Poffin launched himself over a stack of silk crates, tail bristling like a haunted feather duster as he screeched down the moonlit alleyways of Silkshear.
"I SWEAR—HOW IS SHE STILL BEHIND ME?!"
Click. Clack. Clickclickclickclack.
The woman chasing him didn't even break stride. Four-inch heels. Ruffled skirt. Crossbow with a sewing sheer loaded like a sniper bolt. Her smile never wavered—wide, painted, and clearly unbothered by the laws of physics or sanity. Her makeup didn't smudge. Her pace never slowed.
Poffin skittered under a vendor cart, sent a table of "Authentic Alpaca Wool Beanies" flying into the air, and bolted through a flock of sleep-deprived doves who exploded like confetti.
Behind him, the Fashion Assassin vaulted the beanie table like she was born for catwalk combat, midair-reloading her crossbow with something that suspiciously sparkled. "Come here, you divine little scarf incarnate!"
Thunk!
A bolt narrowly missed Poffin and pinned a hanging tapestry against the wall like a designer exorcism.
That's when the second layer of ridiculous began.
From another alley, five figures burst out in a chaotic blur of color, chaos, and pure disaster couture, dashing out like circus rejects.
Vix in an edgy gothic attire screamed "LET GO OF OUR MASCOT!" and threw a perfume bottle like a smoke bomb.
Seren dove forward with a moss cloak that accidentally got caught in a windmill crank and sent her twirling like a magical lawn ornament.
Kale simply barged through a fence in a tunic two sizes too small, roaring like a confused paladin who had lost both context and airflow.
Velvet ran past them all in elegant silence, coat flapping. Her only sign of emotion: a twitching eye as she whispered, "This. Is. Not. Stealthy."
And finally—Ash. Bringing up the rear. Sparkles flaring, dignity burning.
"FOR THE LOVE OF—POFFIN STAY STILL, WE'RE TRYING TO SAVE YOU!"
Poffin, still at the front of the chaos parade, screamed as he narrowly dodged a spinning seam-ribbon that could probably cut steel.
"WHAT KIND OF 'SAVE' INVOLVES LEADING THE CRAZY CIRCUS INTO MY NIGHTMARE?!"
They finally cornered her at the end of a narrow silken alley—rows of fabric banners fluttering like judgmental flags on either side. Poffin captured and held in her grip, panting, fur puffed up like he'd lost a wrestling match with a thundercloud. The rest of the party stepped in front of her, forming a chaotic, mismatched wall of slightly-torn couture and righteous indignation.
The Assassin—now slightly winded but still wearing her perfectly angled eyeliner—tilted her head like a raven admiring roadkill.
Ash stepped forward first, raising both hands. His coat sparkled. His dignity did not.
"Okay, lady. Let's talk. You chased our mascot across half the city like a deranged fashion terminator. This isn't our first rodeo so let's ditch the formalities. What. Do. You. Want."
The Assassin licked her lips as she looked up "Well, allow me to do the introductions. I am none other than Verona Lace, Die-Hard Fashionista and an assassin sent by the Demon King himself! and your "mascot" here is my one way ticket to promotion.... though he would have made a good premium rag beside my fireplace."
"The.. Demon King? shit... did he figure out their plans already?" Ash thought to himself.
Poffin's ears perked up and his entire figure shivered in fear. He tilted his head over to Ash and gave him what could be described as a thousand yard stare while muttering something towards him....
"Save me..."
Ash gritted his teeth and took on a battle stance... though frankly with the ridiculous outfit he looked more like a half baked duster trying to lay an egg.
"My oh my—Shiver me stilettos, would you look at that! the Peacock King is trying to pick a fight with me?"
Ash, lunged forward with all the grace of an irritated coat rack and threw a solid punch, Verona immediately dodged and jumped onto the ledge of a balcony railing. As if mocking him, she shook Poffin in her arms while sticking a tongue out towards the party.
"Such sloppy movements, you'll be slaughtered the moment you step into a fashion runway darlin~"
Poffin dangled from her arms like a disgruntled feather boa—if feather boas could whimper.
