Welcome Aboard, Murder Cat!

It is said that in the vast expanse of Charted Space, there exists a precise calculation for how far one’s luck can plummet before the universe itself feels the need to apologize. This calculation is known as Finagle’s Constant, and on this particular morning, Scarred-Snout of Clan Seieakh had become its living embodiment.

He was in a pit.

There were bones. Some were decorative. Some were atmospheric. Several had been chewed. One still had a bracelet.

There was blood. Mostly his. Some of it had dried into worrying shapes. His armour itched, his stomach growled, and his pride had gone to sulk somewhere behind his kidneys.

There were stone walls, slick and worn, and scented with centuries of unasked-for religious enthusiasm.

And then there was the statue.

Carved into the far wall with the kind of zeal usually reserved for taxes and interstellar sports, it loomed over him in the form of a malformed many-eyed entity clearly designed by committee. It smiled the kind of smile that came with fine print. It had way too many tentacles.

Scarred-Snout stared at it.

It stared back.

He spat blood in its general direction. “This,” he growled, “is not honourable."

He had been hired as both cook and security escort for a caravan of offworlders with too much money and not nearly enough survival instinct. They claimed to be merchants.

They were not.

The crates had held contraband, false relics, and one box that bled light even when sealed.

The artefact inside had sung. Then screamed. Then exploded.

Five porters died instantly. The others caught fire in ways the local physics still haven’t forgiven. The guide dissolved with such drama that Scarred-Snout suspected he had rehearsed it.

His employers, loud and perfumed and suddenly very interested in personal safety, launched skyward in a panic, taking their safari ship, their false hunting permits, and his meal prep schedule with them. They did not, notably, take him.

Scarred-Snout survived. This was not a surprise.

What followed was less dignified.

The locals had arrived to investigate the fire, the crater, and the smell of death. They found an Aslan, wounded but alive, surrounded by broken crates and the sort of corpse pile that suggests “do not approach.”

Naturally, they approached.

He tried to explain. Really. He even put down his axe.

Someone screamed something about the Sky-Beast of Kaith’rrhul. They attacked. A mistake on their part.

He killed dozens. Not happily. Not cleanly. His axe did not think it too many.

He collapsed on a hill of the fallen, muscles trembling, vision flickering.

Then came the drums. Chanting. A face painted like a skull. Smoke. Incense. A dart.

They drugged him. Tied his hands with ceremonial rope. And tossed him, solemnly and with great pageantry and regrettable chanting, into a pit sacred to a god who clearly had opinions about tentacles.

That was two days ago.

Now he was awake, sore, furious, and carving detailed insults into a bone with his scrimshaw kit while the god-statue leered at him like it wanted a snack.

And that’s when a ship’s shadow blocked out the sun overhead.

Low, fast, loud. Human-built. Scout class. Modified. Someone with too much confidence and not enough reverence. It landed nearby.

Then came the voices. Distant, echoing. Impossible to make out clearly, but the tone carried well enough.

One was human. Female and exasperated. Another was clearly a Vargr - too many vowels, not enough certainty. A third was calm and too measured. Machine, then. The fourth… female, again, but with the dominant cadence of command. Sharp. Playful. Dangerous.

He caught some Galanglic words. "Pit." Then "Bones." Then "Loot?"

Scarred-Snout squinted up through the dust and light, fur bristling faintly.

Humans. Possibly mad. Almost certainly armed.

And bickering.

He narrowed his eyes.

Salvation or death.

Either way, better than the statue.

***

Caitlin crouched at the crater’s edge, peering thoughtfully down at the giant Aslan in the pit - blood-matted fur, emerald eyes, and the aura of a war god who’d lost an argument with a combine harvester. He growled something deep and rasping, each syllable thick with fury and pride.

“That's one extremely annoyed murder cat,” she mused.

Beside her, Morwen casually adjusted her grip on her laser rifle. “Should we shoot him?”

