Back at the Tavern
The party sat around the table—Seren sharpening a blade, Ash sipping tea, Kale and Vix still navigating eye contact like it was a hazardous spell. Lyra lounged upside down in a chair, crown tilted, humming something vaguely threatening.
Ash blinked and looked up.
"...Anyone else notice it's been unusually quiet for ten minutes?"
Lyra tilted her head.
"That means he's either napping... or vaporizing someone."
Kale sighed. "I vote we assume it's the second one."
Ash stood up slowly, already brushing crumbs off his coat. "Alright. Emergency protocol: Find Poffin, prevent excessive property damage, and, I don't know, stop him from turning the aristocracy into confetti."
And with that, the gang collectively groaned, geared up, and marched into the city once again.
Hours passed and no luck whatsoever, the whole party was now worried, not for Poffin though, but to whoever was deranged enough to leave themselves with him.
The full blown search began immediately. Things were getting serious.
Ash had barely caught a passing street hawker before slamming down a hastily drawn sketch of Poffin's face—complete with scribbled notes:
DO NOT APPROACH. EXPLODES WHEN EMOTIONAL. POSSIBLY ARMED. DEFINITELY DANGEROUS.
"Seen him?" Ash asked, voice clipped.
The man blinked. "Uhh… is that a ferret or—?"
Ash took back the sketch poster.
Vix and Kale checked alleyways and rooftops. Seren cornered some questionable mercenaries behind the blacksmith's. Lyra—
Lyra was making posters. Too many posters.
The cobblestones around her were littered with sketches of Poffin's fluffy form, each one slightly more dramatic than the last.
"Reward for safe return of our friend," she mumbled, pinning one to a lamp post. "Explosive tendencies not a personality flaw."
One showed Poffin with wings. Another had sparkles and a tiny halo.
"...He doesn't even have wings," Kale said gently, stepping up behind her.
"Shut up. It's artistic expression," Lyra snapped—though her hands trembled slightly, voice hitching.
Her eyes scanned the empty street again.
She swallowed, ears twitching.
"What if he's... actually gone?"
Kale opened his mouth, then closed it. Even he didn't have a smartass comment for this one.
Lyra wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her cloak before they could fall. Her usual grin was missing. The streets, which had been playgrounds of chaos, now just felt cold.
Ash returned with zero leads, shaking his head. "Whoever took him was good. There's no trace. No scorch marks. No fur."
He looked around the circle of tired, worried faces.
"But if they think they can keep Poffin locked up… they clearly haven't seen him sneeze."
Lyra chuckled, but it cracked.
"We're going to find him," Ash said, this time softer.
---
Meanwhile, back at the warehouse-turned-black-market-coliseum of doom—
Poffin ricocheted off a crate like a rubber cannonball on too much espresso. He'd already deflected three enchanted bolas, a scythe that boomeranged, and a magically animated tax accountant wielding dual clipboards.
His tiny form blurred across the room, a missile with murder in his marble-black eyes.
Around him stood a circle of seasoned, dangerous, legally-dubious combatants: a fire-wielding mercenary with tattoos that glowed when she was pissed (which was always), a halberd-wielding knight who was technically banned from three kingdoms for overkill, and a masked mage whose spells came with their own insurance policies.
"Is that thing even a beast?" one of them hissed, dodging an explosive fur-shard that obliterated a chandelier.
"He took out two bidders earlier!" another shouted, hiding behind a flipped auction table.
Poffin, now standing atop a pile of scorched bidding paddles and burnt pride, grinned wide.
"Who's next?" he seemed to growl, even if all they heard was a yippy "HHRRRFFF!"
A glowing net launched from the shadows. Poffin vanished mid-leap and reappeared by the ceiling beams.
The masked mage cursed. "This is why I stopped summoning things I couldn't pronounce!"
Below, the once-lavish warehouse was now a warzone of claw marks, blast craters, and one unfortunate guy stuck in a hamster wheel enchanted for infinite spin which at this point no amount of context can explain why.
Poffin wasn't just fighting.
He was dancing with danger.
Explosive fur regenerated just as fast as he shed it. Every flick of his tail was another spark waiting to ruin someone's financial future.
"THIS!" shouted a half-melted merchant, "THIS IS NOT WORTH A SINGLE DAMN COIN!"
And still—Poffin didn't stop.
Because someone dared to cage him. Someone tried to sell him like some discount plushie with special effects.
Poffin panted, crouched behind what used to be a dessert table. He peeked out, his fur a little patchy from overuse, sparks fizzing out from tufts like firecrackers on their last legs.
