The baron sits in his drawing-room, dipping his quill in ink without setting it to paper. This wasn’t what he had in mind when the took these lands through strength and guile. The family cat wanders in. He could have sworn the door was closed. It jumps into his lap, and sleeps there with not a care in the world. Only with that warm weight, can the baron begin to write his declaration.
Outside the supervision of an overworked milkmaid, the baron’s youngest daughter climbs up to the balcony. She balances, toddling about on it. Before a gust of wind may blow, the cat meows loudly from the door. She jumps down and chases the creature, which playfully runs about from the grabby child.
In the fortress basement, traitors gather their stock. Crossbows, poison in vials, messages declaring their intent. The cat slices their bowstrings, knocks over their vials, and, grabbing a quill from the nearby table begins to forge messages.
Folk tales tell of Old Tom Timson, who ascended to the throne of cathood from Tim Tomson, who died peacefully. Folk tales tell a good deal less about Old Tom’s court. Every law abiding cat in the world pays their respects to King Tom. From the country mousers to city strays, even the tigers of the deep jungle bow before him. His decree is enforced with claw and tooth. And he is a just king. Tigers do not eat men, and only hunt them when their territory in intruded on. The city strays and country mousers have free reign on the birds and rodents that fail to escape their grasp. Contrary to folk tales, the rat and bird kings were long ago deposed, and their people now survive as long as they can breed and do not irritate King Tom.
He keeps regular and mutually beneficial diplomatic arrangements with the kingdoms of the fae, and respects the territories of the wild spirits. Any cat may be called to service as courier, ambassador, agent or assassin, according to their talents. The activities of the wild cats are largely unknown to mortals. But the purpose of house cats is widely known. They protect their human charges. They keep plagues and famines at bay. King Tom and his court have grown prosperous, and only slightly fat, on human labor, and they support their two-legged friends. Feline nobility are often placed in a position to care for noble human families (who perceive the relationship the other way around). Such cats ensure the wellbeing of the fief in their own subtle way. They have special relationships with children, who have not yet lost their ability to perceive the true world, and see to their proper upbringing as much as any servant or relative.
The humans think they have domesticated cats the same way they have dogs. King Tom is content to let them think that. He is sad for the kingdom of Wolves, which has grown unbearably factionalized since he was a kitten. He remembers the last Wolf King, savage and dignified, and had close friendships with his pups. Now the humans have split them into innumerable clans, barely united by blood or behavior. He does not begrudge the humans this. By their nature, they know not what they do, but it saddens him.
The rare cat that violates his law, or other creature that breaches the accords set by King Tom meets swift punishment. The cats have succeeded in delegating many of these responsibilities to other beings; humans who kill or mistreat cats are cast out of society, though humans do not fully understand why they do this. Other animals understand why they do so; to hunt is acceptable, but to kill cats cruelly or without need would bring the terrible wrath of King Tom on hundreds of their kind.
In a space that lies behind curtains and between cushions, one may find the Palace of Cats. Its outer gate is surrounded by harsh wilderness, guarded fiercely by great predators. Its inner gate holds the court itself, lions, linxes, leopards, jaguars and ocelots who luxuriate in every comfort brought to them by human hands. Outside the inner sanctum are posted sphinxes, chimerae, manticores, one of every dread beast that holds Tom as its liege lord. Within, the personal court resides. Graymalkin oversees the affairs of thousands of mages, acting as the court wizard. Cat Sith is the king’s personal executioner, and he hungers for hot blood.
And past a nondescript oak door one may, if he were to somehow bypass every other obstacle, find a cozy, candlelit room where a tawny house cat rests on a single satin pillow, pocked with claw marks from long use. King Tom Timson is the most dangerous creature in the entire palace. He must be, since cats are predators despite their pretenses to civilization, much as their human servants are.
And he has held his throne for a long time. He yet remembers the wedding gift he offered to a young, starstruck couple named Titania and Auberon (a wreath of three-hundred herbs, if it interests you). For cats live short lives, but Tom Timson is said to be ancient by most immortal beings. Indeed, we have only folk-tales to show that there was once another king, named Tim Tomson. He sees through a hundred million eyes, feels their slicing claws and tearing fangs, and the backrubs. Yes, King Tom especially feels the backrubs.
