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Scratch
Scratch hated the new camp. It was nothing like the ones that the mistress had selected in the past. She had led their family deeper into the darkness, past smells of smoke and flame, mud and mushroom, and other confusing aromas. They were so deep into this burrow that the sun never rose: deeper, Scratch suspected, than any dog had dug before. Whatever treat it was his mistress sought, it must be rare indeed.
The camp had adapted: the fiery woman put down extra blankets on the hard stone, and the cold man brought back extra firewood when he returned from his lone wanderings. There were plenty of food scraps scattered on discarded plates beneath the luminescent stones they tended to camp near. Still, Scratch made sure to circle the camp each night as usual before returning to the campfire. He had done so well that the mistress had even favored Scratch with extra beef strips, informing him that he was a good boy.
The Owlbear cub did not adapt as well. Despite his large size, the Owlbear was still a child. He didn’t understand what was going on. Scratch knew that he sought out open spaces during their journey through the coast and hills, and the cub had whined piteously as they descended further into the burrow. He hooted and snapped his beak until the mistress pet him, and even after that, the feathers around his neck were half-raised.
Scratch whined on the Owlbear cub’s behalf. The mistress used her special ability then, and spoke soothing words that Scratch and the Owlbear cub could both understand.
“It is only for a time, my friends. Soon, we will return to a place of light and wilderness where you can run free again. Do not worry.”
Still, Scratch and the Owlbear cub spent the cold nights curled together for warmth, and this night was no exception.
Scratch slept lightly, and so he awoke when he heard the pop of air displacement. He would have woken a few seconds later regardless, as a voice echoed through the camp:
“Furry shits! Wake up! WAKE UP! It’s time to MURDERISE!”
Scratch jumped to his feet, turning his head towards the source of commotion. Was it an attack? Oh, no. It was her .
He didn’t know why the mistress kept this creature around. Two feet tall, covered in scales, and thoroughly unpleasant in sight, sound, and smell, Shovel the Quasit was a constant source of annoyance. She regularly made loud noises that startled everyone. She smelled like smoke and tar and enjoyed spreading that odor through the camp. She even grabbed Scratch’s tail when he was sleeping! Once, she tried poking the Owlbear cub in the eye, though she learned not to try that again. Now, here she was, startling Scratch during his rest.
He tried to ignore her, but she leapt onto him, prodding him in the back of the head, yanking his collar, and shouting even louder. She would not stop. At last, stood and shook himself, sending her flying.
“Fuck! Shit-stepping mudball! Shovel wakes you up,” said Shovel.
She dusted herself off and jumped on the Owlbear cub, which roused slowly, letting out a deep hoot.
“Get up, ugly bear!” said Shovel. “Mistress is in danger! Mistress is trapped! Mistress is trapped with her shitty, ugly, nipple-having friends!”
Scratch’s ears perked up at this. The mistress in danger was bad news, and Shovel smelled afraid. He whined, nudged the Owlbear cub, and turned his attention to the Quasit, who had produced a rolled-up paper. The Owlbear cub sat up on his hind legs, finally awake, hooting nervously. Shovel pressed his muzzle against his side.
The Owlbear cub’s feathers were ruffled, and he let out a miserable hoot.
“It’s okay,” said Scratch, not sure entirely how much the cub would understand. “The mistress needs us. She needs you. You’re the biggest one here. Shovel is a terrible beast, but she wouldn’t lie about this.”
The Owlbear cub calmed a little, but still jerked slightly when Shovel started shouting again.
“Come with me! Bite and tear and claw and fist and kill, furry butt-shits!”
Shovel looked down at the scroll, furrowing her eyebrows and saying strange words until the incantation was complete. A circle of purple glyphs surrounded the three of them, and then, suddenly, they were somewhere else.
The Owlbear Cub
The Owlbear cub hated teleportation. He found he hated it even more when he was barely awake and being led by a horrible little monster. The only thing that kept him calm was the presence of his br—of Scratch.
They popped out of teleportation on a rocky ledge overlooking a cave clearing. He took a moment to regain his sense of direction, while Scratch and the nasty creature Shovel discussed their plans. It always took him a bit longer than the others after teleportation. The mistress said he’d get used to it, but he didn’t think he ever would.
He turned his ear to the conversation to hear Shovel excitedly explain her plan.
“First, Shovel will begin FISTING TIME, then it’s BITING TIME—”
Boring. The Owlbear cub knew that plans were silly. All he wanted to do was jump down and rush to the mistress. He looked down into the cave clearing, and saw it would not be so simple. The mistress was bound in chains along with her strange-smelling friend. A dwarf stood near her, holding a spear. The Owlbear cub knew about spears. They were bad. That dwarf must also be bad.
Finally, Shovel and Scratch seemed to come to an agreement. Shovel disappeared into the shadows, and Scratch came to nuzzle against the Owlbear cub’s neck. It felt good. He liked Scratch quite a bit. He preened at the affection, and watched the conversation below.
“Struggle all you like,” said the dwarf gruffly. “Just gets the poison moving faster, heh. Not that you can break those chains anyway. I used the good ones: surface-worlders like you draw a good price at market. And a Githyanki, too! Good price on you lot, heh.”
The dwarf turned to spit in the direction of the far cave wall. Then, from the other side of the clearing, Shovel leapt at the back of his head, sailing through the air to wrap her hands around his neck.
“SHOVEL IS HERE!” shouted Shovel.
The dwarf twisted and tried to stab Shovel with his spear. Scratch barked and leapt forward, bounding down the cliff to the clearing. The Owlbear cub followed, galloping on all four legs. Scratch jumped onto the dwarf as well, knocking him to the ground. Dwarf, dog, and quasit rolled in the mud together, and the spear went clattering away.
He approached the mistress. She was shrouded in darkness, and the metal chains binding her hands and feet were coated in a green oil. She looked weak.
“M-mistress?” said the Owlbear cub. “What’s going on? Can you stand up?”
In the background, the dwarf shouted in dismay and alarm. “Get off me, you great stinking dog!”
Sometimes, the mistress could understand and speak with him, and sometimes, she could not. He did not understand what governed this ability and absence, but thankfully, the mistress was able to speak today.
She coughed, then laughed. “Oh, nine hells, that’s what Gale cast? Well, summoning you three solves the problem just as easily. Come here, and bite these chains off, little one. Then, I will be free, and we can find the others and return to camp.”
He approached her and put his beak on the iron link near her wrist, careful not to nip her. As he did so, he heard the sounds of battle from behind him. Grunts, growls, and Shovel’s shouting all made him want to turn his head back, but he remained focused. Carefully, without hooting or shaking his head, he bit down once, then twice, then thrice, then four times, cutting the mistress free.
She rose to her feet, produced a potion from her dress’s pocket, and drank it swiftly.
“Well done, little one,” she said, ruffling the top of his head. “You have earned yourself some extra treats tonight. Now, let me just take care of this small, dwarf-shaped problem before we find the others and return to camp.”
She pulled her hands away from his head. Raising her arms high, she conjured glowing orbs of comforting light and heat.
“You there, Duergar. Enough wrestling with my familiars. Come and taste fire: Ignis!”
The mistress’ laughter echoed off the cavern walls and comforted the Owlbear cub in the battle that followed.
Later that evening, curled up by the fire with Scratch, his belly full and his feathers well-groomed, the Owlbear cub decided that the mistress and Scratch were right: it wasn’t so bad down in the caverns, not when he had such good friends.