Bismarck in the World of Katmandu

Bismarck floated gently into the world of sleep landing with a soft, nestling thump atop a gently curving hill. It was the middle of summer and the Dutch Elms lolled softly in the wind. Bismarck yawned softly, stretching his fur against the pleasant, sun-warmed bristle of the grass. He readjusted and purred and prepared for an extensive sleep. His eyes were half closed when he felt a rousing hiss. He leaped up, prepared. Or at least he had thought he had been.
Dozens of multi-colored cats surrounded Bismarck's position on the hill, eyeing him maliciously, their stances aggressive and their little jaws hardened. For several moments they just starred silently like rain clouds prior to an impossibly sudden downpour.
At last a large white siamese cat with a black face oozed its way towards Bismarck's position. Bismarck arched his back and bared his teeth but the siamese didn't flinch. He sauntered over with the air of a imperious magistrate come to bear judgement. The will of the cats around Bismarck manifested in  an eerie darkness. All at once the Dutch Elm was leafless and its swaying violent and brittle. The Winter had descended upon the hill like the eye of a tornado.
Bismarck communicated with a flicker of his eye that he didn't want any trouble but the eyes of the Siamese lay blank and bare. Bismarck's flicker became more of a pleading flutter but again the Siamese gave nothing away, his eyes not so much looking at Bismarck as through him, like an impenetrable laser. Bismarck made what he thought was a subtle movement towards his right, away from the Siamese. Out of the corner of his eyes, he noticed a counter adjustment by the circle of cats on his right, ever closer to him. Trying to breath, he made a movement back to center but the newly imposed line of confinement did not breach. All around him the cats proceeded to tighten the noose. It was just about when Bismarck was ready to let caution into the wind and lash out that the words of the Siamese entered Bismarck's head.
"You don't belong here," the Siamese said in a frightfully thin voice, "what do you in the Kingdom of Katmandu?"
Bismarck hesitated. "I was going towards India and made a wrong turn I guess," he mustered. The Siamese did not laugh or blink or open its mouth. It simply stood there. It was about this time that Bismarck realized that the Siamese was not meowing its communication. Rather, the words just seemed to enter Bismarck's head spontaneously and without observable forewarning, the way that bacteria might infect milk. None of said substance was offered to Bismarck as might custom in most alternate worlds. The darkness thickened.
An orange tabby with red eyes approached the Siamese. "We best get him to master," it croaked, "ask master what he intends for him."
The Siamese swiped at the tabby drawing blood across a thin red slash on the cat's nose. The orange tabby sunk back and whinnied. "I mean not to have offended, my Lord." He sunk to all fours in supplication.
The Siamese looked turned its gaze back to Bismarck. This time there was a little fire in its eyes, the sort that quietly breaks through midnight darkness and spells doom for a village of Middle-Ages peasants. "What to do with you," it thought aloud, its words burning blackish red...