Something Softer

He stood there—at the edge of the clearing, fur still slightly poofed from his earlier involuntary supersonic ricochet. The forest loomed quiet now. Birds chirped warily from branches overhead, and the last few tremors of chaos faded into the underbrush.

Then, her voice came one last time. Warm. Gentle. Unbearably smug.

"Well then. My work here is done."

He blinked. "Wait, what? That's it? You're just... leaving me here? Like a defective chew toy in a forest full of walking death traps?"

"I'll be watching," she said. "But from here on out, no interference. Training wheels are off. This world is yours now."

"Training wheels? I was launched like a dodgeball at Mach two!"

"And yet, you lived."

There was silence between them.

"...Fine," he grumbled, more to himself than her. "I don't need your help anyway. I'm gonna be fine. Great, even. I'll be legendary. Just you watch."

"I intend to."

And then—gone. Her voice faded into the wind, leaving behind only the rustling of leaves and his own, increasingly loud internal monologue.

He looked around. Nothing but trees, bushes, more trees, and the occasional rock that looked like it was judging him.

"Well... first things first," he muttered. "Gotta get out of this forest before something tries to use me as a pillow, a snack, or both."

He began walking, stubby legs moving with the determined grace of a fuzzy potato with ambition. The world around him was exactly what he'd imagined of a fantasy realm—tall trees, mysterious herbs growing in odd places, birds that sounded like they could start side quests at any moment.

And then—smoke.

Not the threatening kind. No acrid smell or signs of fire. This was cozy smoke, curling gently into the air in the far-off distance, lazy and inviting.

"Village," he whispered. "Yes. Civilization. Finally."

He broke into a trot—well, a wobbly fast-walk that could charitably be described as a "determined bounce"—but paused before reaching the edge of the treeline.

"Wait… I look like something a kid would win at a carnival."

He stared down at himself. Round. White. Adorably squishy. Not exactly the stuff legends are made of—yet.

"If I walk in like this, upright, acting all intelligent… I'll be dissected or domesticated in five seconds flat."

So, with a sigh of resignation and pride thoroughly swallowed, he dropped to all fours. Crawling. Like a proper, suspiciously smart beast.

"This is fine. Dignity is overrated anyway," he muttered, low to the ground as he approached the outskirts.

As he entered the village, it was everything he expected: cobblestone roads, timber houses, people in medieval garb. It looked like someone had hit "default fantasy template" on a world generator and dialed the charm to 11.

Nobody noticed him. Or rather, they did—but only in the way people notice a cute animal waddling past. A few kids pointed. One merchant squinted. But nobody screamed. Nobody tried to stab him. That was a win in his book.

He wandered past a bakery. The smell almost lifted him off the ground.

Past a blacksmith. The hammering echoed like rhythmic applause for his survival.

And then he found a quiet corner behind a watering trough and sat, fluff settling against the ground like a pillow melting into itself.

He looked up at the village, the people, the world around him.

And he grinned.

"Yeah… I'll build an empire," he said softly, more to himself than anything. "A kingdom. No, a dynasty. Rulers will whisper my name in fear. They'll write legends about the Great and Terrible… uh… me."

He paused.

"I really need to pick a name soon."

But just then—

His stomach growled.

No, not just a little "I could eat" kind of grumble. This was a full-blown rebellion in his gut. All that Mach-speed bouncing, high-stress monster dodging, divine abandonment, and now—no dinner.

He clutched his tiny stomach with his even tinier paws. "Okay, I get it, I get it... we need food."

Then, like a divine answer—though not from his goddess, mind you—came a smell.

He turned his head like a hound catching scent. Smoke. Char. Butter. Garlic. A glorious aroma that wrapped around his senses and whispered sweet promises of cooked meat.

Eyes wide, nose twitching, stomach singing, he scuttled forward, weaving between boots and barrels and crates, until he reached a little plaza where villagers gathered around a food stall.

And there it was.

A steak. Fat, juicy, seared to golden-brown perfection. Resting on a wooden plate like a divine offering.

"Mine," he whispered, pupils dilated like a starved alley cat's. He wobbled forward, his paw stretching out, tongue practically visible.

