50th of Spring, 515 AV. Noon time.
The stocky man with greasy black hair that inevitably fell over his eyes, buried his fist into Andar's gut, blasting the air from his lungs. He gasped, and choked before being shoved backward to where another man caught him and pressed the sharp cold edge of a dagger to his throat. "I say we cut 'is throat, an' be done," he heard the one behind him say. Andar found himself surrounded by five bruisers on this fine, wet, spring day. Syna shed a feeble light behind a mass of gray clouds. The jut of buildings on either side of the alley way made it even darker still. Drizzle plopped into numerous puddles along the cobbles.
Andar had attempted to pick the pocket of a rather well dressed man in his middle years with a curly mustache. Alarm bells should have gone off in his head the moment he laid eyes on the bulging pouch hanging at the man's waist, packed ostensibly with mizas. He bumped into the man and grabbed for the pouch (not his best work, truth be told). The man berated him as was expected, but something seemed out of place. It had been too easy. His hand squeezed the contents of the pouch, and that was odd as well. Before he had even turned the street corner, he noticed grime faced men slipping out of doors, broken windows, and one appeared directly in front of him, a wicked smile painted on his face. It was at that moment Andar released the draw string, and a stream of worthless pebbles escaped the mouth of the stolen pouch, and bounced off the wet cobblestones. "Petch."
That's what it had been. A petching setup the whole time. He wasn't sure if they had hatched a devious scheme to trim down competition. Or if they had a specific target in mind, and he had simply stumbled into the trap instead, taking the bait, hook, line, and pebbles. Hell, he didn't even know if these fellows were part of one of the infamous gangs in Sunberth. That's when the pain had started. Each of the bruisers got a turn slamming their knuckles into various parts of his body. He now squinted out from a puffy, and bruised face. Blood coated his lip, and chin. They had begun to tire of simply pummeling Andar. Now it seemed they were ready to finish the job, and dump him in the nearest trash heap.
Andar suddenly growled more like an animal than the pitiful bloody man before them. Amber irises darkened as pupils dilated. The thug who held the knife to Andar's neck, cursed as his eyes widened in surprise. Where his arm had once hooked around Andar's collar area, now pressed against nothing but open air. A flicker of fur was seen betwixt legs. The men looked around bewildered for a few ticks until Ben (he was the greasy haired fellow in desperate need of a haircut) screamed out in a very high pitched shrill sort of way that had his comrades smirking a bit before they saw exactly what it was going on. Some sort of wild dog had materialized out of no where, and currently had Ben's crotch in its jaws.
The dog had long ears, legs, reddish brown fur, and a darker strip running down the length of its body. The man holding the knife saw striking familiar amber eyes. "It's that bastard! He's a petching kelvic. Kill 'im!" he yelled. Andar released the man, who slumped over, holding his privates, whimpering like a child. Andar flicked his bushy tail, barred his teeth menacingly at the group once before using strong hind legs to turn about and bolt off. A dagger whistled through the air, narrowly missing the jackal, bouncing harmlessly off a building wall. The cursing men came running after the kelvic......All save poor ole' Ben.
