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Balerion promenaded down the corridor with wary eyes. He didn't come here often. A specific kind of human people had lived in this wing of the fortress until two moonrises ago: those humans who thought themselves to be more advanced and refined than the others – only they were not.
And then, the big battle had happened. Balerion knew quite a bit about battles; one only had to look at his torn ear and his patchy, ruffled black fur.
The humans had naturally fought with these wooden and metallic claws, because they didn't have any proper claws themselves. Mollycoddled species.
The only human who had been different had been this enervating dark-haired girl that had always smelled like an extremely big, wild dog.
Balerion licked his paw swiftly to camouflage the indignation he felt. That this girl had dared to try to catch him had been a stigma resting on his name, no less. He had been the unchallenged monster of the Red Keep until that fateful day. Cats and men alike had shied away from him, and he had even stolen food from the people's paws.
Insolent human kitten! It was only good she had disappeared.
Balerion brushed his whiskers with his paw and resumed his stroll.
Well, there were interesting things to see here at the moment. The red-golden tapestries had disappeared or were hanging loose on the walls, and in shreds. A younger, lesser cat might have been intrigued by the tattered strings and might have played with them, but he, Balerion the Black Dread, was above such futile distractions.
The tomcat eyed the floor. The human carcasses had been removed, but the many blotches of dried blood could still be seen an smelled.
Slowly, he crept further.
Suddenly, he pricked up his scarred ears.
“Meow! Meeeeaaaaoowww!”
(“Hunger! Despair!”)
There were three weak, high-pitched, frightened noises.
Oh by the everlasting black ball of strings!
The last thing Balerion wanted to do was to come to any blasted kitten's aid.
Somehow, he still ended up in a room he had not been in since his own youth.
“Meow!”
(“Hunger!”)
Damn – and there they were. Three black fuzzballs, screeching for their mommy's teats. Only there was no mother cat around. And the kittens weren't so very tiny either – but seemingly too overbred and too stupid to smell their own farts – even less to find their way to the kitchen wing.
“Meow?”
(“Who are you?”)
“Mawwww!”
(“Help!”)
“Maooow!”
(“Thirsty!”)
That was too much for Balerion.
As vicious as ever, he spat: “I don't care, if you starve to death, because you're furred dimwits and a shame for our species, but I AM going to the kitchen now, and I'm going to steal some milk and roast.”
With these words he turned around, tail proudly pointing upwards, and ambled out of the room again.
Behind him, there was suddenly a major hullabaloo, and the kittens were seemingly toppling over each other in their zealousness to follow him. Well. At least the fuzzballs seemed to have some survival instinct.
Slowly, Balerion swaggered down the empty corridor, a stampede of twelve furred paws and some deafening cacophonies of high-pitched mewls behind him.
The old tomcat hopped down a flight of steps. These proved to be some notable obstacles for the little ones. Their descent would have reminded Balerion of a black kitten avalanche – if he had ever known what an avalanche was. And if he had had hands instead of paws he would have palmed his face in shame.
The way it was, he simply cursed: “Seven bleeding rats!” – and moved on, seemingly stoically, as it behoved even the most tousled tomcat in the Red Keep.
Finally, they arrived at the kitchen door. Balerion pressed his big body heavily against the opening, and the wooden construction gave way with a little squeak.
The tomcat tiptoed into the big room where the bright fires were always lit. While the upper corridors were deserted and abandoned there were still some people here, so you had to be really stealthy and quiet, if you intended to snatch some f...
“MEOWWWW!?”
(“Anybody here? Wanna have food!”)
“The black ball of yarn take you!” Balerion hissed at the naïve female kitten behind him.
Suddenly, there was the scurrying of human feet.
The tomcat was just in the process of making a strategic withdrawal...
“Awwww! Boyd, look! Black, little kittens! Oh, and they look so hungry!”
“MEOW!”
(“Yes! Right! Food!”)
There was a kitchen boy standing in the way now. By the look on his stupid, hairless human face he was completely mesmerized.
A man promptly appeared at his side, and that man had at least some yellow fur and whiskers on his face – though no hair on the head. Human appearances were so weird.
“You're right, Cleos, haven't seen no thing as cute as this fer ages. An' look! There's this black monster Balerion. He's all black like them kittens. Must be their sire.”
On hearing something so ridiculous (he – the father of this overbred, underbrained, fluffy spawn!?), the old tomcat was indignant beyond limits and wanted to give Boyd's spindly legs a good scratch...
… when suddenly, a bowl filled with cream (CREAM!) landed on the floor with a clank.
“Ma-waww!” – “Maaaaw!” – “Mewwew!”
(“Adequate! – Finally! – More!”)
No five seconds later, three black little kittens stood with their paws waist-deep in the cream bowl.
Fuck. This wasn't tolerable. The cream was for him!
With all the dignity the greedy, old tomcat could muster he stalked to the pot, towered above the totally bedraggled little ones, used his physical presence to get some access to liquid cat heaven and began to slobber on the cream energetically. Holy shit, that was good!
“Boyd, I can't believe it! Yes, you're right. This is the cutest possible thing. Let's do some more for the little lions.”
“Only if you don't use that “Lion” name any more.”
“Oh, sorry, yes, I forgot.”
Balerion looked up from the pot with white smudges of sweet cream on his muzzle. He already felt slightly inebriated from the amount of good stuff he had consumed in such a short time – but then, his pupils got really wide: the human called “Cleos” was putting down a wooden platter... and on it, there was some fresh, raw chicken!
Meanwhile, the man named “Boyd” was saying: “You know what? Put them rags into that old basket. Them little cats can have a nice place for sleepin'. Will be tired after the feast for sure.”
Balerion looked at the bowl, at the basket, at the piggy kittens that were still scrambling for the food, and at the platter with the chicken. The old tomcat licked his muzzle. And made a decision. Maddening as the little ones were – he'd keep them. Adopt them. Train them to survive. They'd help him to lure the kitchen staff into keeping them fed – him, that was – and into giving them shelter. For Balerion standards that was a totally fair deal, he felt.