It started with a dress.
Not armor. Not even a dramatic cloak with skull embroidery. A dress.
With sparkles.
And a bonnet.
Lyra had looked at him with those big starry mage eyes, cradling the abomination like it was sacred relic-tier adorable. He, in turn, had stared at her in silence, mentally weighing the pros and cons of biting her wrist and running.
He chose violence.
One smoke bomb (okay, knocked-over spice stand) later, he was free, scampering through the cobbled streets with nothing but instinct and pure fluff-powered adrenaline guiding his paws.
"You promised you'd at least try it on!" Lyra's voice echoed behind him.
Poffin, cheeks puffed with a stolen bun, turned his head just enough to yell, "I lied, mage-maiden! And I regret nothing!" sprinting away laughing like a maniac.
A nearby baker shrieked as he somersaulted off a table and darted into an alley, leaving behind a confused customer and a missing turnover.
Finally out of her sight he settled on an alley, he lifted his head up as a couple of cats and dogs surrounded him. His brows furrowed as he realized he's in trouble, or so he thought.
10 Minutes later, a small crowd of alley cats watched him in reverent silence as he stood atop a crate, fur tousled heroically by the breeze...
"…And so we must rise, my fellow stray comrades! For too long have we suffered the tyranny of ribbon chokers and seasonal pet costumes! Too long have our dignity been weaponized for cuteness! We shall reclaim the alleys! Take back the scraps! And above all—no more bonnets!"
A chorus of barks, meows, and one defiant goose honk echoed in agreement.
A ginger cat handed him a crown made of leaves and a Half eaten chicken bone as a staff.
It fit perfectly.
"Thanks my devoted subordinate, I shall bestow upon you the name..." he paused as his gaze drifted onto it's collar with the name "Truffles".
"Tch, Truffles.. how insolent, No matter, you will be called under a new name now! Sir Chompalot suits you better"
He was halfway through drafting the "Fluffifesto" when his ears perked.
Mage-girl.
She was near.
The wind carried her scent of lavender, magic ink, and glittery vengeance.
Poffin looked around, muttered something about unfinished revolutions locked eyes with her, and bolted.
The chase began again. Classic fluff-versus-girl showdown.
Barrel vault? Cleared.
Angry merchant? Dodged.
Mysterious alley puddle that may or may not be sentient? Braved.
Lyra was fast. Relentless. She even vaporized a turnip mid-air. Savage.
But Poffin had speed. Agility. And the desperation of a creature who knew his dignity was hanging by a single pastel thread.
He took a sharp left, climbed a crate, flipped off a chicken coop, and vanished through a pile of laundry like a particularly dramatic tumbleweed.
Eventually, the pawsteps behind him slowed. He perched atop a roof beam, panting slightly, tongue lolling out like a smug hero of legend.
Below, Lyra stood, clutching the dress, looking adorably furious and thoroughly foiled.
He watched her walk away, muttering darkly to herself.
Victory.
He fluffed his fur. Sat like a smug cloud. Slipped on the sunglasses he definitely did not steal from a merchant stall.
"This is just the beginning," he murmured to himself like a Saturday morning villain.
A pigeon blinked at him from the next beam over.
"Welcome to the resistance."