After what could generously be called a victory over Poffin's bath time rebellion this morning, the team finally packed up, steeling themselves for the long road ahead.
The morning was crisp as they set out, boots crunching against the dirt path leading out of town. Poffin, freshly washed and looking like an overinflated cotton ball, waddled proudly at the head of the group, clearly under the impression that he was leading a grand expedition.
"So..." Velvet started, adjusting the strap of her bag. "North, huh?"
"Yep," Ash said, already looking ahead with that thousand-yard stare of someone mentally calculating how many inns, detours, and inevitable disasters awaited them. "All the way. Across rivers. Through mountains. Past towns. Possibly through a chicken festival if the posters are right."
"We're going to die," Vix said cheerily, spinning a dagger between her fingers like a baton.
"We're not going to die," Seren added in her usual calm tone. "We're going to be mildly inconvenienced, which is worse."
"Over and over again," Kale said, sighing.
Still, despite the looming journey, there was an air of excitement buzzing among them. They had a direction. A goal.
Even if it meant stopping by every suspicious town, weird market, and cursed roadside attraction along the way.
Poffin gave a mighty "pomf!" as he bounced forward, clearly unaware of just how long the road ahead was.
Velvet smirked as they followed after him. "One step at a time, right?"
"More like one catastrophe at a time," Ash muttered under his breath — but he smiled all the same.
And so, the grand northward march began...
Very slowly.
With a lot of snack breaks.
---
In the city of Silkshear, the air was crisp with threads of elegance—quite literally. Looms clattered in rhythm across the cobbled streets, and mannequins stood proudly in shopfronts like soldiers of style. The party arrived bundled in layers of "we-didn't-plan-for-the-cold", drawing more than a few raised brows from the fashion-forward citizens.
Silkshear was a city carved from velvet and sewn with ambition. Known across the continent as the pinnacle of fabrics, fashion, and formalwear, it was also home to the Grand Atelier—a revered tailoring guild said to craft coats that could withstand a snowstorm and a fashion critique.
Naturally, the party's first stop was to find warmth, dignity, and something that didn't itch. On their journey up to the north it was only going to get colder, what better way then to find warm fabrics early on in the city of fashion and thread.
Ash muttered as he tugged at his fraying sleeves, "If anyone tries to sell me another scarf made of 'authentic yak dreams,' I swear I'll start punching threads."
Velvet was already dragging him to the nearest boutique, eyes gleaming. "This is a city of beauty, Ash. Learn to suffer for fashion."
Poffin, however, had somehow acquired three hats, a shawl, and what might've been a curtain wrapped like a toga. "I have transcended warmth," he declared. "I am now fabric."
Seren smiled softly, already trying on gloves stitched with glowing runes, while Kale posed in front of a mirror with an overly dramatic cloak, looking like a discount villain.
And Lyra? Oh, she was home. The spark in her eyes lit up brighter than any enchanted chandelier as she admired the familiar artistry on every thread. She hadn't said anything yet—but she didn't need to. Silkshear was her world.
And it was about to unravel a few truths of its own.
Lyra vanished into the Silkshear crowd like a thread pulled into silk—laughing as she drifted from boutique to boutique, leaving behind trails of coin and chaos. "Essential shopping," she insisted, despite the twenty bags levitating behind her like fashionable satellites. "Cold weather is no excuse to look like uncultured snowmen."
Meanwhile, the rest of the party loitered outside a particularly expensive-looking coat emporium, debating whether a coat made of "Phoenix Shed Down" was actually just feather-duster rejects.
Poffin, who had snuck a suspicious amount of free samples from a nearby snack cart, was busy gnawing on something that definitely wasn't food when he suddenly felt it.
A chill—not from the cold, but from being watched.
From a shadowed alley just off the bustling plaza, a figure lurked with gloved hands pressed together, eyes glinting like needles threading opportunity. Their gaze was fixed not on the party, not on the pricey garments... but on Poffin.
They whispered under their breath, voice trembling with giddy hunger, "Is that… what the Demon King wanted? Untouched? Untamed? Unwoven?" Their pupils dilated like a tailor seeing black-market velvet. "Oh, you fuzzy little miracle… you're going to give me that promotion... just after I buy these handbags on a 90% discount."
Cue dramatic fabric twirl as they vanished into the shadows—plotting their next move, and perhaps already plotting something.
Poffin stopped mid-bite, ears twitching. "…Why do I feel like I just got mentally sheared?"
