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Quarla wrinkled her nose as she stepped around the bloated corpse of yet another goblin. The new governor – governess rather – had been right quick to organize what was left of the Nezpot garrison to begin cleanup and removal of the bodies following the aftermath of the rum-fueled goblin uprising. The hot jungle sun worked faster, and while the main streets of Nezpot had been cleared, plenty of side streets and back alleys were still full of rotting, sun-bloated corpses.
This goblin, dead by some hideous head wound, had already been stripped clean of valuables, so Quarla didn’t even bother to poke around at its intact bits for copper rings or pretty stones.
Quarla marched impatiently on, eager to leave this stinking dump of a capital. It was overrun by brownies and pale northerners with less sense than a headless chicken.
Speaking of headless chickens, Quarla had to step around the gutted remains of a large rooster. She scoffed at the waste of food. Damn goblins.
The goblins had been in some blood frenzy. Whether that was due to former Governor Aerlyle’s rum-running, or their big mojo wizards, she didn’t know. Didn’t care either, really. Quarla just wanted to get back home, if it even still existed.
She’d done her part in this war, warning the jungle locals in their greenie villages and helping them flee from the goblins’ warpath. She’d even gone to warn the heretics. Hell, she’d come all the way to Nezpot to make sure Chekwe’d made it through. He’d been beat up but in his usual spirits – that is, rum, banana wine, and a particularly fine rye whiskey pilfered from the governor’s private collection. Not that he shared any-
Meow.
Quarla paused in her mental grumbling to scan the ground but didn’t see anything. Maybe it was all of those night hikes getting to her. Except Quarla knew jungle madness was a silly brownie superstition.
Meow.
There, underneath a shredded wicker basket, half covered in debris from the smashed wall above it, was the most pathetic little kitten Quarla had ever seen.
Its patchy orange fur was matted with blood from a dozen wounds along its sides and back. It was missing an ear. One of the legs was injured too, she could see from its limp.
Quarla had never wanted a pet. Her chickens were close enough, and they were damn tasty too. Why would she bother to feed a useless little creature that wouldn’t even feed her (because really, who eats a kitten)?
Her sympathetic sneer curled into a smile when the bedraggled thing meowed again, finally struggling free from the basket and tumbling up against her ankle.
“Aren’t you the ugliest little thing?” she crowed, plucking it up and gingerly checking its injuries. They were mostly superficial, she thought. With a bit of care, the thing would recover just fine. Minus the ear, of course. And the scarring. And the fact that it was born ugly.
Quarla pulled the last strip of dried goat from her daily bag and tore off a bit for the kitten, who devoured it with tiny, needly teeth.
“Well, aren’t you a hungry little man?” Quarla grumbled. “Let’s go steal you some milk.”
As little as she wanted to care for even more varmints, something about this kitten felt oddly familiar. It reminded her of a certain friend of hers who once fell into her life in a very similar way.
And she knew just what to name him.