"Hehe don't mind if I do," he muttered. "They won't even notice—"

FWOMP.

His world spun as something grabbed him—hard—right around what he could only assume was his neck... or torso... or general puff-center. He flailed.

"W-WHA—HEY Hey! Put me down! That's a war crime! I need that steak!" he shouted, flailing in the air like a furious pompom.

To onlookers:

"YIP! YIP! YIPYIPYIPYIP! GrrrrrrRRRFFF!"

Held aloft, he squirmed around to see the culprit: a tall man in polished armor, complete with flowing red cape and enough visible weapons to qualify as a walking armory. Around him stood a textbook adventuring party: a dazzling priestess, a smug rogue with a dagger addiction, and a mage who sparkled slightly just by existing.

Oh no.

It was a hero party.

He didn't know what gave it away first—the way they stood like they were posing for a title screen, or the fact that everyone else in the plaza looked like they'd been rendered in a slightly lower resolution.

"Aw, look at it!" the mage beamed. "It tried to steal a steak!"

"I was liberating it from being underappreciated, thank you!"

"Yipyip. YIP! Rrff-yip!"

"It's... making noises," the priestess gasped, clasping her hands. "Is it trying to talk?"

"Sounds like a squeaky toy possessed by rage," muttered the rogue.

The hero narrowed his eyes. "Might be a monster. Maybe a mimic. Or a sentient puffball from an alchemy accident."

He tried to cross his arms. Forgot he didn't have arms so much as round stubs. "I will destroy you," he said though of course no one could understand.

"I say we keep it!" the priestess chirped. "It's adorable."

"I say we don't," the rogue replied. "It's got murder in its eyes."

The mage was already poking him in the cheek. "It's like a marshmallow with unresolved trauma."

The hero sighed and turned to the vendor. "Whose is this?"

"Not mine," the food seller shrugged. "Thing just showed up and tried to gank my steak."

"I earned that steak!" he barked. "I've been launched, clawed, and emotionally betrayed today!"

The party huddled, whispering.

"Maybe it's a beast with high magical affinity?"

"Could be a summoned creature that went feral."

"What if it's rare? Can we sell it?"

"Let's not sell the angry fuzzball. It might curse us in our sleep."

Meanwhile, he just dangled there like a potato trying to project menace.

"I will remember this," he muttered, eyes narrowing into tiny embers of vengeance. "And when I build my empire, you'll all be the first to fall."

"Yip-yip. Rrrrrrrfff."

"Aw, it's purring," said the priestess. "I love it."

He screamed inside.

He'd had it.

This wasn't just a bad day. This was a career-ending, reputation-obliterating, deity-duped disaster. He had been grabbed, denied food, mistaken for a pet, and now—dangling like a feral ornament—he opened his mouth to unleash the unholiest tirade he had yet to deliver.

"YIP-YIP-YIP-Y—!"

SQUISH.

Suddenly, everything stopped.

He was no longer suspended in the air, no longer flailing like a rejected carnival prize. He had been pulled—nestled, really—against something soft. Something yielding. Something warm.

He froze.

The mage now cradled him with the smug pride of someone who had just solved world peace with a hug.

"Awwww," she sighed dreamily. "It's so puffy! Look, it's not angry—it's just scared. Probably doesn't trust anyone yet. But now that I'm holding it—see? All calm."

To the group, it looked like a heartwarming moment. The creature had gone from yipping ball of fury to silent, plushy docility.

But in his head?

"...W-What... w-what is this sorcery...?"

He didn't understand her words, but it didn't matter.

He understood pillowy compression.

His brain short-circuited as it tried to simultaneously process indignation, confusion, and the fact that his entire face was now nestled between two very persuasive arguments to stay exactly where he was.

He didn't calm down.

He shut down.

His stubby limbs twitched. One foot gave a pathetic little kick, as if trying to remind the world he still had pride.

It was ignored.

"I think he's imprinting on you," said the priestess, clasping her hands.

"I think he's broken," muttered the rogue.

The hero just scowled. "I still don't trust it"

His inner monologue had devolved into a spiraling loop of "I hate this—I love this—I hate that I love this."

He gave a faint growl.

To them, it was the contented grumble of a soothed creature.

