Chapter 4, The Ren's Turf
The world inside the Ren’s turf was rot, order, and hunger, not the soft kind that makes bellies ache, but the sharp, devouring kind that carves a kingdom out of the bones of survivors. The choke point bled into a cavernous main artery, a shantytown built inside the hollowed corpse of Maw Mine, where stone and darkness pressed in from all sides. The only light came from far-off torches wedged into cracks and crevices, or from bonfires flickering in crude iron drums, their flames licking high enough to paint the nearest walls with ragged, orange teeth. Most corners stayed black, thick with shadows so deep no ordinary eyes could pierce them. But I was no ordinary thing, and my master, well, he could see through me.
My vision cut through gloom like a knife through tendon. I saw every crooked alley, every burst pipe, every huddled shape on the edge of the light, the world reduced to shades of grey and deep violet. I walked beside my master, half in his shadow and half forcing him into mine, tail wrapped so tight around his thigh it must have left a mark, every inch of me screaming at the world to try and touch what was mine.
My fur bristled with the charge of his presence in my mind, not quite seeing what I saw but knowing, by the rhythm of my breath, the twitch of my muscles, the way my heartbeat stuttered and the shape of my shoulders, what waited ahead. His intellect pressed into me, not to take, but to know; his thoughts a blade prying for advantage, always reading the world by the curve of my spine and the shifting weight of my steps.
We walked the main artery, if it could even be called that. It was less a road and more a passage beaten into the stone by years of desperation, the walls smeared with soot and old blood, the floor uneven from collapsed tunnels and half-built shanties. Hovels stacked three high in places, built from scavenged boards, battered iron sheets, even the ribs of old mine carts. Some homes sprawled up the walls, their ladders rotting, their windows nothing but holes covered in skin.
The path snaked in mostly a straight line, forced to loop around collapsed structures or the barn-like Ren strongholds that jutted from the gloom. The barns themselves were islands of harsh light, torches staked along the edges, Ren guards stationed in clusters, armoured in that same bastard patchwork of iron and leather, faces hidden by masks and hoods. From the roofs, cat girls watched with eerie stillness, their eyes gleaming pale in the dark. Some crouched like silent gargoyles; others prowled, tails twitching, bodies pressed low, their movements primal, half-feral, too hungry or too wild to remember civility.
Now and again, I saw a pair of them streak across a roof on all fours, chasing down rats or mice, their jaws snapping, their laughter sharp as broken glass. One tore a rat in half and disappeared into a blackened window, fur matted and wild. Their eyes found me sometimes, curious, wary, recognising a different breed, not prey, not pack, something set apart by the human at my side and the collar at my throat.
The rest of the inhabitants were a dying mosaic, Alderian men and women, sick and coughing, pressed against the walls, skin pale and waxy, their breaths ragged. Some sprawled in filthy blankets, others slumped against the doors of their shanties, hands outstretched for charity or mercy or both, eyes already given up.
Dwarves with red-ringed eyes and hollow cheeks sat on crates, knuckles raw from picking through mine tailings, faces streaked with the grime of a thousand unending shifts. I saw one with a broken leg, tied in a crude splint, his gaze fixed on the dirt, waiting for nothing. They looked at my master as we passed, their eyes hollow but sharp, calculating if we could be bled, robbed, or sold. The look died quick when my tail twined tighter around his leg and my ears flattened in threat.
Random workers moved through the dark, peddling what they could, lamps, hunks of fungus bread, fistfuls of old nails, battered tools, chunks of questionable meat. They slunk from shadow to shadow, faces masked with old cloth, hands darting out in nervous, transactional offers. Most avoided us entirely. Some tried their luck. I snarled, baring my fangs, making my intent so clear it didn’t need words. No one touched us. Not after the first hiss.
Screams punctured the air in ragged bursts, far off, close, sometimes both at once. A fight broke out behind a stack of crates, the thud of fists and the crack of bone echoing along the stone. I saw the glint of a blade, the red spray as it bit flesh, the hiss of someone begging for help. No one came. The world here was its own law, and law here meant suffering. Another scream rang out from somewhere above, a girl’s voice, sharp and panicked, smothered as fast as it rose. The sound died in the gloom. My tail tightened, claws digging into my master’s cloak as if to anchor myself, my instinct to protect him burning hotter than my disgust for the violence around us.
We moved on. The shantytown writhed on both sides, a maze of broken homes and scavenged memories. Every few steps brought us past another collapsed building, old stonework, iron beams twisted from the cave-ins that had gutted the mine over generations. Each ruin was marked by graffiti: crude images, clan symbols, the stylised fang of the Ren, warnings scrawled in mud and chalk. Sometimes the ruins were hollow, just gaping holes filled with bones and trash; sometimes they held small fires, figures huddled close, whispering in the dark. The smell was old blood and new fear.
Here and there, Ren patrols stomped through the crowd, iron boots echoing, clubs out and ready, eyes sharp above their masks. I saw a pair of them grab a dwarf by the beard, yanking him to his knees, demanding payment in whatever coin he had, copper, silver, a scrap of gold, even just food. When he could not pay, they beat him until he stopped moving.
