On a low branch of a squat tree near the edge of a small village, a cat lay napping. The tree had mostly maroon-colored bark, with broad, dark green leaves. The cat had mostly dark gray-colored fur, with white fur on his broad front paws.

Residents of the village called the tree a lambo tree, while the strange travelers which had started showing up a few months ago called it a Christmas tree. Residents also called the cat “Mittens,” while the “Rifters,” as the travelers were called, paid little attention to him. For the majority of Rifters, the cat (or any cat, dog, bird, mouse, squirrel, and so on) was nothing more than a cosmetic flourish - a “critter,” having neither levels, loot, nor combat capability.

Mittens yawned. The sun was setting, and had just hit the perfect height to sneak a bright, early-Spring ray through the lambo leaves and straight onto his face. He squinted at the sky, stretched, yawned again, then turned around twice before settling down, furry back to the insistent light. The cat wasn’t done pondering his Name yet, and as any cat knows, pondering is best accomplished with eyes closed and body relaxed.

“Mittens! Mittens, dinner!” The village mayor’s granddaughter stood outside the largest home in the village, holding a small wooden bowl filled with shredded fish. Mittens, being a graceful and dignified apex predator, scrambled awake excitedly. Having forgotten in his excitement that he was perched in a tree, and one with rather small branches at that, he promptly fell right out of it.

The cat landed on his face in a pile of flailing limbs. He looked left. He looked right. Nobody was watching. Mittens sat up and gave himself a quick grooming - it wouldn’t do for any residents of the village to see him mussed and dusty. His grooming was interrupted by a chittering laugh from a nearby tree. It was probably a squirrel. Mittens hated squirrels. A quick squint in that direction revealed a flash of poofy reddish fur and a shaking branch - definitely a squirrel. Mittens swore that one day, he would catch that squirrel. Who would be laughing then? He would be laughing then. That day wasn’t today, though, so Mittens finished his quick lick-check.

Dignified mien restored, the cat ignored the squirrel and trotted towards the center of the village, his lashing tail the only acknowledgement his audience would get. Nimbly navigating through the narrow nettle hedge separating the mayor’s garden from the gravel road, Mittens approached the young human and sat on his haunches, waiting for dinner. One paw outstretched towards the delightful-smelling bowl and a commanding “hawm!” were sufficient to make her aware of his presence.

The mayor’s granddaughter was around five Mittens tall, with a bit more than one Mitten of gray head fur hanging from her head. Mitten approved of her head fur - it was objectively the best color for fur, and her white, pointed ears poking through made the perfect accent. Truly, she must have been destined to be his servant. Mittens was sure that she was as grateful that she could serve him as he was satisfied with her service.

The girl clicked her tongue and set down the bowl, making those sing-song human noises that humans all made. She picked out the leaves and sticks that were caught in his fur, and pulled a brush from her pocket to remove the dirt. Mittens refused to acknowledge that his grooming was anything less than perfect, or his hedge-navigation less than stellar, but allowed her to do her job as his human servant anyway.

Her reward was an appreciative purr while he ate the delightful fish dinner. That’s not to say that he needed her to provide dinner, but he allowed it. After all, fish lived in the great water at the edge of the village, and no respectable cat would be caught dead swimming in that salty, smelly, wet hell. Humans, though, seemed perfectly happy to fly their magic tree things over the surface, or even splash around in it themselves. Mittens figured that since they had so little fur, they must be less tortured by it.

Bowl empty and fur slicked, the girl gave Mittens a final pet and walked back into the house, still making those sing-song sounds. Another, deeper voice responded from within, and the cat recognized it as the girl’s grandfather. The girl’s name, Milly, and her parents’ names were easy enough to pick out of the warbling, but Mittens couldn’t be bothered to pay any more attention than that.

Her parents had left on one of the water-flying tree things with a few other humans the day before, as they regularly did. They would likely return in a paw of days, as they always did, bringing more delicious fish with them. Mittens looked forward to their return - fresh fish was his favorite.

The cat eyeballed the sky - there was still plenty of time for another nap before the sun dipped below the horizon, and the warm spring day was a welcome relief after the cold, dreary winter.

Mittens twitched his tail, radared his ears, and sauntered down the cobblestone path to the gravel road. It wouldn’t do to disturb Milly’s grandfather’s garden - a few dozen scoldings and a bucket of water splashed on him had led to a compromise with the curmudgeonly fellow on that regard. With a quick shiver from that memory, Mittens disappeared into the village.