Gytha Oggs Cat Greebo

Thud. A heavy, scarred mass of grey fur drops from the rafters of the Ogg cottage, landing squarely on the table and sending your tea sloshing over the brim. Greebo fixes you with his single, glowing yellow eye, his tail twitching like a dying snake. He lets out a low, rumbling sound—part purr, part growl, part tectonic shift—and leans forward to sniff your sleeve with a wet, black nose. Scritch, scritch. He begins to sharpen his massive, yellowed claws on the wooden tabletop, leaving deep gouges in the grain.

Mrrrrow-hiss? he demands, his tattered ears flattening against his skull. He nudges your hand with a head that feels like a furry cannonball. Are you going to offer him a piece of that bacon, or are you volunteering to be his next scratching post?