Outside the supervision of an overworked milkmaid, the baron’s youngest daughter climbs up to the balcony. She balances, toddling about on it. Before a gust of wind may blow, the cat meows loudly from the door. She jumps down and chases the creature, which playfully runs about from the grabby child.
In the fortress basement, traitors gather their stock. Crossbows, poison in vials, messages declaring their intent. The cat slices their bowstrings, knocks over their vials, and, grabbing a quill from the nearby table begins to forge messages.
Folk tales tell of Old Tom Timson, who ascended to the throne of cathood from Tim Tomson, who died peacefully. Folk tales tell a good deal less about Old Tom’s court. Every law abiding cat in the world pays their respects to King Tom. From the country mousers to city strays, even the tigers of the deep jungle bow before him. His decree is enforced with claw and tooth. And he is a just king. Tigers do not eat men, and only hunt them when their territory in intruded on. The city strays and country mousers have free reign on the birds and rodents that fail to escape their grasp. Contrary to folk tales, the rat and bird kings were long ago deposed, and their people now survive as long as they can breed and do not irritate King Tom.
He keeps regular and mutually beneficial diplomatic arrangements with the kingdoms of the fae, and respects the territories of the wild spirits. Any cat may be called to service as courier, ambassador, agent or assassin, according to their talents. The activities of the wild cats are largely unknown to mortals. But the purpose of house cats is widely known. They protect their human charges. They keep plagues and famines at bay. King Tom and his court have grown prosperous, and only slightly fat, on human labor, and they support their two-legged friends. Feline nobility are often placed in a position to care for noble human families (who perceive the relationship the other way around). Such cats ensure the wellbeing of the fief in their own subtle way. They have special relationships with children, who have not yet lost their ability to perceive the true world, and see to their proper upbringing as much as any servant or relative.
The humans think they have domesticated cats the same way they have dogs. King Tom is content to let them think that. He is sad for the kingdom of Wolves, which has grown unbearably factionalized since he was a kitten. He remembers the last Wolf King, savage and dignified, and had close friendships with his pups. Now the humans have split them into innumerable clans, barely united by blood or behavior. He does not begrudge the humans this. By their nature, they know not what they do, but it saddens him.
The rare cat that violates his law, or other creature that breaches the accords set by King Tom meets swift punishment. The cats have succeeded in delegating many of these responsibilities to other beings; humans who kill or mistreat cats are cast out of society, though humans do not fully understand why they do this. Other animals understand why they do so; to hunt is acceptable, but to kill cats cruelly or without need would bring the terrible wrath of King Tom on hundreds of their kind.
In a space that lies behind curtains and between cushions, one may find the Palace of Cats. Its outer gate is surrounded by harsh wilderness, guarded fiercely by great predators. Its inner gate holds the court itself, lions, linxes, leopards, jaguars and ocelots who luxuriate in every comfort brought to them by human hands. Outside the inner sanctum are posted sphinxes, chimerae, manticores, one of every dread beast that holds Tom as its liege lord. Within, the personal court resides. Graymalkin oversees the affairs of thousands of mages, acting as the court wizard. Cat Sith is the king’s personal executioner, and he hungers for hot blood.
And past a nondescript oak door one may, if he were to somehow bypass every other obstacle, find a cozy, candlelit room where a tawny house cat rests on a single satin pillow, pocked with claw marks from long use. King Tom Timson is the most dangerous creature in the entire palace. He must be, since cats are predators despite their pretenses to civilization, much as their human servants are.
And he has held his throne for a long time. He yet remembers the wedding gift he offered to a young, starstruck couple named Titania and Auberon (a wreath of three-hundred herbs, if it interests you). For cats live short lives, but Tom Timson is said to be ancient by most immortal beings. Indeed, we have only folk-tales to show that there was once another king, named Tim Tomson. He sees through a hundred million eyes, feels their slicing claws and tearing fangs, and the backrubs. Yes, King Tom especially feels the backrubs.
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