🌙🌲👻💀🦴
In the wood where shadows crawl,
Stands the tower, black and tall.
There the pale cat‑king holds sway —
Smile like knives, but soft he’ll say:

«Come in, dear guest, take tea with me,
We’ll chat, we’ll laugh — what could it be?»
To him, the war is just a game —
He’ll flirt with foes, then bless their name,

Invite them in, offer them cake,
Choose useful ones… and no mistake.
Woe to those who trust his grace:
He turns them into living lace*.

For all who cross his velvet paw,
A fate most wretched waits, alas —
No death, no peace, no final rest,
Just servitude, in robes of dust.

With smile that splits from ear to ear,
And mask of sweet, both charm and sneer,
He makes them scrub his shadowed halls,
Wash the sheets, mend the castle walls.

«A little work!» — his sweet refrain —
«To earn your stay in my domain.»
They sweep the floors where moonlight creeps,
Cook his meals, fold his linen sheets.

Their crowns are gone, their names forgot,
Now just «the one who scrubs the pot».
What was a crown now holds his brew —
He sips and smiles: «How fitting, too —

His head was small, his fate the same».
The Mouse‑King’s pride, a teacup’s frame.
Each sip a jest — favorite tea —
Victory served hot, for all to see.

He wears black robes, a demon’s crown,
And mantle "Mist", that drags you low.
His throne is power, shield, and show,
His gleam will daze — you’ll stumble, bow.

He calls the dead, he shapes the shade,
But yawns if battles start too late:
«I’ve not yet had my morning tea —
Perhaps we’ll fight… at about three?»

In his tower, where candles sigh,
Posters of cats meet every eye —
Handsome felines, proud and sleek,
Dreams he’ll never dare to speak.

Pillows pile, a fluffy nest,
Slippers wait — a quiet quest
For warmth he’ll never quite confess.
Lonely king in darkened dress.

When the mouse‑bard sang so sweet,
Cat’s defences started to retreat.
Charm met charm, and for a breath,
He forgot he ruled the death.

«Come closer», purrs his honeyed tone,
«Let’s chat — I’m rather… alone».
His voice is silk, and gaze a snare,
His laughter dances on the air.

You feel the pull, the sweet deceit,
Until your soul joins his dark elite.
Step back, lest you become his art,
A shadow‑piece in his darkened heart.

Beware the smile, the honeyed tone,
The way he looks, the way he moans:
«Oh, such a pity you were foes —
Now you’ll polish my silver toes!»

Run, if you hear his door creak low,
Run, before his gaze can grow.
For once you’re caught in his polite snare,
You’ll scrub for years — and never care.

So heed the tale, the warning stark:
The cat‑lord plays — you’ll be his clerk.
His magic works by cunning art,
That steals the will from your own heart.

He wins his game in his own way —
By charm that makes you lose your say.
You can't resist his cat dark spell,
And you’ll forever in it dwell.
🖤👑🔮✨

*PS: "living lace" - The cat turns the living into «decorations» for his world. «Lace» is a cold, dead beauty. This is a metaphor, a symbol of erasing one’s identity. Lace is faceless, repeatable, devoid of individuality — just as the victims are stripped of their selves. Their fates are «embroidered» by the tyrant’s will, like a pattern on fabric. The loss of freedom: lace does not move on its own — it is spread out, adorned, and used.

Necromancer Cat's PROPS
RANGER
MAG
BERSERKER
BARD
RAT