Whiskers turned sharply, looking to the source of that harsh, rough voice. In the corner of the jail cell sat a stout, bearded man with a wide frame, large round nose, and a messy, frayed beard that was peeling away from its braid. The headache throbbed in Whiskers's head once again as he recalled more information.
The stout creature was a dwarf, common in this area. Their ears were similar to that of monkeys, big and round, just like their bellies, noses, and rippling muscles.
"Calm yourself, lad," hushed the dwarf, "I mean you no harm. Name's Gorm, I'm a regular here. Only had to wear the barrel a few times 'fore I learned to just come here on my own." Gorm laughed a deep and raucous laugh.
"I didn't do anything, though!" protested Whiskers, "This sucks. How do I get out?"
Gorm groaned and gripped his head, "Quit your caterwaulin', lad. Just take a nap and they'll let you go in the morning. If you're quiet they may even bring us some meal."
Whiskers turned around completely, sitting against the metal bars of the jail cell with his knees to his chest.
After a while, Whiskers piped up again. "Where are we?" he asked.
Gorm snickered, "You musta drank yourself daft, lad. We're in Alexandria, largest city on the Terrene Continent. To forget that you'd must've been plastered."
As they talked, leather-bound footsteps could be heard marching down the hall toward the cell.
"Speakin' of. . ." Gorm hummed, standing to approach the cell door's tray flap.
The guard that came held two wooden trays with very simple meals. A chunk of bread and what appeared to be a loose, wet potage with oats and minced vegetables.
One tray went in through the flap, taken appreciatively by Gorm, who gave the guard a polite nod before retreating to the wooden bench in the back of the cell.
The next tray Whiskers took curiously. But his focus was on something else entirely. "Please, let me out, I didn't do anything!"
Gorm groaned in the back as the guard put his hands on his waist, "You've any idea how many times I have to hear that tripe? 'I didn't do it', 'I'm innocent I swears!' Bah!" he waved away the imaginary complaining inmates. "'Sides. Ya ain't bein' charged with nothin', not yet anyways. Yer just here till you're sober, then you'll be out on yer ass again."
Whiskers stared at the guard in confusion, "What's sober?"
This earned him a laugh and a shake of the head from the guard who proceeded to walk away, "Sleep it off, will ya? And don't go botherin' your cellmate with all that mewling."
The guard's footsteps became distant echoes as Whiskers watched him leave, vanishing behind the corner. Turning his attention to the paltry meal provided to him, he sniffed the bowl of oats and veggies. Despite not smelling like meat, it did smell rather good. The bread was a bit on the hard side.
With no utensils provided, Whiskers drank from the bowl. The food was not good. It was so bland! No seasonings were used at all. While Whiskers didn't have a knowledge of seasonings included in all these new memories of his, he did have an appreciation for food that actually tasted like something. He sighed and rolled his head back, looking up at the ceiling. His stomach growled. Like it or not, he'd just have to eat.
The meal was quiet. Gorm had passed out on the bench shortly after polishing off his tray. With nothing left to do, Whiskers should have just tried to sleep until the guards came to let them out. The problem was that there was just too much going on in the poor cat's head.
His hands, what used to be paws, stretched out to the ceiling above. Opening and closing, he watched how his new appendages worked, eyes wide as he watched his new dexterity. It wasn't quite as fast, but his range of motion was far superior. Each digit flexed and relaxed on its own, he could move his hand in any direction quite a ways.
He stood up and looked at his body once more. Moving in various ways, he learned how he could maneuver himself, his new limits, new abilities, everything he could. It blew his mind how weirdly natural it all felt.
Satisfied with his anatomical exploration, Whiskers lay across the other bench in the cell and closed his eyes.
Whiskers awoke to the sound of the heavy metal door being unlocked. Throwing his legs over the edge of the bench, Whiskers stood up. His back ached, the hard bench was a terrible thing to sleep on. At least now it looked like he was finally getting out of there.
The guard sighed, rubbing his face as he spoke. "Alright, you two. It's mornin', time for you to get out and make somethin' of yourselves." The guard's voice was tired, and from the warm light peeking through the barred window it must have been very early.
