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“In my experience, wizards usually do not live long enough to make the effort of befriending them worthwhile. Either the enemy recognizes they are a threat, and kills them swiftly, or their curiosity leads them to combust while experimenting with the limits of magic.” – unknown The sun flickering through flittering drapes woke Virga from her slumber. For a moment she had no idea where she was or when; dreams of being in one of her many beds back in the dormitory flowed through her mind like a fleeting concept. She rolled over, away from the open window, and laid still in the clean sheets for a long moment or five. Faint sounds rose from the street below the window; the clatter of hooves on cobblestones, voices of greeting, someone practicing a fiddle, far away. The color of the light told her that early morning had come and gone, fading into an early midday. She slowly sat up. The fresh color of the wallpaper and newer furnishings told her she was still in Baldur’s Gate. A room

Ursina first saw the thin white smoke from the uphill trail, at about the same time she noticed how the side road had been turned into sloppy mud by recent, heavy use. Both were bad signs. She stopped in her tracks. She carefully scanned the surrounding upland forest as she slowly curled her left hand around the crossbow at her side, hidden by her furs. The mount she rode upon brayed once, impatient. She goaded it forward with a light nudge from her heels, and as it walked ahead, she kept her eyes on the edges of the forest on both sides of the path. The light rain cut visibility some, but it worked both ways. The hiss of tiny raindrops muted any sounds to her other than her own and her noisy mount splashing through fresh ruts. Ursina had been forced off the Main Trunk Road by reports of something called Skia swarming down from the high mountains through the valleys and across the northern flatlands. She had never heard of them before but after seeing some of their carapace-like

CATS is filmed on location with the men and women of claw enforcement. All suspects are innocent until proven guilty, in a court of claw. North Las Fernandas, Whiskerlands 3:21 a.m. The shot begins with lights of a city at night, zooming into the flashing blue and red lights of a police car rolling down an empty street. “Yeah, Caturday night can be a rough night out here,” the voice begins, the shot changing to the presumed interior of the police car, with a uniform behind the wheel. Officer Bill Mittens “You never know what you’re going to see,” the officer explains as he makes a corner, overhead lights off, patrolling, image mostly a silhouette against the car window. “There’s all types out here. Not too much in the way of fat cats, more low-level street prowling, alley fights, catnip abuse. Those are the worst. They get too much of that, they’ll get unpredictable, climb walls, run out into traffic. They’ll do anything for more, it’s pretty bad.” The radio in the dashboard of

“There is nothing astounding left in this world,” I stated with complete confidence over coffee still steaming in the cup. The statement caught my friend Katrine in mid-sip across the table. We were having mid-morning coffee as we were prone to do, meeting as artists both respectable and promising were prone to do, between bouts of creation and self-destruction. An accomplished artist in her own circles, she raised her eyebrow and tilted her head slightly. She knew when I said something like this, I fully meant it, almost challenging the universe to prove I was incorrect. At first, I saw her doubt my generalization, then something more. She abruptly stood from the table. For a fleeting moment I wrongly assumed I callously offended with my words. “Come with me, bring your coffee,” she said without offense taken, quietly and clearly. I was caught off-guard by the sudden action. “What?” “Come,” she bid, and turned to leave the small coffee shop. I grabbed my cup and followed