“Nah. Might be useful.”

“He’s growling.”

"Pretty sure that’s just him saying ‘hello’.”

Scarred-Snout stared up at the women, squinted into the sun, and rumbled, “I am owed honour. Also meat. Possibly both.”

“What’s your name then?” asked the Vargr.

The Aslan’s lip curled into a slow, deliberate snarl. His voice rolled up from the pit, every syllable steeped in pride and honour.

“Hlao'iykhateirrohrrifiy'Seieakh’tyeahtlahaoh'khaairra’fekhkhta’ihrakh.”

The name echoed, full of glottal stops and vocal cord gymnastics. Maltz took a step back. A flock of birds took to the sky.

Caitlin blinked, rummaged in her faded scout jacket, and pulled out a battered leather pouch that jingled ominously. “I swear I had a Trokh chip... hang on...”

She shook it like a snack bag. A few tiny program slivers spilled into her hand – Gunner (Turret), Diplomat, one labelled simply Lute?, and finally, a scratched chip bearing a Trokh glyph and a dried smear that might once have been jam.

“Right so,” she muttered, popping it into her neural jack. A faint hiss. A jolt behind the eyes. A soft voice in her head. “Trokh, loading.”

She blinked twice, focused. “Alright. Say that again. Slowly.”

The Aslan repeated his name. Caitlin’s program parsed it, tasting every syllable like it might be poisonous.

“Hunter of Seieakh, third-born under the Fang Moon, bearer of the scar-bite gift, who walks the long road with weapon, fire, and story.”

He added, “You may call me Scarred-Snout. It is easier... for your language.”

Caitlin tilted her head. “Fair.”

She stood, dusted her hands on her trousers, and turned back toward her crew.

“Alright, let’s get him out,” she said. “Sure, what harm could it do?”

***

Scarred-Snout squinted into the light as two small shapes arced down toward him. He caught them both in one hand, grimacing as they thunked against a rib that was, until recently, not cracked.

Grav belts.

He looked up. Caitlin stood silhouetted against the edge of the pit, backlit like a sarcastic saint. “We figured one might buckle,” she called down cheerfully. “Double up, unless you want to arrive in pieces.”

He bared his fangs. “Honour demands I rise unaided.”

Morwen leaned over, tone flat. “By all means, martyr yourself on the way up. Saves us feeding you.”

Scarred-Snout snarled under his breath but fastened the belts anyway.

The belts whined as they engaged, barely compensating for his size. He rose slowly, like a very angry parade balloon, carefully avoiding the outstretched tentacles of He Who Embraces With Enthusiasm.

He touched down with a controlled thud. Caitlin stepped back, green eyes gleaming.

“So,” she said. “What’s the plan, big man?”

Scarred-Snout’s eyes swept across them. Measured. Calculating. Then he told his story in halting Galanglic, heavy with pride and growl, while Caitlin helpfully filled in the harder words like treachery, incinerated, and perfumed arseholes.

“I will find the men who betrayed me,” he ended. “I will reclaim my name. And then I will cook dinner.”

“Right so,” Caitlin replied. “And what if I offered you a lift, a job, and a kitchen?”

He blinked. “You wish to hire me?”

“Well, someone’s got to keep Quinn from poisoning us by accident,” she shrugged. “And frankly, I like the look of you. Also, we can help you with your plan.”

Quinn sighed, eyes glowing faintly. “You wouldn’t even be the weirdest member of the crew.”

Morwen nodded, “And if you kill Cait, I get the ship.”

Scarred-Snout stared at this deranged collection of lunatics.

He grunted. “For now, I accept. But I claim a corner of the galley.”

“Done,” Caitlin said, reaching out to shake his bloodstained hand. “Just try not to kill anyone without warning.” 

“I make no promises.” 

“Perfect.”

And with that, Scarred-Snout joined the crew of the Morrigan.

There would be blood. There would be fire.

And dinner would be served hot. And with honour.