Whiskers and Gorm followed the guard out of the building, taking the same path they took on their way in. As they left the front door the guard remained within the building.
"Oy, Gorm. We catch you sauced, we'll have to put you in the barrel again. Captain's gettin' tired of hearing complaints," called the guard.
Gorm waved and meandered off, heading straight down the street to a large building on one end. Hanging above the door of that large building was a painted sign depicting a gryphon.
Whiskers sat himself down on a nearby bench. Now that he was free he needed to figure out exactly what it was he was going to be doing. It was a new city with new people, and from the look of the birds, new animals. Sitting around wasn't going to get him anywhere, so he would do what he always did—whatever he wanted.
First things first, after that horribly bland meal in "the tank", Whiskers was going to find himself a proper meal. He took a quick jog down the road, sniffing the air as he looked for a source of food.
Tucked into the residential part of the city, where the buildings were more squat and had thatched roofing, a stream babbled along. Whiskers could smell the running water, and within it the small bite of fish that called that water home.
Whiskers made his way to one of the narrow wooden bridges that crossed the river separating the residential and commercial sections of town. Hanging from the edge, he peered down and stared deep into the springwater flow.
He sat there as five minutes turned into ten minutes. He waited as ten minutes turned into an hour. He got bored of waiting and passed out on the sunlit ledge, purring loudly to himself.
Whiskers's nap was interrupted by the nudge of a boot. It was one of the guards.
Whiskers shot up and held his hands up. "I'm sober," he whimpered, not wanting to be stuck in the jail cell again.
"You can't sleep here," drawled the guard. "We've got vagrancy laws, it's an ugly sight."
Whiskers crossed his arms, sitting cross-legged on the ledge, "I'm not ugly."
The guard sighed, frustration heavy in his voice. "That's not what I. . . Look, you can't be sleeping out on the street. It's a bad look for the town. Just get up and keep on movin'."
Whiskers stood up, arms still crossed as he eyed the guard down. He'd stand by what he said. He was a rather good looking cat and he was sure that meant he was rather good looking now.
Whiskers walked back to the commercial district where he saw all the different stalls and their wares. Some shops were selling basic things, bolts of fabric, baskets, utensils, and other daily goods. Some sold jewelry and shiny trinkets. The especially sparkly ones caught Whiskers's eyes, and it was all he could do to keep himself from walking up and smacking the expensive pieces around.
The worst sight of all, however, was the food stalls. One stall sold chunks of grilled meat on wooden skewers that were then covered in a sauce. Another had small hand-held pies that could be eaten on the go. But the worst of the worst was the sight of the stall that sold grilled fish. Whiskers's stomach was screaming in supplication, begging him to get something. But Whiskers had no money. All he had to his name was roughspun trousers and a loose linen shirt.
He slumped to the ground, back against a wall, and hugged his knees. Of all the memories he got when he came here, of all the changes he underwent, couldn't one of them have been a coinpurse or the knowledge of how to get his own coin?
As Whiskers sat there, ears flat and tail limp, he was startled by a thump on his head. The cat boy nearly jumped out of his skin from shock, looking around to see who had hit him. He saw a group of three pass by, a human, an elf, and a dwarf. Of the trio, a human woman in dark robes waved to him with a commiserating smile that barely curled the corner of her lips.
He looked down between his legs and saw what had hit him. Cats don't believe in gods, especially not New York cats. But in that one moment, Whiskers swore there must have been some higher figure.
Whiskers picked up the small leather purse, sealed tight by a draw string. It was decently heavy and when Whiskers looked in the bag his heart fluttered. The bag was full of shiny, clinky gold coins, the currency of Mithra the world over.
This simple act of mercy, this deus ex machina—whatever that phrase meant—meant so much for Whiskers. He watched as the party entered the building with the Gryphon sign, "The Gryphon's Claw" the sign read in big white letters. Surely if they were this generous with money, they'd be generous with information. Perhaps, even, on how he could make his own money.
That settled it. Whiskers was going to get a bunch of money, then he was gonna spend all that money on trying to find a way back home so he would never need money ever again!
It was time for Whiskers to go to the bar.