Ash leapt again—feathers trailing behind like a molting meteor—missing Verona by a full half-foot and landing in a pile of sequined laundry some poor tailor had set out for delivery. He emerged covered in glitter and unearned confidence..
Verona cackled. "Darling, is that all you got? you look like a piñata halfway through a divorce. Now be a good boy and go molt somewhere else!"
Poffin, still held hostage, gave another deadpan stare. "Can it get any worst than this?"
Kale raised his sword, eyes narrowing. "Enough games. Verona Lace, by order of the Hero's Path—"
"Ugh, spare me," she interrupted, pulling out a dagger that sparkled like a runway trophy. "I've already beaten six Heroes this week. One of them tried to smite me while sobbing about pleather. I will not be lectured by a man dressed like a dying chandelier."
Vix leaned toward Lyra, whispering, "Okay but... is she wrong?"
Ash rose to his feet, twirling dramatically like a sentient feather storm. "You know what? I've had it. I've been chased, mocked, and emotionally exfoliated. I'm done playing nice."
He cracked his knuckles, and for a fleeting moment, just maybe—beneath the ruffles and rhinestones—the team saw the glint of their brawler again.
"Catch these hands you makeup freak."
Verona's eyes gleamed. "Oh~ how feisty. But remember... on this catwalk, only one of us leaves fabulous."
Ash went in first again, wings of fabric flapping with enough drama to trigger allergic reactions in nearby pigeons. His punch was true, his battle cry was bold—
—and yet, Verona simply wasn't there. She ducked under him, kicked off his shin like a springboard, and somersaulted over his head with a smug wink.
Then came Kale, righteous and roaring, his greatsword glowing with divine fury.
"By the light of justice—!"
"No thanks," Verona said mid-spin, tapping his sword aside with a swift kick. Kale was redirected, sent flying into a clothesline, where a pair of silk underpants latched onto his helmet like judgment.
"Gah!"
Lyra summoned a storm of mana, hands crackling. "Okay, enough playing around. Arcbolt Tempest!"
The sky above roared—Verona simply stepped sideways, and the spell blasted a boutique behind her into a smoking crater. A shoe with a price tag still on it rolled out of the rubble.
Vix blinked from shadow to shadow, appearing behind her. Dagger ready.
"Gotcha."
Verona looked back over her shoulder and whispered, "Try concealer next time, darling."
She vanished in a swirl of perfume and glitter. Vix slashed empty air, then faceplanted into the pavement with all the grace of a dropped scarf.
Seren tried to entangle her with bands of light, but Verona vaulted off a lamppost and backflipped off a street performer's drum. "Too slow!"
Poffin cheered weakly from her grasp.
Ash stumbled back to the group, gasping, sweat dripping into the rhinestones of his collar. "I could have gotten her... but I'm stuck in this abomination."
Kale groaned. "She's not human. Her movement's almost cat-like"
The party collapsed into a loose semicircle of wheezing warriors. Even Lyra had slumped to her knees, clutching a mana potion like it was a cup of regret.
Verona landed daintily atop a tailor's sign, not a hair out of place, not a single bead of sweat on her perfectly contoured brow. She adjusted her hair slightly.
"Done already?" she teased, spinning Poffin in her arms like a prize pig at a country fair. "That's adorable."
She held him up, face-to-face. his tiny paws kicking in futility.
"And you," Verona purred, her voice wrapped around steel. "You really thought you could outrun me? That you could squeak, squirm your way to freedom like the rest? Even with that tragic circus act of backup, it was still pointless."
Verona leaned closer, her grin razor-sharp and fabulous.
"You're mine, little furball. And if you think you can escape, You're even dumber than my previous targets."
"Yeah, but.. I'm the.... idiot.... who took you down with me." Poffin groaned.
"Yeah? How? You're out of tricks little fella."
"I still have one thing left" Poffin exhaled.
"Oh? and what's that?"
"My entire goddamn fur."
FWUMP—BOOM!
