On Little Cat Feet is a piece of fiction from Cults of Sundara, one of the supplements for Cities of Sundara, which is available in versions for 5th Edition and Pathfinder.

Raskin Bowers reclined on his couch, a glass of wine in one hand, and his smoldering pipe in the other. A tall man whose thick shoulders and powerful arms were sheathed in a thin layer of recently-acquired fat, the governor had worked hard to raise himself out of the dirt of the common soldier’s lot. Promoted in the field, and then promoted within command, he’d eventually been elected to take charge of a collection of towns that had come under the rule of the Lander’s Guild. An aristocracy in all but name, the guild had deep pockets, but when gold wouldn’t get their way, they weren’t shy about using steel to enforce their will.

Bowers dragged deeply on his pipe, and closed his eyes as the slow-burning leaf filled his lungs. The old ache in his back from his years on the march began to fade, as did the tension in his temples. He blew the smoke out through his nostrils, sipping at his wine.

Despite his admonitions to himself not to take his duties to bed with him, he couldn’t help but think about the reports he’d been getting for a fortnight or more. Strange figures had been seen stalking through the night, vanishing into the surrounding countryside when approached by guild guards. Guild representatives had awoken to find rats with their guts torn out, or birds with their heads twisted off, the bodies left on the representatives’ side tables like presents. Or warnings. Bowers laid his wine glass aside, and put his pipe back to his lips. He had sent orders that these events were not to be discussed. They were petty tricks, and as such they should be ignored. The Lander’s Guild had to be above such things; to act, as Bowers said, as the stewards of those who had proven unable to be their own caretakers.

A breeze ruffled the governor’s hair. He frowned, and glanced at the window. It was open, letting in the night air. He laid his pipe aside, careful to keep the bowl facing upward. He dusted his hands, and crossed the room to the casement. He was sure he’d closed it earlier, after he’d had one too many papers blow off his desk and onto the floor. His legs were a tad unsteady, and he paused for a moment with one hand on the wall, and the other on the window.

That was when the lights went out.

At first, Bowers was sure it was just an errant breeze that had snuffed his candles. That was when he realized the night wind had died. He raised his gaze to the glass, and he saw a figure behind him. Before he could turn, though, he was seized by strong hands. One clamped down hard on the back of his neck, and the other cupped his throat. He felt five, sharp points prick his skin, and a trickle of blood bead down his neck.

“Move, and I will tear out your throat,” a soft voice whispered in his ear. “Do you understand?”

“I don’t know who you think you are-” Bowers snarled, until he felt the points dig into his neck.

“I will not repeat myself,” the voice hissed in his ear.

“Yes,” Bowers said after a moment. “I understand.”

“You will write to your superiors, and tell them they were misinformed,” the voice continued, a single, sharp point running up and down Bowers’ throat, just over his trip-hammering pulse. “The land here is bad, and yields sick crops. There is a blight that will curdle their coffers. Tell them there are creatures in the forests. It doesn’t matter what you say, so long as they understand that holding this place will cost them more than it could ever yield.”

“I can’t do that,” Bowers hissed. “If the guild finds out I lied to them, they’ll kill me.”

The pinpricks at Bowers’ throat grew hot, and dug deeper. The beads of blood on his neck grew to a trickle, and he felt one of the blades press up behind his jaw. He felt hot breath on his ear, and cold sweat on his brow.

“They might kill you, if they find you,” the voice purred. “I will do it here, and now. And I will do it in such a way that no one who hears the tale would ever accept your posting for themselves.”

“All right, all right,” Bowers moaned. “I’ll send the missive.”

“Tonight,” the voice said.

The pressure at Bowers’ throat increased another hair, then something struck the back of his knee. The governor was thrown to the ground, barely getting his hands up in time to stop himself from slamming into the boards. Bowers pushed himself to one side, rolling, snatching his dagger from its sheath as he came up, one arm ready to block a descending blow. All he saw was moonlight streaming in through the open window, and all he heard were the sounds of the night outside. He was alone once more.

Once the governor got his breathing under control he fumbled his way to his desk, and re-lit the taper with a hand sparker. He lifted a small mirror, looking at his throat. Four small punctures stood out clearly on one side of his neck. He dabbed away the blood, and collapsed into his chair. A night breeze made the window creak, and he shuddered.

Bowers drew a fresh sheet of paper from a sheaf. He took up his pen, and stared at his hand until the adrenaline shakes stopped. Once they had, he started writing. Blight had been discovered among the crops, he said, and entire fields had been lost. Worse, the soil had been tainted by something he could not identify. It was for this reason he recommended the Landers’ Guild withdraw their interest. Then, as a postscript, he resigned his commission with the organization. Bowers sealed the missive, stamping the wax before slipping it into an envelope.