man than he initially let on.
Thoroughly bored, Teekl allowed her eyes to slip shut once more, resettling against Klarion’s stomach. She yawned widely, her little pink tongue curling behind her razor sharp teeth.
“Mrow,” she said. Okay.
"Do you know it?"
There was a note of agitation in her witch-boy’s voice. Eyes reopening to the narrowest of slits, Teekl glanced at him, her glare sparking with a glint of feline annoyance. “Mrrrow?"
Klarion pouted at her. "The number, Teekl. The number!”
"Mrrrup— mow.” You haven’t said any numbers. How should I know it?
"No, no! That’s not the point,” Klarion sighed, face twisting in anguish. He sank further into the armchair, the plush cushion apparently intent on swallowing him up. “I haven’t told you, this is true. But! What do you think the number is?"
Teekl stared up at him, visibly unimpressed. "… mrow." I have no earthly idea.
"So? Just guess!"
Teekl went quiet for a long moment, her body going utterly still. She stared at Klarion, who had for some reason decided that she must learn the art of divination—as if their usual sharing of minds was not enough! But she would attempt it, if only to get him to stop bugging her and let her take a much-desired nap.
The universe they called home, the Crossroads, had eight—no, seven—worlds. “Mow," Teekl guessed.
"Wrong!”
The forces of Chaos and Order would always be at odds with one another. Exquisitely contrasting aspects of reality, their duality like that of feuding brothers. Two brothers. "Mow," guessed Teekl.
"Noooooope."
"Mow?”
"No, not that one, either. Come now, Teekl, can’t you do any better than that?”
Klarion was grinning. Teekl found herself feeling inordinately irked by this. Her claws dug into the thin cloth covering his stomach and legs, prickling faintly at his skin, and her tail lashed out—striking him fully across the face. Though it served to make him splutter around the sudden mouthful of fur, it did absolutely nothing to wipe that mean little smirk off his face.
"Mrrr… ow?” Teekl hissed, fur rising in a jagged, irritated ruff around her throat. She was running out of numbers; she might never guess the right one, especially if Klarion had decided to throw some imaginary ones into the mix.
"Six! Yes, that’s it!”
Teekl relaxed, basking in the glow of such a simple victory, even if it was only for a moment.
“Your turn, now, Teekl,” Klarion urged.
The feline familiar sighed. All around them, the typical oppressive dark of the Uncanny Valley loomed, murked and gooped. No wonder her master was bored out of his gourd.
Maybe it was time for a change of scenery… perhaps a vacation, of sorts?
Teekl sat in his lap, curled up with her paws tucked beneath her body—perfectly comfortable in spite of the unnaturally thin, bony musculature of her witch-boy cushion. Her perch was perfect, allowing her to hear her master’s every idle thought while also being in an optimal position to protect him… if you considered an average house-cat capable of such a thing, which Teekl certainly did. A soft purr rumbled through the feline familiar’s body, her tiger-striped orange fur ruffling up around her fluffy chest, warmer than she had any right to be. The very picture of contentment.
That is, until Klarion had to go and open his big mouth.
One of Teekl’s eyes lazily slanted open at Klarion’s question, the crimson orb glittering brighter than any gemstone in the dark. "Mow?"
"A number, Teekl. It’s between one and ten."
Ah. Typical witchy nonsense, or some asinine mortal game he’d picked up somewhere. Ever since he’d escaped that insipid Carnivale Rosa, her master had been all about the various mayfly amusements of the mortal realm, flitting from one insignificant diversion to the next. She was beginning to suspect he had far more admiration for that Sandy Hawk man than he initially let on.
Thoroughly bored, Teekl allowed her eyes to slip shut once more, resettling against Klarion’s stomach. She yawned widely, her little pink tongue curling behind her razor sharp teeth.
“Mrow,” she said. Okay.
"Do you know it?"
There was a note of agitation in her witch-boy’s voice. Eyes reopening to the narrowest of slits, Teekl glanced at him, her glare sparking with a glint of feline annoyance. “Mrrrow?"
Klarion pouted at her. "The number, Teekl. The number!”
"Mrrrup— mow.” You haven’t said any numbers. How should I know it?
"No, no! That’s not the point,” Klarion sighed, face twisting in anguish. He sank further into the armchair, the plush cushion apparently intent on swallowing him up. “I haven’t told you, this is true. But! What do you think the number is?"
Teekl stared up at him, visibly unimpressed. "… mrow." I have no earthly idea.
"So? Just guess!"
Teekl went quiet for a long moment, her body going utterly still. She stared at Klarion, who had for some reason decided that she must learn the art of divination—as if their usual sharing of minds was not enough! But she would attempt it, if only to get him to stop bugging her and let her take a much-desired nap.
The universe they called home, the Crossroads, had eight—no, seven—worlds. “Mow," Teekl guessed.
"Wrong!”
The forces of Chaos and Order would always be at odds with one another. Exquisitely contrasting aspects of reality, their duality like that of feuding brothers. Two brothers. "Mow," guessed Teekl.
"Noooooope."
"Mow?”
"No, not that one, either. Come now, Teekl, can’t you do any better than that?”
Klarion was grinning. Teekl found herself feeling inordinately irked by this. Her claws dug into the thin cloth covering his stomach and legs, prickling faintly at his skin, and her tail lashed out—striking him fully across the face. Though it served to make him splutter around the sudden mouthful of fur, it did absolutely nothing to wipe that mean little smirk off his face.
"Mrrr… ow?” Teekl hissed, fur rising in a jagged, irritated ruff around her throat. She was running out of numbers; she might never guess the right one, especially if Klarion had decided to throw some imaginary ones into the mix.
"Six! Yes, that’s it!”
Teekl relaxed, basking in the glow of such a simple victory, even if it was only for a moment.
“Your turn, now, Teekl,” Klarion urged.
The feline familiar sighed. All around them, the typical oppressive dark of the Uncanny Valley loomed, murked and gooped. No wonder her master was bored out of his gourd.
Maybe it was time for a change of scenery… perhaps a vacation, of sorts?