As the Hobo King, I understand that others perceive me as a distant, unapproachable authority figure. People look at me and think, "He's on top of the world. He's got it all: looks, charisma, power, respect..." But as fulfilling as my life may seem, the truth is that leadership is not without its hardships. Those who know me personally might be surprised to learn that being a king can be awfully lonely. Even the most stoic of leaders, such as myself, yearn for companionship. Several of my former subjects in the Hobo Nation had pet rats and pigeons, and the Damned Swede, in particular, was quite adept at befriending the bird population. I must admit that I envied these inter-species friendships. At the same time, the King of Autumn, Dan Carlin, saw fit to send me on my first diplomatic mission to gather allies for the Great Falls Freehold. It was then, during my long and solitary journey to Miami, that I finally resolved to get myself an animal companion.
That's right, Tobias Blackbriar became a pet owner. How? Well, buying a pet in Great Falls wasn't an option since the only local pet shop - the Furry Friends Pet Store - was burned down by Bob Stabs-You-Quick in the Hobo Riot of 2012 (I'm afraid things got out of hand that day, though no animals were harmed). Buying a pet in Miami wasn't an option either, for I had no money and the Investi-Gators were loathe to loan me any. Furthermore, I don't have the time or skills to train a wild animal. As such, I decided to acquire a pet via mystical means. I focused my fae nature towards cultivating a supernatural affinity with wildlife. I wasn't interested in learning the Contracts of Fang and Talon, which provide camaraderie with an entire species of animal. Rather, I simply wanted to forge a relationship with one particular creature. The Gentry can do this, and I surmised that so could I. So like a homeless Steve Irwin, I immersed myself in explorations of the animal kingdom. In time, I succeeded in wrangling my first non-human protégé.
My pets and I don't exactly share a tangible magical connection. It'd be more accurate to describe the effect as a sort of "supernatural charisma" that I can exert over a single animal at a time. This allows me to communicate my needs to the creature and to instantly secure its loyalty. The pet gains no special powers or qualities other than behaving like a perfectly well-trained animal. It's capable of understanding and following my instructions, and will even put itself in harm's way for me without being asked. However, my pet is still a natural, real world animal, meaning that it's limited to what an animal of its species can normally do (don't be expecting my pet cat to fix your car for you). Furthermore, communication between us isn't two-way. Though the animal can understand my directions, unfortunately I can't comprehend it in return.
Some would say that the nature of my relationship with these creatures makes them more akin to "familiars" than conventional pets. Regardless of what you want to call it, once I exert influence over an animal, that influence remains until the animal passes away. When my pet dies, only then am I able to form a new relationship with another animal after a brief refractory period.
At the fringes of society, we homeless are surrounded by a diversity of life: rats, squirrels, seagulls, pigeons, snakes, alley cats, and stray dogs. One can find all sorts of animals in a park, alleyway, squat or abandoned train yard. I select my pets based, not on species, but on the quality of their spirit. I've had two animal companions, thus far - a rat called Charlemagne (who is sadly no longer with us), and my current companion, a cat named Alexander the Great.
Charlemagne
My first pet was a common brown rat (Rattus Norvegicus) whom I met in an alleyway one fateful day. Unlike other rats, which normally run from me as I approach, this rat stood his ground and glared at me, sitting intently on his little hind legs. As we stared each other down for what seemed like hours, I knew that this tiny rodent possessed the unwavering spirit of a lion. Consequently, I struck up a friendship with him, and the two of us spent several months raising hell across the Great Falls and Miami Freeholds. Charlemagne was an ideal companion. He was friendly, clever, quiet, and a champion nibbler. His nibbling talents were essential in getting me out of a few tight spots in which I was tied up against my will. In addition, his miniscule stature meant that I could secret him around in the pocket of my overcoat, and none would be the wiser. I rewarded his loyalty with a king's ransom in Kraft shredded cheese.
Unfortunately, Charlemagne met his end in the same car crash that killed Michael Steele and John Stoic. He was crushed to death in my pocket as I rolled around inside the cabin of our vehicle. After meeting Gnizzle and escaping from the hospital, I was able to give Charlemagne a proper funeral in the Dearborn train yard. He was buried in a shoebox wrapped in the flag of the Hobo Nation and received full honors from my personal hobo honor guard.
Alexander the Great
In keeping with my penchant for using the names of famed historical emperors, I called my next pet Alexander the Great. He is a short-haired mackerel tabby cat (Felis Catus) whom I found battling for bits of food behind a Chinese restaurant. Let me tell you, this feline is one scrappy fighter! He held his own against three other alley cats, violently clashing over the remnants of some General Tso's Chicken. It was inspiring to watch him struggle so fiercely against a larger enemy force. Being that I have a soft spot for the underdog (or in this case, undercat), I decided to even the odds. I jumped into the fray and, together, we drove away his enemies and secured him his food. From that point on, he and I forged an alliance built upon mutual respect and our prowess in battle.