Around him, the ring was tightening. The mercs were regrouping, the mage was muttering something with too many syllables, and the halberd guy—well, actually he initially was here to just order noodles but joined the fight cause why not.
"Too many…" he grunted, eyes scanning.
For once, the manic gleam in his eyes dulled with worry. There were too many of them, and even with his absurd regeneration, even he had limits. If he went out swinging, they'd just throw him back in a box with some magical duct tape and sell him wholesale.
He needed a plan. A good plan. One that didn't start and end with "explode until the problem stops being problem."
Think, Poffin, Think.
His ears twitched. There—above, near the roof trusses—cages. Cages filled with other beasts. Some large, some small, some very illegal.
And some just angry enough to be persuaded.
A glint sparked in his eyes as a grin slowly curled. He reached into his fur, yanked out a tuft, rolled it, spit it up the rafters.
Ping.
Lock shattered.
One by one, eyes blinked open in the darkness above.
Poffin struck a match. Or at least, flicked a spark from his tail and whispered the universal beast signal:
"Yip yip."
Translation: "Time to riot, boys."
---
Back at the tavern, the air was still.
A sharp contrast to the chaos exploding across town, the silence in the party's rented room was thick enough to cut with a dagger. Chairs remained untouched, mugs half-full, and dinner had long since gone cold. No one had touched the bread.
Ash leaned against the windowsill, his gaze distant, brows furrowed in frustration and worry. The beast tamer who could stop a charging goose with a word… couldn't find one damn cotton ball with a bad attitude.
Vix sat with arms crossed, fingers tapping an erratic rhythm against her elbow—nervous energy leaking out in pulses. Kale paced behind her, muttering theories and ideas. None of them good.
Lyra sat hunched on the floor, her head resting on her knees, Poffin's tiny pink tiara gripped tightly in her hands. Her ears twitched with every noise outside, every creak of floorboard or distant call. Her face was dry, but only because she had no more tears to shed.
"It was just a joke," she whispered. "The dress. The tiara. He always looked ridiculous, but he never seemed to mind…"
No one answered.
Seren—still bandaged from her latest bar brawl—stood near the door, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched. She'd fought off ogres, brawlers, drunk gods, and one particularly aggressive bard. But this? This helpless waiting?
"I should've walked with him," she muttered. "Should've seen this coming."
Silence fell again.
Just outside the window, a single goose honked in the distance. The sound earned a twitch from everyone, but no one moved.
Poffin's bed sat untouched in the corner—just a tiny pile of exploded fur where he used to nap.
---
Meanwhile...
The warehouse was no longer a warehouse.
It was a warzone.
Screams, roars, hisses, and the sound of priceless crates being turned into toothpicks filled the air. Thugs leapt onto tables, only to be immediately swatted by something with too many legs. A noblewoman in the VIP corner tried to teleport away, only for a winged ferret to chase her through her own portal.
And in the center of it all, was Poffin.
One tuft of fur missing, two black eyes blazing, nose twitching like a loaded crossbow.
"Come at me, you flea-bitten throw rugs! I got enough fluff to stuff all your egos into pillows!"
He didn't technically speak the common tongue, but the tone? everyone understood that.
A dagger whizzed by. He batted it away with his tail, flung a puff of fur like a dart into a thug's knee, and vaulted off the guy's back mid-scream. He corkscrewed through the air, landed with all four paws on a snake-lion hybrid's head and rode it like a mechanical bull while laughing like a maniac.
"You wanted a prize, huh?! Here's your prize!"
Boom. Puff. Bang.
"COME ON! "WHO'S NEXT?!" he roared. "WHO ELSE WANTS THE SMOKE?! WHO WANTS THE FULL POFFIN PACKAGE?!"
Explosive fur peppered the air like shrapnel confetti. More cages shattered, beasts joined the riot out of sheer confusion, and somewhere in the chaos a thug screamed, "WHY IS IT ALWAYS THE SMALL ONES?!"
A table flipped.
A thug got eaten by what may have been a goat.
A chandelier fell.
And Poffin?
He was laughing. Manically. Gleefully. Heroically.
Covered in soot and glory.
---
Silence.
The tavern was dim. The air heavy.
Lyra stared at her empty hands. "He hates wearing clothes… what if he's cold?"
Ash was quiet near the fire. Kale paced. Seren had her arms crossed, jaw tight, like she'd punch the walls if it would help.
They'd tried everything. Posters. Asking locals. Even the weirdly polite goose. Nothing.
"Maybe he just wandered off…" Vix said weakly, knowing full well he hadn't.
Ash closed his eyes. "He's not gone. He's just.... Poffin."
