For Werecat. The author of many a good tale of the animals of M-e asked for a drabble about them.
Heedless of him, Bergil burrows through the rubble by the one standing wall. Wiping filthy hands, Beregond pleads, "Bergil, be–" just as his son whoops, dragging forth a thin, dust-coated cat.
"Told you she'd be waiting!" Bergil crows, triumphant. Ammië meows, and for one lad in this shattered city, the world's righted.