The streets of Silkshear shimmered with flowing banners, enchanted mannequins, and fabrics that practically whispered elegance. Velvet and Seren examined racks of enchanted coats that adjusted to your body temperature; Kale picked up a heroic-looking trench coat that came with its own dramatically fluttering wind effect.
Meanwhile, Ash had made the tragic mistake of saying "I'll try anything once."
Now he stood in the middle of a boutique, draped in a faux unicorn onesie with a glittering rainbow sash. Lyra clapped excitedly, completely ignoring his existential crisis. "You look adorable! Like a battle-ready piñata!"
Ash mumbled something incoherent about "never making fun of Poffin's collar again."
Speaking of Poffin—he wasn't anywhere near the fun.
He sat at the edge of the sidewalk, ears low, eyes darting. Every sound of rustling silk made his fur stand on end. The laughter and conversation around him faded beneath the weight of something uncanny. He was sure someone was watching him. Not in a "look at the cute little guy" way, but in a "which part would make the softest trim" way.
Every now and then, a flash of movement in an alley. A glint of shears catching light. He narrowed his eyes, nose twitching.
Still, when he turned to alert the others, Ash was getting fitted into a cape that sparkled violently under moonlight, Kale was arguing with a scarf about its moral alignment, and Velvet was too busy mentally calculating coat-to-combat-efficiency ratios.
No one noticed the seamstress shadowing them from stall to stall.
No one but Poffin.
And he was just waiting for them to say, "You're just being paranoid."
Spoiler: He was not.
Poffin was not okay.
Sure, the boutique looked fancy—pillars draped in imported silks, mannequins dressed like runway aristocrats, and ambient harp music playing softly from invisible speakers—but it might as well have been a haunted mansion to him.
Poffin squished himself nervously between two coat racks, eyes locked on the velvet curtain of the nearest fitting room like it was his only line of defense.
"Okay," he whispered, "don't panic. It's just fabric. Fancy, probably overpriced fabric. Fabric can't hurt you."
A mannequin in a feather boa shifted slightly in the corner. Probably the wind. Definitely not the cloaked figure now gliding silently between displays, scissors glinting like twin fangs.
One by one, the curtains around him closed with a swish as the party slipped into fitting rooms. Lyra giggled something about "a reversible dress that changes color based on your mood." Velvet mumbled about "maneuverability." Ash grunted, "How does this shirt have four sleeves?"
And then… silence.
Poffin blinked.
The lights dimmed just a little.
The elegant instrumental music turned ever so slightly off-key.
He was alone.
Dead center in a boutique.
And now… the party was gone. Not gone gone, just fitting-room gone.
He slowly backed up toward the fitting rooms, whispering, "Guys…? Buddy system, remember? Hello? Anyone? Velvet? I swear if I get kidnapped again I'm coming back as a vengeful cotton ball ghost!
From the corner of his eye, the shears glinted again.
And a voice, soft and silky, breathed:
"Such a divine texture… Shame I have to turn you in~"
Poffin bolted under a coat rack.
This fitting room just became survival horror.
Poffin stared into the soul of the four-layered makeup monstrosity, her presence practically exuding citrus-scented carnage.
She grinned.
The crossbow glinted.
The bolt... was literally a sewing shear.
"Ah, fuck" he whispered.
He looked down solemnly. Like a man who'd seen things. Who knew the darkness that lurked in discount bins and fashion week. He gave the floor a respectful nod.
Then he ran.
He could fight it if he wanted to... but with that many layers of makeup along with an obsessive grin straight out of a horror movie. It was no mystery why his fight or flight response leaned less into fight and more on "get the fuck out of there".
She smiled. It was not a kind smile. It was the sort of smile worn by a person who had definitely turned someone into a scarf.
Then came the weapon: a crossbow, sleek and deadly, loaded not with bolts but a pair of sharpened, gold-inlaid tailoring shears, the tips gleaming with murderous fashion-forward intent.
"Don't be shy, little fluffer," she cooed, eyes narrowing like a cat spotting a twitching tail.
Poffin lowered his head to the boutique's polished floor. He inhaled like a soldier accepting fate.
Then SCREEEEEEECH—!
He bolted.
The boutique erupted into chaos as Poffin body-checked a clothes rack and exploded out the front door, threads and mannequin limbs flying. Bells jingled violently behind him.
"TARGET ON THE MOVE!" screeched the woman, snapping open a compact mirror that doubled as a communicator. "Lady Verona Lace engaging."
The Demon King on the other line responded. "Good, now get me that good for nothing rag mutt!"