Alexander the Great is definitely no spoiled house cat. He's an outdoors cat, and it's obvious at a glance. His eyes are always narrowed in a leer of suspicion, and his hackles are perpetually raised as though he's ready to attack at any moment. He has a mangy, unkempt coat of fur that's noticeably missing several tufts; a legacy of his many years fighting to survive. His right ear is also missing a small chunk, and he's lost a large number of whiskers. "Pretty" or "cute" are not words one would use to describe Alexander the Great.
Unlike the friendly Charlemagne, Alexander is a ornery son-of-a-bitch who doesn't put up with a lick of crap from anybody. Both petulant and pugnacious, this feline is as temperamental as the True Fae and twice as mean. The only sounds he ever makes are growls, screeches or hisses; never once have I heard him purr. He is quick to anger/annoy, and he doesn't hesitate to express his displeasure with a scratch of his claws. Though he always does as I ask, his obedience comes grudgingly. He allows NO ONE to pet him except for me.
Some would say that the nature of my relationship with these creatures makes them more akin to "familiars" than conventional pets. Regardless of what you want to call it, once I exert influence over an animal, that influence remains until the animal passes away. When my pet dies, only then am I able to form a new relationship with another animal after a brief refractory period.
At the fringes of society, we homeless are surrounded by a diversity of life: rats, squirrels, seagulls, pigeons, snakes, alley cats, and stray dogs. One can find all sorts of animals in a park, alleyway, squat or abandoned train yard. I select my pets based, not on species, but on the quality of their spirit. I've had two animal companions, thus far - a rat called Charlemagne (who is sadly no longer with us), and my current companion, a cat named Alexander the Great.
Charlemagne
My first pet was a common brown rat (Rattus Norvegicus) whom I met in an alleyway one fateful day. Unlike other rats, which normally run from me as I approach, this rat stood his ground and glared at me, sitting intently on his little hind legs. As we stared each other down for what seemed like hours, I knew that this tiny rodent possessed the unwavering spirit of a lion. Consequently, I struck up a friendship with him, and the two of us spent several months raising hell across the Great Falls and Miami Freeholds. Charlemagne was an ideal companion. He was friendly, clever, quiet, and a champion nibbler. His nibbling talents were essential in getting me out of a few tight spots in which I was tied up against my will. In addition, his miniscule stature meant that I could secret him around in the pocket of my overcoat, and none would be the wiser. I rewarded his loyalty with a king's ransom in Kraft shredded cheese. Unfortunately, Charlemagne met his end in the same car crash that killed Michael Steele and John Stoic. He was crushed to death in my pocket as I rolled around inside the cabin of our vehicle. After meeting Gnizzle and escaping from the hospital, I was able to give Charlemagne a proper funeral in the Dearborn train yard. He was buried in a shoebox wrapped in the flag of the Hobo Nation and received full honors from my personal hobo honor guard.
Alexander the Great
In keeping with my penchant for using the names of famed historical emperors, I called my next pet Alexander the Great. He is a short-haired mackerel tabby cat (Felis Catus) whom I found battling for bits of food behind a Chinese restaurant. Let me tell you, this feline is one scrappy fighter! He held his own against three other alley cats, violently clashing over the remnants of some General Tso's Chicken. It was inspiring to watch him struggle so fiercely against a larger enemy force. Being that I have a soft spot for the underdog (or in this case, undercat), I decided to even the odds. I jumped into the fray and, together, we drove away his enemies and secured him his food. From that point on, he and I forged an alliance built upon mutual respect and our prowess in battle. Alexander the Great is definitely no spoiled house cat. He's an outdoors cat, and it's obvious at a glance. His eyes are always narrowed in a leer of suspicion, and his hackles are perpetually raised as though he's ready to attack at any moment. He has a mangy, unkempt coat of fur that's noticeably missing several tufts; a legacy of his many years fighting to survive. His right ear is also missing a small chunk, and he's lost a large number of whiskers. "Pretty" or "cute" are not words one would use to describe Alexander the Great.
Unlike the friendly Charlemagne, Alexander is a ornery son-of-a-bitch who doesn't put up with a lick of crap from anybody. Both petulant and pugnacious, this feline is as temperamental as the True Fae and twice as mean. The only sounds he ever makes are growls, screeches or hisses; never once have I heard him purr. He is quick to anger/annoy, and he doesn't hesitate to express his displeasure with a scratch of his claws. Though he always does as I ask, his obedience comes grudgingly. He allows NO ONE to pet him except for me.
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