Another woman, a cat girl, lean and bruised, tried to run, but they caught her by the tail, dragging her back into the light, her yowls cutting through the gloom. A sick Alderian man tried to stop them, and they broke his arm for his effort. Extortion was not just rampant, it was the rhythm of life here, a heartbeat of violence, every debt enforced with a club or a blade.
All the while, we walked on, two figures out of place. Our cloaks, deep blue and light blue, fine and well-made, the colours of distant authority, caught the light every few steps, marking us as foreign, dangerous, or both.
My copper-iron spear glimmered, my shield strapped tight across my back, the collar on my throat shining whenever a torch found it. My master walked with a stride that was all command, unhurried, unafraid, surveying every detail, every threat, every angle. He looked like a man who belonged nowhere, and everywhere; a man whose presence could never be owned, only respected or feared. And me? I made sure the world knew who he belonged to.
Every time a stranger looked too long, every time a cat girl above flashed her eyes with too much curiosity, every time a Ren thug measured the odds, I pressed closer. My tail wrapped tight around his thigh, an unbreakable leash of muscle and intent, pinning him to me and me to him. I leaned into him with enough force to bruise, my body a living shield, my gaze a razor blade, every instinct screaming mine to the world.
I bared my teeth at anyone who came too close. I let my claws flash once, just enough for the stink of fear to ripple through the nearest crowd. Sometimes my master would glance at me, a half-smirk on his lips, that look of cold amusement that said he knew exactly what I was doing, and he approved. Sometimes, when the crowd thickened or the air turned dangerous, he’d slip a hand to my waist, guiding me with that possessive control that made the bond between us burn hot and sharp. Each time his fingers touched me, I shivered, tail constricting tighter, dominance layered on dominance.
A fight broke out just ahead, a cat girl leapt from a roof onto a Ren’s back, claws flashing, a scream cutting through the dark. The Ren slammed her down, boots coming hard, but she rolled, sprang, vanished into a gap between two shacks, her laughter echoing as she disappeared. The crowd closed in, hungry for violence but too afraid to interfere. My master’s eyes tracked every movement, reading the chaos, always planning, always ready to react.
Through it all, I kept us moving, refusing to let him lag, refusing to let him fall out of reach. If the world wanted to take him, it would have to go through me. I snarled at a trio of Alderian men who looked too long, my tail squeezing so tight around his leg that the blood must have pounded. I glared at the Ren, daring them to try what they’d tried with others. No one did. Maybe it was the look in my eyes. Maybe it was the shape of my master’s silence, heavier than any blade. Maybe it was the bond, burning so bright between us that the world itself could feel its heat.
We navigated the twisted path, forced to detour around a shanty built half out of old mine carts and half out of bone, the scent of decay pouring out from its door. My master glanced at me, reading the revulsion on my face, and steered us clear with a silent command. I obeyed, tail dragging possessively behind him, every step a warning.
We passed another barn, this one ringed by a full Ren squad. They were beating a pair of Alderian women, demanding gold or “services.” I felt the urge to leap, to bite, to tear, but my master’s hand on my arm kept me in check, a reminder that not every battle was ours. I swallowed the violence, letting it simmer just beneath my skin, promising myself that if anyone tried to touch him, I would let it all loose.
The screams faded as we moved deeper, replaced by the low, constant moan of air forced through rusted pipes, the rattle of old machinery, the thud of boots. We were getting close to the centre of the Ren’s turf now, the shanties growing denser, the people more desperate. Above, a gang of cat girls stalked the roofline, their tails twitching, their laughter cruel as they hunted vermin. One dropped onto a passing dwarf, stealing his pouch before disappearing into the dark, her movements as silent as my own.
All around us, misery reigned. The air tasted of old sweat and new blood. The path wound past another collapsed building, this one piled high with bones, the skulls of rats, cats, even men grinning from the debris. I caught a flash of green eyes in the dark, a child, Alderian or goblin, hiding from the world.
And always, always, I kept my tail around my master, squeezing tighter every time the world pressed in. I needed him close, needed him mine, the bond between us a lifeline, an anchor, a fire that kept the darkness at bay. Every time a threat flickered, every time a scream rose or a shadow moved, I pressed harder, snarling, making sure the world knew what would happen if they tried to break us apart.
We walked through that world like royalty in exile, out of place, untouchable, marked by the stain of power and the threat of violence. My master never wavered, never slowed, never showed fear. I clung to him, claws ready, tail tight, eyes burning.
Let the world watch. Let them hunger. Let them suffer. My master was MINE, and I would tear this whole kingdom of filth apart before I let it take him.
We moved on, deeper into the mine, into the heart of the Ren’s darkness. The world could burn around us and I would not care, so long as I kept him at my side, my claws in his cloak, my tail wound tight around his thigh, dominance undeniable, our bond the only law worth fearing in a world where mercy was just another currency, always spent, never given.
The Ren’s turf thinned slowly, like a disease losing strength only because it was stepping into the territory of something worse. The air shifted first. Not cleaner. Not lighter. Just… tense. The kind of tension that grips the ribs, threads itself between every breath, warping every shadow into a loaded question.