The streets of Silkshear, once peaceful and dimly lit under the moon, were suddenly host to a high-speed furball chase. Poffin zipped between startled citizens, ducking behind a yarn cart and leaping over a table where two elderly tailors were calmly drinking tea.
"Oh, how delightful," one said, blinking slowly. "Is it Fashion Week again?"
Lady Verona gave chase with impeccable posture and unreasonable speed in heels that probably cost more than an entire city block. Her crossbow clicked with professional menace as she pursued.
Poffin dashed into a nearby alley—and ran smack into a trio of pickpockets. They looked down at the fuzzball now tangled around one of their ankles.
"Aw, it's adorable!" said the shortest thief, reaching down.
Poffin bared his teeth. "Touch me and I will remove your kneecaps."
They backed away slowly.
He was out again, charging into the night. Down silk-draped stairways, through a performance stage where a pair of mimes reenacting a tragic breakup paused, mid-silent sob, to watch him sprint by.
He turned into a spice alley. Wrong turn.
Two street chefs were locked in an argument over cinnamon bark when Poffin crashed into their stacked crates.
"HEY!"
"MY CARDAMOM!"
"I'M BEING HUNTED BY A PSYCHOPATH, GET IN LINE!" Poffin barked, flipping over a sack of paprika and slipping through a hidden gap behind their stall.
Back on the rooftops now. He clambered up a netted wall, parkour-style, landing awkwardly on a roof draped with drying shawls.
A crossbow bolt zipped past him, clipping a shawl which dramatically fluttered into the night. Poffin turned—Lady Verona was already scaling the building behind him like some demonic catwalk model.
Behind him, the clicking, clack-clack-clack of those heels echoed like the end of days.
"HOW IS SHE STILL BEHIND ME?!" he shrieked to the heavens, voice cracking in sheer mortal panic. "WHO THE HELL GOES IN THAT SPEED IN HEELS?!
The sounds of chaos trailed behind him—crates being kicked, a vendor screaming, and the metallic twang of another bolt nearly grazing his left ear.
"She's TRYING to SKIN ME!" he wailed. "I KNEW I WAS PREMIUM FABRIC BUT DAMN, LADY!"
He dove through a flock of pigeons, scattering them like rice at a chaotic wedding. The birds exploded into the air with an indignant flap flap FLAP, only to get silenced by a crossbow bolt that neatly pinned one of Poffin's hairs to a lamppost.
"Oh, NOPE NOPE NOPE NOPE!" Poffin screamed. "I AM A DELICACY! I AM A NATIONAL TREASURE! I DESERVE PROTECTION!"
He skidded around a corner so hard he bounced off a fruit stall. Apples flew.
He turned—and there she was. Poised at the far end of the boutique like a fashionista's final boss. Four layers of makeup that didn't smudge, a twisted grin painted with precision, and a crossbow in hand—its bolt? A glittering silver shear, polished to perfection.
Poffin's pupils shrank to dots. "Why is it always the hot ones that are homicidal?!"
Then he ran.
He twisted through alleyways, toppling over drying laundry, muttering curses that made even alley cats gasp. He skidded into a fruit stall, grabbed a melon, hurled it over his shoulder, heard it explode against a wall behind him.
"THIS CITY IS CURSED."
Breath ragged, fur wild, Poffin dove into a stack of laundry outside a laundromancer's hut and held his breath. He could hear her heels slow… pause… then vanish.
Silence.
He peeked out.
Nobody.
And then—
A gentle voice beside him, far too close.
"Such lovely fibers," she purred. "Must be hand-washed. Cold cycle."
Poffin screamed. Not just fear. Existential dread. Betrayal by laundry.
He exploded out of the basket, a blur of panic and fluff, bolting into the night once more.
"She's a demon in contour!" he howled. "WHERE THE HELL IS MY PARTY?!"
But there was no answer. Just moonlight. Just cobblestone. Just one man realizing…
He was alone.
---
Meanwhile, back at the boutique of questionable taste and overstretched fashion norms…
Ash stood stiffly on a raised platform, arms out like a mannequin experiencing an existential crisis.
"Okay, this one's not that bad," Lyra mused, squinting at him. "Though the ruffled sleeves might be a bit too Baron of Tragedy."
Ash glanced at the mirror. "I look like I lost a duel to a curtain."
Velvet was leaning on a clothes rack nearby, trying (and failing) to pretend she wasn't staring. Her face remained unreadable… except for the slight tremble in her lip and the intense focus in her eyes whenever Ash adjusted the collar or rolled a sleeve up. She cleared her throat. "That one's… serviceable."
