The tent smelled of smoked meat and wildflowers, a confusing combination that made Adam sneeze twice before stepping inside.
A dozen catfolk warriors in patterned leather armor watched him with wary, slitted eyes as he approached the throne-like cushion at the far end.
Upon it lounged Chief Marrak Whiskerclaw, a broad-shouldered feline humanoid with thick black stripes, amber eyes, and a lazy air of mild superiority.
He flicked one ear in greeting.
Or disdain.
Hard to tell with cats.
Adam adjusted the collar of his enchanted blazer — self-cleaning, of course — and stepped forward with his trademark “I’m-about-to-change-your-economy” grin.
“Chief Marrak, thank you for seeing me. I appreciate your time.”
Marrak yawned, displaying sharp teeth.
“You came alone. Brave. Or stupid. We haven’t decided yet.”
“I get that a lot,” Adam replied, unfazed.
“But don’t worry, I’m not here to conquer your tribe or sell you snake oil. I’m here to offer you a licensing deal.”
Marrak blinked slowly.
“Licensing?”
“Yes. For your likeness. Specifically, I’d like to add your people — the Whiskerclaw catfolk — as a playable race in my MMO.”
Another blink.
Then Marrak tilted his head.
“In your what?”
Adam clasped his hands behind his back, pacing like a CEO giving a TED Talk to a bunch of furry, armed villagers.
“Massively Multiplayer Online Role-Playing Game. MMO for short. It’s an interactive magical experience where players assume avatars, complete quests, form parties, fight dungeons, fall in love, start trading guilds, lose everything to auction house scams—uh, you get the idea.”
“…No. I do not.”
“Okay. Imagine your clan’s best hunter. Now imagine a hundred thousand people pretending to be him at once — some for fun, some for glory, and a surprising number just because they think tails are hot.”
Marrak narrowed his eyes.
“Why would anyone want to pretend to be a Whiskerclaw?”
“Two reasons,” Adam said, raising two fingers.
“One, your race is objectively badass. Agile, proud, mysterious. Great aesthetic. The internet—er, the ethernet loves catfolk. Ears, tails, attitude. It’s a whole thing.”
“…You’re making this up.”
“Am I? Because the Elf King told me the same thing before I added elves, and now half his treasury comes from elf-themed cosmetics.”
Marrak’s tail swished.
“Cosmetics? You mean potions?”
“No, no. Cosmetics like… custom tunics, glowing eye colors, particle effects when you do a backflip. Purely aesthetic. Doesn’t affect stats but sells like hot meat pies at a festival.”
Marrak growled under his breath, then scratched his chin.
“And you want to put my people into this…game. But you ask permission. Why?”
“Because I’m not a colonialist, I’m a developer with standards. Also, legal nightmares. I’ve already been sued twice by the dwarves over beard physics. I’m trying to do things properly this time.”
“Sued. Beard. Physics.”
“Long story. Let’s stay on topic.”
He pulled a scroll from his bag — enchanted parchment, gold leaf logo at the top, and at least thirty clauses written in sparkling runes.
“This contract offers your clan 10% of all revenue generated by Whiskerclaw character creation fees, race-specific cosmetics, and clan-branded accessories.”
Marrak took the scroll, turned it sideways, upside-down, sniffed it, then handed it to one of his advisors — a scholarly-looking catfolk with glasses tied to his head with twine.
“So… you want to pay us because people want to pretend to be us? Instead of being us?”
“Correct.”
“…I don’t understand you.”
“You and everyone else I talk to. But the numbers don’t lie.”
Adam tapped the air beside him, summoning a floating golden display with charts, player statistics, and a big shiny number at the top: 73,482,112 Active Users.
“This is the biggest thing to happen to this world since dragons went extinct. My game — WorldSpire — has become the battlefield, the tavern, the market, and the church. Entire wars now happen in my game. Diplomats negotiate in raid chat. Former rivals go on dungeon runs together and cry when they finally beat the Wailing Widow on Hard Mode.”
Marrak’s ears perked at that.
“You brought peace… through a game?”
Adam grinned smugly.
“Not to toot my own horn, but yes. I replaced violence with PvP tournaments. Rival kings now argue over patch notes instead of borders. People shout insults, but they do it while dancing on top of digital mushrooms.”
“You replaced war… with mushroom dancing.”
“And loot boxes.”
“…What are those?”
“A sin I regret.”
Marrak stared at him for a long time. Then turned to his advisors.
“This man is either a mad prophet… or a genius.”
“Can’t I be both?”
Adam offered brightly.
There was a long silence.
Finally, Marrak rose from his cushion, tail swaying thoughtfully.
“If my people agree… you will make us into… avatars?”
“Yes.”
“They will be able to choose fur colors? Customize their ears? Flirt awkwardly in your magical taverns?”
“Absolutely. We already have six idle animations for the tail.”
“…Make it seven. And I want one where the whiskers twitch when they’re annoyed.”
“Done.”
“And add a playable flute. We like flutes.”
“I’ll make it part of the starter kit.”
Marrak extended his paw.
“Then we have a deal, Game-Maker.”
Adam shook the paw with a firm grip.
“Welcome to WorldSpire, Chief. You’re gonna be a fan favorite. Just wait till the fan art starts coming in.”
“…The what?”
“You’ll see.”
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