The shanties thinned, the screams grew more distant, the workers fewer, and the Ren patrols thicker, tighter formations, sharper armour, hands always too close to weapon grips. Even the half feral cat girls above slowed their prowling, ears pinned, tails rigid, watching the path ahead with the alertness of predators who knew another predator hunted nearby.
We walked through that thinning mine with the same rhythm as before, my master commanding the space with every step, and me pressed into him, tail tight around his thigh, eyes tracking every shift of torchlight or shadow.
The closer we came, the more the darkness felt… organised. Not safe. Nothing here was safe. But organised in a way that made the Ren’s chaos look almost civilised. Then we saw the border. The warland. The scorched no man’s throat where Ren territory ended and Vigilance territory began.
The tunnel widened abruptly, the ceiling rising into a high, ragged cavern big enough to hold a small town if either side had dared build one. Neither did. This was contested ground, claimed by no one, watched by everyone. A graveyard waiting for fresh bones.
A barricade of jagged scrap metal and broken mine carts marked the Ren’s final line. They had welded plates together haphazardly, creating a spiked wall that looked like a mouth full of rusted teeth. Torches burned in iron brackets, their flames casting long shadows across the barricade. Each torch was shielded so its light didn’t reach too far, the Ren did not want to illuminate their vulnerabilities to the Vigilance.
Beyond that, the cavern stretched wide and empty, a wasteland of rubble, broken stone, and burnt-out scaffolding. Old battle scars marked the ground, scorch marks, bloodstains that never washed out, splintered timber from old barricades. The remains of the Black Fang insignia still lingered in places. Faded, defaced, forgotten. Their territory had become a buffer zone after we helped the Vigilance carve out their fishing district, the Black Fangs scattering like rats before a collapsing roof.
But The Vigilance remained. And they held their border with precision that made The Ren look sloppy. Far across the cavern, illuminated by only a handful of carefully protected lanterns, stood the Vigilance fortification. Not scrap. Not chaos. Structure. Wood reinforced with proper beams. Metal braces. Sturdy barricades angled to deflect projectiles. A watchtower built from thick poles and rope, with two figures perched atop it, crossbows aimed into the dark without wavering.
Ren and Vigilance were mirror images of each other here. Both rigid. Both armed. Both refusing to blink. Because whoever struck first would die second. The no man’s land was quiet. No voices. No footsteps. Just the faint drip of water from somewhere high in the cavern and the soft rattle of metal as the Ren border guards shifted their weight in the shadows.
My vision cut through the dim with ease. I saw everything, the tension in every shoulder, every grip tightened around a spear or club, the nervous twitch of a young Ren scout whose eyes kept darting to the Vigilance barricade. I saw the faint movement behind the Vigilance line, a shape pacing, checking angles, running drills. The Vigilance operated like a proper militia, not a gang. That’s why they won the fishing district. That’s why the Ren hated them.
And I could feel my master beside me, reading the world through me, not seeing my vision, but piecing the environment together by the rhythm of my steps, the angle of my head, the tightening of my tail. The bond hummed between us, steady, sharp, letting him map the battlefield through my instincts.
We walked as though we belonged here. We didn’t. No one belonged in this place. We were too clean, too upright, too deliberate, two travellers walking straight through a wound in the world, and every eye knew it. The Ren guards stiffened as we approached their barricade, their masks turning in unison, tracking our movement. They didn’t challenge us. They didn’t warn us. They simply watched, waiting to see if we’d step further.
Because no one crossed this zone by accident.
I pressed into my master harder, tail tightening until the coil bit into my own muscles. Possessive. Territorial. Dominant. Every instinct screamed to make it clear that he was mine and I would kill anyone who tried to use this warland to take him from me. A pair of Ren watchers whispered behind their masks, their voices hushed, the tone somewhere between fear and recognition. They’d heard stories. They knew enough to keep their distance.
We stepped past the Ren barricade and into the dead zone. The silence swallowed us whole. Every sound echoed too loud, the scrape of our boots on stone, the distant crack of a shifting rock, the faint rumble of machinery deep below. The air tasted stale, charged with the memory of violence. I scanned every direction, ears twitching at every distant scrape or breath.
My master walked calm, steady, black cloak brushing the ground like the shadow of a judgment. He wasn’t afraid. He wasn’t tense. He was calculating this place like a crime scene, noting angles of attack, cover positions, possible ambush routes, the distance to the Vigilance line. I felt him process it through me. Felt his attention sharpen each time my muscles tensed.
Halfway across the cavern, a scream echoed from somewhere beyond the Vigilance border. Quick. Sharp. Cut short. I froze, tail stiffening instinctively. My master didn’t pause, he knew what I had heard by the angle of my ears alone, adjusting his stride subtly to angle us away from exposed rubble.
We reached the midpoint, a stretch of open stone lit only by one dying torch that flickered weakly, casting a trembling halo around us. Shadows stretched long. I hated being in the open. My body pressed into him, shoulder grinding against his arm, my breath hot and fast. I snarled at empty space, just a warning to whoever might be watching.
@Senar2020