To him, it was the sound of a thousand shattered ambitions wrapped in fluff and mage cleavage.

GrrrrrRRRMMMmmmmm...

The sound broke the silence like a low drumroll of shame.

His stomach growled.

Loudly.

It echoed off the alley walls like an angry bear trapped inside a marshmallow.

The mage paused mid-cuddle and looked down at him with a soft chuckle. "Oh my, someone's still hungry."

His tiny, floofy face was halfway buried in plushness.

"…Yip," he muttered, eyes hollow.

The rogue smirked. "That one sounded defeated."

"Poor thing," said the priestess. "He probably hasn't eaten since… well, ever?"

"We'll find him something," the mage said, gently bouncing him like a baby. "Not steak, though. Maybe something cute, like berries."

He gave a slow, horrified blink.

Berries?

He was a warlord! A tyrant! A bringer of apocalyptic fire!

And now they were talking about feeding him berries. Like some enchanted woodland plushie that lived off dew and dreams.

He let out a guttural growl, tiny claws twitching.

"RRRFF—YIP—RRRFFF!"

(I DEMAND PROTEIN!)

But to them, it was just more adorable fussing.

"I think he's getting fussy again," said the mage, snuggling him back into her chest. "It's okay, little guy. We'll get you food."

His stomach growled again, louder this time, possibly out of protest.

At this point, he wasn't even sure which hunger was stronger—the one in his gut, or the primal need to escape the warm clutches of affection before it rewrote his personality entirely.

He needed meat.

He needed freedom.

He needed distance from chest pillows.

Or at least... a moment to think.

But instead, he was being carried into the market like a pampered pet, still mid-swoon, tail twitching from a combination of hunger, unresolved rage, and a growing identity crisis.

He sighed. Loudly. Dramatically.

But it came out as:

"Yip."

As they wandered deeper into the market square, the mage still clutching her fluffy prize, the group began to chatter again.

"Okay," the rogue finally said, "but seriously—what is this thing?"

"Adorable," said the mage, nuzzling the top of his fuzzy head.

"Useless," grumbled the hero. "We can't keep carrying around something if we don't even know what it eats. What if it's poisonous? Or turns into a demon and eat us up at midnight?"

"Don't be dramatic," said the priestess. "He's harmless. Probably. Maybe?"

The rogue leaned in, squinting. "Those eyes don't look harmless."

They didn't. His tiny eyes were currently burning with a cold, intelligent fury that said I will burn your house down with my mind if I ever figure out how.

"And what kind of beast even is it?" the rogue added, eyeing him.

"Good question," the hero muttered. "Anyone got a bestiary?"

"Uhh... isn't that why we have a beast tamer?" the mage replied, glancing around. "Oh, wait. He's still back at the tavern inn."

"Right. Brooding. As usual," the rogue said, rolling his eyes.

"Maybe we should take it to him," said the priestess. "He'll know what it is. Maybe even communicate with it?"

"Yes, I speak! I am not some lost cub—I am your new overlord. Bow before me or suffer—"

"YIP-YIP-YIP, GRRRR!"

"Aw," the priestess beamed. "He's excited! He must like that idea!"

He twitched.

"Alright," said the hero with a shrug. "Back to the tavern it is. Let the tamer figure it out. Maybe we can finally get a straight answer."

The mage gently cradled him tighter. "Don't worry, little one. We'll get you some food and figure out what you are."

He growled faintly, trying to decide if he was more offended by being called "little one"… or by the fact that he was kind of enjoying the ride.

They reached the tavern, the mage pushed the door open and breezed through the crowded room, oblivious to the stares. The tavern-goers paused their drinks to gawk at the party's new acquisition.

"Seriously, what the hell is that?" someone whispered.

"Is it enchanted?" said another.

The mage ignored them, heading toward the back corner where a lone figure nursed a drink under his hood.

Their beast tamer.

Reserved. Brooding. The kind of guy who probably spent more time talking to animals than people—and, unfortunately for the fuzzball now being paraded around like a royal pet, someone very good at listening to things most people couldn't hear.

The tamer looked up. His eyes fell on the creature in the mage's arms.

He blinked.

Paused.

And very slowly, raised one eyebrow.

"…What did you bring me?"