In a place between the stars, where dreams live, a man named Pterry was writing.
His mind was clear and his eyes were clear, and his fingers flew across the keys. Still, he noticed immediately when the two walked in.
“We heard you had a casting call, mate.” One was fair and smiling, the other dark and dour.
“You’re not my normal types…” Even as he said it, the man called Pterry’s mind was slotting them this way and that. Not the Guard, no. Not the Wizards, that lot was too silly. Not the Assassins, too crass. The Witches, maybe, if they’d been women… he put that idea aside for another day. He hadn’t done much to the Thieves’ Guild; maybe they needed shaking up?
He’d barely gotten the thought finished when the fair one was grinning at him. “What do you need us to be, then?”
The dark one smiled. It was a surprisingly bright and cheerful expression, lighting up his face and the room. “We’re nothing if not versatile.”
The man called Pterry began to think, and words flew across his screen at the speed of thought. The printer beside him rumbled and creaked – because even printers have dreams – and two scripts shot out of the tray.
He handed them off, the ink still wet. “Take a gander at this, then.”
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