A shockwave blasted out in a spherical burst, the epicenter glowing with righteous fuzz. Verona Lace—style queen, runway reaper, Demon King's top assassin—had precisely half a second to gasp before she was swallowed by the shattering explosion and a distinctly lemon-scented static surge.
Slow motion.
Verona's heels left the ground.
Her hood flipped off.
Her voice—once sultry and taunting—let out a startled, perfectly enunciated:
"WHAT THE HELL—"
And then she was airborne.
Verona remembered colors she had never seen before. The sky flipped. The ground rejected her. Fluff was everywhere. Her boots left orbit.
Shot into the sky like a sparkling rocket of sequins and disbelief, limbs flailing, hair unraveling, vanishing into the upper levels of Silkshear with an audible "NOOOOOO!" that echoed between couture boutiques and bewildered pigeons.
Back at ground zero, silence fell.
Ash slowly lowered his arms, blinking through the fog of ashes and smoke.
"Did… did she just get Team Rocketed?"
Kale coughed out a button. "That was not divine retribution. That was divine detonation."
In the center of it all stood Poffin, Fur, shorter and fuzzier than usual, faintly emitting sparks with post-blast dignity, looking like he just came back from a coal mining convention.
He took a step forward. Wobbled.
"I… I require pants."
"You don't wear any on the first place." Ash snapped.
"I feel naked."
And then he passed out in a faint puff of remaining lint.
---
Somewhere else.....
Verona groaned as she peeled herself out of a pirate-themed mannequin display five districts away. Her coat was shredded. Her pride, shakily sipping from a juice box in a corner. She had fluff in her eyelashes.
"This… is not over," she muttered.
She activated the scrying crystal with a flick of her ring and immediately regretted it.
"Verona Lace reporting in," she said, voice tight and professional.
The scrying feed opened.
And Verona immediately wished it hadn't.
Instead of the usual throne room of apocalyptic silence and death-flavored lighting…
She was met with—
Tiny cakes.
And the Demon King.
Pouring imaginary tea from a tiny porcelain pot with pink roses on it.
Across from him sat a six-year-old half-demon girl with horns like curled ribbons and cheeks powered by pure menace. Her frilly black dress was absolutely unforgivable. She was sipping from a teacup like it was filled with the souls of her enemies.
They both stared at her.
Verona blinked. "...My lord?"
The Demon King did not move. His left pinkie was still raised, delicately curled as he poured tea into a chipped cup labeled "#1 Doom Dad."
"Continue," he said.
Verona cleared her throat. "The mission to capture the Flufferbeast encountered unforeseen complications in Silkshear. I had cornered the target. Everything was on schedule."
The child sipped her tea, unblinking. The King watched her. Not Verona. Never Verona.
"…Then the creature detonated. With the force of a minor arcane grenade, sir. I was flung into a mannequin display. I sustained minor injuries… mostly to my dignity."
The King exhaled. "You were bested by a foot-tall mammal in outerwear."
Verona winced. "Respectfully, my lord, foot and a half. And it had a team. A dangerously uncoordinated, deeply irritating team. I was… under-accessorized for that level of chaos."
"Would you like extra sugar on your tea daddy?" Her daughter squealed as she poured it on his tea.
"Yes pumpkin. Make it extra sweet." He replied, immediately sipping the imaginary beverage.
The King, stone-faced, did not respond to Verona immediately.
Verona's eye twitched. "...My lord?"
The King finally turned his gaze to Verona, eyes glowing like coals under pressure.
"You've failed your mission."
She straightened. "I—technically—yes. But I did secure several tufts of fur. They're suitable for high-end scarves, or ritual summoning. Possibly."
The Demon King raised a hand.
"Verona. You are relieved. I will send a retrieval squad personally."
Verona froze. "A retrieval squad? You don't mean—"
"Yes."
He turned to his daughter. "Consider him your next birthday present."
The child squealed.
Verona sputtered. "But—my lord! He's a menace! A tactical war crime! Do you have any idea what he's capable of?!"
"I do."
The King sipped his tea.
"Chaos. Screaming. And fluff."
He looked at the empty space beside him.
"He'll fit in nicely."
The scrying orb dimmed. Connection cut.