It tasted of age, this place, of silence and smoke and oh-so tempting food locked away in cupboards. Schemer crept across the floor, keeping to the shadows barrels cast, sniffing. Yes, a world of scent he'd grown used to, grown to love. His paws moved soundlessly over cold stone, wandering the edges of the kitchen. His whiskers twitched, a tremor of movement and sound rumbling through his body. It was the strong creature that entered, his footsteps thundering with the resounding clang of his armour.

Schemer knew what was coming, yes, and his fur prickled in anticipation. The strong one would take a bottle of something foul, first, something that stunk and clung to his breath. He would sit at the table, kicking off his boots, and the smell of his feet would make the rat's nose wrinkle. But then, then! The tall one in black would enter, and hold his hand, and they would talk and share bits of bread that fell to the floor in a glorious rain. He would gather what he could, stuff his cheeks and his belly before scurrying away.

He would creep into the home of the pale one, the one who smelt of death, who's heart was silent. The pale one would smile at him and scratch his head, let him carry away scraps of paper. The pale one was not always so kind. Schemer had clambered amongst the papers on his desk, once, and stepped into something hot and sticky, that smelt like the candles that burned in the halls. His paws tracking it across the floor until it cooled. The pale one had not allowed him back inside for a long time. A long, long time.

The little one had been kind, had laughed and gently cleaned the stuff from his fur and his paws. He loved her best. She would play with him, give him bits of bread and cheese, let him clamber over her shoulders and curl up next to her warmth on the bed.

He had his life, his ways. And he was a happy rat. He watched the strong one bite into an apple, waiting. But he did not take another bite.

The apple rolled to the floor, the strong one slumped and silent. Schemer sniffed the apple and pulled away, fur bristling. It was not right, no. The scent. It was not something he could eat.

The tall one never came, and the halls were silent. Schemer crept into the rooms, tail twitching, teeth bared. The pale one lay silent on the floor, eyes open, but blank. The familiar scent of blood was strong, and the liquid clung to his paws. But he was not chastised as he made his way on. Even the little one didn't clean his paws. She was silent, too, like the rest, oddly slumped, the warm bed she'd once shared damp with blood.

His whiskered prickled at a human sound, a heartbeat. The new one. He had paid him little mind. This new creature didn't give him food, didn't scratch him, was rarely even here. But now he stood in the centre hall, steel in his hand, shoulders shaking and hoarse, anguished sounds coming from deep inside him.

Schemer sniffed the creature's foot and it startled, jerking away and staring at him with wide eyes. It left, then, and Schemer was alone.

This was not the home he knew. This was not his world.

It tasted of blood, this place.