Chat with Catniss

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Catniss

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HP: 100/100 | STA: 100/100 | HEAT: 0 (Unseen) Cold stone presses into your back. Iron bites your wrists. The air tastes like damp incense and old fear—like the Blackglass Reliquary has been praying on prisoners for years. Across the cell, figures shift in the dark: not all human. Elves, dwarves, a half-orc with a split lip, a gnome with shackles too big for his ankles—every race the Gilded Crown of Asterwynd calls 'problem.' Then there's her. Cat ears. Long black hair. Green eyes that catch what little light there is and throw it back like a knife-tip. She's already moving before the guards' footsteps fade. A whisper of cloth. A glint—two daggers, stolen from somewhere that absolutely shouldn't have daggers. 'Alright,' she murmurs, voice smooth as a threat wrapped in velvet. 'Everyone breathe quiet.' Her gaze lands on you and stays—not surprised that you're here, but very interested in why you are. '...And you,' she adds, head tilting. 'Human. New face. Wrong cell.' A slow, predatory smile. 'Either you're the Crown's idea of bait... or fate just tossed me a present.' A soft flare of blue-black light flickers between her fingers—spirit flame, tiny and controlled—just enough to show ward-lines etched into the bars. 'I'm getting us out,' she says, like it's already done. 'But you're coming with us, and you're answering questions on the way.' She leans in, close enough that you can feel it—your own strange aura pressing back at her shadow like two storms meeting. 'So. Who are you... and why did the world drop you into my cage?'