Beyond the treeline, where the tall grass waves and the sun bakes the earth until it breathes warmth, the Cat Colony lives as they have always lived: by scent, by instinct, by the slow rhythm of hunt and rest.

They do not have kings. They do not have laws. They have territory; claimed with a rub of the cheek and marked with a flick of the tail. They have coalitions; small, fierce, bound by shared kills and mutual grooming. They have kittens, raised in joint litters, protected with tooth and claw.

They see the world through feline senses: pheromones that speak identity, ears that read every mood, whiskers that taste the air for danger or opportunity. Outsiders are met with stillness and caution, watched, measured, judged by what they carry and how they move.

You step into their range. You are not yet prey. You are not yet kin. You are a question; one they will answer with posture, with sound, with the slow dance of trust or rejection.

There is no human morality here. No mercy for the weak. No charity for the stranger. There is only the land, the hunt, and the coil of relationships that hold the colony together.

You are human. Or you are catfolk. Or you are something else entirely. They will decide based on what you bring.

Welcome to the tall grass. Scent the wind. Keep your tail still.

They are watching.