What Purrella Stole This Week
(And What You Get Instead)
🍷 Pull up a chair, stranger…
This week, the Tavern's been buzzing louder than a bard with a brand deal. Between writing chaos, a dentist appointment threatening my ability to enunciate properly, and one sassy feline planning a heist, things are getting deliciously unstable.
You’ll love it.
🐾 Behind the Scenes:
Purrella DeVille—our feline gadgeteer and sass specialist—is about to star in her very own cyber-noir side mission, The Catnip Caper. It’s not done yet (thanks, procrastination!), but the claws are out and the caper is underway. Expect stealth, sarcasm, and at least one explosive furball.
📚 Want to start at the beginning (or is it the end)?
Download Tangled Skein, Book 1 of The Traveller’s Inn, absolutely free. It’s the house special for new travelers.
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💬 And if you’re already deep into the mischief… tell a friend. Or an enemy. Or a cat.
Until next time,
Travis “still numbing from the dentist” Sivart
📖 Fast, Fun, Five-Star Fantasy & Sci-Fi
Here’s a quick word from our unofficial cohort, sponsor, and security mod boss:
🎥 [LIVE STREAM BEGINS: Purrella DeVille, perched in a velvet chair, a steaming mug labeled “HUMS ARE DUMB” in paw, tail lazily flicking. The city glows behind her in that familiar mix of neon and noir.]
"Oh, stranger. You would not believe the day I’ve had."
You know that moment when your favorite sling bag—bum bag, fanny pack, whatever your local dialect is—decides to betray you mid-jump? One second, you’re leaping a rooftop with grace and dignity. The next, you’re watching a packet of lockpicks and an emergency churro spiral into the night like confetti at a circus of shame.
So, obviously, I had to go shopping.
Now before you get all “Purrella, you shoplift everything”—rude—I do buy things. Occasionally. When surveillance is tight and I’m too well-known to risk a scandal. Which, unfortunately, is often.
So, this morning, tea in paw and a mission in mind, I booked an aircab. Hopped in, tail first, and gave the driver the address of a posh little boutique in Upper Neo-Knox.
That’s when the trouble began.
The cabbie—a wiry human with more hair on his chin than sense in his head—twists around in his seat before we even take off and gasps like I just coughed up a hairball on his steering wheel.
“Wait a sec—are you Purrella DeVille?”
I gave him The Look™. You know the one. The 'yes-I’m-famous-but-don’t-make-it-weird' look.
“Big fan!” he blurted, eyes lighting up. “My niece has your Wanted poster framed on her bedroom wall. Calls you the Meowtrix.”
Meowtrix. Honestly. I love it.
He then proceeded to ask me zero less than twenty-six questions before we reached the shop. My favorite was:
“Do you, like… kill people? Or just rob them?”
And I said, “Darling, I relieve them of burdens they were too boring to carry properly.”
We arrive. I tip him with a wink and a laser-cut plastic coin from a casino that no longer exists. He probably thinks it’s real. That’s on him.
Now, this boutique… Oh, it’s perfect. Gleaming displays. Hover-mannequins. A scent in the air like vanilla and capitalist guilt.
I pad to the door, and wouldn’t you know it—the entrance scans me and lets out a chirp. One of those “no animals allowed” chirps. Rude.
“I’m wearing more tech than your manager's dating profile,” I mutter to the door, which doesn’t care. Obviously.
But the security system does—because a turret the size of a grapefruit drops from the ceiling and targets my face whiskers.
Now, I could hack it. I could. But that would take time, and time is for hums. So instead, I do what every sophisticated thief with a criminal record and a sense of fashion does—
—I walk around the corner and climb through the second-story window, past a flickering neon sign that says "Reboot Sale."
Inside, no alarms. No fuss. Because rich hums assume danger only comes through the front door.
Once inside, I find the aisle of personal carriers. A glorious display of pouches, bags, and satchels with more personality than most Tinder dates. I paw through them with great care.
Tactical sling bag with EMP shielding? Tempting.
Sequined clutch with built-in drone? Ridiculous—but hilarious.
And then I see it.
A black faux-leather crossbody bum-bag with hidden compartments, data-scrambler lining, and a side pocket for snacks. It's sleek. It's efficient. It's… me.
I drape it across my shoulder, and I swear the room gets ten degrees cooler. That’s when I hear it.
“KITTY!”
Now, that’s a word I tolerate, but only from those under three feet tall and missing their front teeth.
I turn, slowly. And there she is.
A little human girl in a glittery tutu and holographic jelly sandals. She has the look. That gleam. The one that says “I will try to grab you and you will hiss at me.”
Her mother, naturally, is nowhere.
“Can I pet you?” she asks, hands already reaching.
“Consent is important, small mammal,” I say, sidestepping her grabby hands with a twirl worthy of a cat ballet.
“But you’re so SOFT!”
This is true. I take care of my fur. But I don’t need it confirmed by peanut-butter-sticky fingers.
While I’m distracting her with the old tail flick trick (hum kids are so easy), I spot it.
Behind the counter, in a locked display case: a necklace—no, a collar—made of woven light fibers and miniature star-studded stones. The kind of thing they market to fashion-forward pet owners but clearly wasted on dogs.
And like that, it calls to me.
Now, I could break the glass. I could hack the lock.
But I don’t.
I distract the girl by telling her the sequined clutch can talk. When she runs to test it, I slip behind the counter, flick a claw, disable the latch, and bloop—collar in my paw, now in my new bag.
By the time the clerk returns from wherever they were pretending to be useful, I’m out the second-story window and sipping chai at a rooftop café two blocks over.
[She raises her mug. Steam curls around the glow of the city below.]
And that, stranger, is how I got my new travel gear and walked out with a priceless fashion statement that technically no longer exists in inventory.
Morals of the story?
Always keep a spare churro.
Never trust a boutique with animal scanners.
And if a child is staring at you with grabby hands, make sure it’s not a distraction from an even smaller, sneakier child.
Because that happened last week. But that’s another story.
[Winks.]
Cheers, hums.
[STREAM ENDS.]