"Serviceable?" Lyra chirped. "Not 'I want to drag you into a ball and slow dance under cursed chandeliers'? Hmm?"
Velvet shot her a look, cheeks gaining the faintest pink hue. "I will stab you with a hanger."
Lyra shrugged innocently. "Noted."
"Okay! Next outfit!" the fashion assistant sang.
Ash barely had time to sigh before he was dragged into the fitting room again.
Moments later…
Ash stepped out in something that was either avant-garde fashion or a hate crime against jackets. It had feathers, sequins, and possibly a live bird somewhere in the collar. Vix clapped like a delighted gremlin.
"YES. THAT'S THE ONE."
Seren, emerging in a soft moss-colored cloak, blinked. "I… don't think that's a real outfit."
"It is now," Vix grinned.
Even Kale, trying to discreetly tie a heroic sash around his waist, paused and whispered, "I think the outfit's staring back."
Ash slowly turned his head. "…It is."
Meanwhile, Lyra emerged in her fifth outfit of the hour, this one a cascade of silks and flowing sleeves that practically shimmered with elegance. She twirled. "Okay, this one's absolutely going into my dramatic entrance collection."
"Do you have a collection for that?" Seren asked.
"Do you not?"
Across the room, Vix popped out wearing full black with silver chains, dramatic boots, and a hood that somehow shadowed her eyes even indoors. "Do I look like a villainess or a hero with an edgy backstory?"
"Little of both," Ash muttered.
Velvet tilted her head, watching him again as he tried to remove a jacket with eight unnecessary belts. "That one," she said softly. "That one's… fine."
Ash looked over, halfway stuck in the jacket. "Really? This one?"
She gave the faintest smile. "It's growing on me."
"Like mold," he grunted, wrestling his arm free.
Lyra, now wearing a red cloak that looked suspiciously like a fire hazard, glanced around. "Hey… where's Poffin?"
They all paused.
Silence.
Then Ash blinked.
"…You don't think he's just chilling, do you?"
Everyone stared at each other.
Then, almost in sync, they all turned toward the boutique doors… just in time to hear a distant explosion and the sound of someone screaming, "YOU'RE NOT TAKING MY FUR, LADY!"
Poffin just passed by the street across the door, eyes wide in fear and tears trailing in his eyes, and what followed after was the assassin with a deranged look of obsession, screaming about how he'll make him a popular scarf brand in the fashion industry.
Velvet sighed. "Should we go after him?"
Ash looked down at his current glitter-stained, feather-laced reflection. "…Maybe after I get out of the fashion war crime."
The boutique's double doors slammed open with dramatic flair (and at least two popped feathers) as the party charged out into the Silkshear night—each of them still donned in their bizarre, impromptu runway disasters.
Lyra led the charge in her glimmering cloak, trailing so much fabric it could've carpeted a castle. "DON'T LET THE FLUFF GET KIDNAPPED!"
Vix somersaulted out behind her in full rogue-goth glam, combat rolling straight into a lamppost but recovering with a dramatic hiss. "MY BOY IS UNDER ATTACK!"
Seren hurried after, her moss cloak flapping behind her and her boots squeaking oddly. "We should've picked better shoes for this!"
Kale sprinted along in a too-tight heroic tunic that kept riding up every time he moved. "I LOOK DUMB BUT I SHALL STILL SMITE INJUSTICE!"
Velvet didn't even hesitate—her long coat flared dramatically as she moved, eyes locked forward like a silent predator. Possibly because her outfit was the only one that actually worked for mobility and didn't contain a peacock's worth of accessories.
Ash was left alone in the shop for a beat, dressed in that godforsaken sequin-feather-nightmare that jingled every time he exhaled.
He stared out the window. Watched his party vanish down the alley, chasing the chaos, yelling for Poffin with all the elegance of a musical theatre flash mob on fire.
He turned to the bewildered clerk at the counter.
"...This covers it, right?" he muttered, chucking a heavy pouch of gold onto the counter.
The clerk caught it midair, eyes wide. "Uh—yes?"
Ash nodded solemnly, adjusted the sleeve of his sparkling jacket like a man preparing for a public execution, and bolted after his friends.
The bell above the door gave a cheery ding as he ran out, his dignity trailing behind him like an abandoned scarf.
One child on the street pointed. "Mommy, look! It's the Fairy Disco King!"
Ash didn't stop. Just muttered under his breath, "I'm going to set fire to this outfit after this."
Somewhere ahead, Poffin screamed.
Ash sprinted faster.