---
A thug went flying past the screen, crashing through a stack of cages. A wild animal barked in confusion and joined the fight just because.
Poffin now wore a half-burned cloak like a cape, riding a rolling barrel and steering it with his claws.
"IS THAT ALL YOU'VE GOT?!" he bellowed, eyes glowing. "I'VE HAD TO WEAR A GOWN. I'VE BEEN CHASED BY A PSYCHO ELF. I'VE HAD EXPLOSIVE ALLERGIES. THIS—THIS IS VACATION!"
A sword whizzed past. He caught it in his tail, twirled it like a baton, and promptly stabbed it into the ground dramatically.
---
Lyra sniffled.
"I didn't even get to make him a new dress…"
Ash finally stood, pulling on his coat. "We're going out again. Tonight."
The rest followed without a word.
---
Minutes later…
The warehouse stood in disarray—if you could still call it standing. The upper rafters were gone. A third of the walls were now open to the night sky. A series of fur-shaped scorch marks outlined where the chaos had peaked. The smell of smoke, singed fur, and pride hung thick in the air.
In the middle of it all, standing atop a busted crate that he had definitely not checked for stability, Poffin struck a triumphant pose—one paw raised high toward the broken roof, the other on his hip like a very small, very furious superhero. Bits of fur stuck to the walls still glowed faintly—leftover from when he turned them into improvised C4. One of them popped. Nobody flinched. They were too tired to flinch.
His fur was still regrowing mid-shed in puffs. Bits of ribbon from someone's fallen auction flag were tangled in his tail.
"I…" he gasped, dramatically, his voice rasping through the dust and glory.
"I… AM…"
A pause.
"…here."
Then, squinting at nothing in particular:
"Okay I need a nap now."
And just like that, he keeled backwards off the crate with all the grace of a toppled goblet, landing in a tangled pile of victory, ash, and his own body heat.
He was snoring before he hit the floor.
---
Meanwhile, back at the tavern...
Silence had never felt this loud.
The party sat slumped at their usual table—except now it had a black cloth thrown dramatically over it. Candles flickered mournfully. A mug of untouched ale sat in the center like some sacred relic. Vix was nursing her third drink. Kale was sharpening a knife with the subtle ferocity of a man at war with the world. Seren? Seren looked like she was ready to punch grief itself.
At the head of the table, Lyra stood solemnly.
In the center stood a framed, horrifically unflattering picture of Poffin mid-nose-pick. Kale tried to turn it face-down. Lyra slapped his hand.
Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes as she gently adjusted the frame, trying to straighten it but giving up when it just tilted more defiantly than before.
"We… we gather here to remember our comrade. Our chaos. Our furball of fury." Her voice wobbled, and she cleared her throat with the seriousness of a priestess delivering a eulogy for a war hero. "He may have caused more property damage than the entire royal militia. But he was ours."
Ash let out a long breath, covering his face. "Lyra… he's not dead. He's just missing."
"Missing," she snapped, spinning to face him with the raw despair of someone who'd already gone through the five stages and was deep into stage six: theatrical overcommitment. "Do you know how rare it is for a furball like that to vanish without a trace?! He didn't even leave behind a dramatic explosion this time! It's practically a war crime!"
Kale grunted. "You did the whole 'funeral' setup in under five minutes."
"I always prepare ahead," Lyra sniffled.
Seren stared at the photo, brow furrowed. "…Did you take this while he was asleep?"
"Don't question my methods. Mourn."
Kale leaned back and muttered, "For the last time, he's not dead. He's just missing."
Then the tavern door creaked open.
The bell above it gave a soft, innocent chime that had no business being this ominous.
Everyone turned.
There he stood.
Covered in soot. A ripped ear. Singed fur. His tail dragging behind him like he'd just been through five boss fights and a mid-season betrayal arc. And yet—he walked with the flat-footed gait of someone who no longer possessed the energy to even acknowledge reality.
Poffin. Alive.
Silent.
They stared. Silent. Breathless.
He didn't say a word.
Didn't even glance at the group as he trudged up the stairs like some battle-hardened soldier returning from a war no one could understand.
Halfway up, he stopped.
Turned his head slightly.
And with all the energy of someone who'd detonated a warehouse and won an underground death match against half the criminal underworld, he muttered:
"Idiots."
Then disappeared up the steps without another word.
The door to his room shut with a soft click.
Silence.
Ash blinked. "Yep. He's fine."
Lyra clenched her fist. "I knew I should've used a better picture."
Seren exhaled. "I respect it. I hate it. But I respect it."
Vix raised her glass. "To his... return?"
They all clinked drinks—mourning replaced with a single, unified thought:
He's back.