12 Spring 512
It is an odd week if a wolf pack doesn't commit civil war. Dessert dogs are anarchists at heart, even if they won’t admit it. And street dogs will form packs of shaky alliances that can crumble once they smell a bitch in heat. People might not know about the vicious gang and pack rulings of dogs, but they certainly don’t help the situation. They won’t simply let the dog take the food, they will hold it in their hand and take amusement over its whirling mind trying to gauge the likeliness of a trap over its raging hunger. Pure breed is considered a weakness, since you only have the qualities of one type of dog, and are typically looked down upon. Even as kennels and enthusiasts continue with the barbaric process of ‘selective breeding’. And instead of feeding the dog the leftover scraps of gutted fish and unwanted meals, they will toss the food between two dogs and watch them scrap it out. The sick bastards.
Not that they are all sadistic amusement junkies, of course, but you will find most of them on the Riverfall port.
The day is clear and warm, protected from the stiff wind off the sea by the natural bay barrier. The usual flurry of activity on the pier; dull thumps of crates being loaded and unloaded, the clack of heavy Aklak footfalls and the concerto of voices rising and falling with argument, discussion and trade make a dull background noise for the not-quite-welcome occupants of the city: The rats, the birds, and the dogs. Rhy is not very fond of rats and birds (feathers, and whatever the rats have been stewing, in make for very bad digestion) but beggars are not choosers and Rhy is very, very hungry. Winter has not been kind to the city, and the Dijed storm has wiped out any chance of a good spring, so if life gives you a filthy ship rat you sit down and eat that filthy ship rat.
Anyway, scourging the port on four paws is easier then stealing on two feet.
“Hey boy!”
A sharp whistle cuts through the dull noise of the usual pier activity. And Rhy’s black velvet ears perk up for the voice of the young Svefra man, because that was the opening line for a social game called “I Have Food and I Might Tease You Into Sharing It”. Maybe rats aren't necessary today after all.
She quickly changes course with a click of nails on pounded wood, and stops short of the young man perched on a wooded crate and smiling like the devil, with what looked like a full fillet of dried jerk.
“Good boy, come on. Easy now”
He makes a motion for her to get closer, waving the sliver of fish just out of reach. And she complies; head low and ears arcing forward.
“Come on now,” She coos in her mind “look at how good I’m being; now give me the food or I’m taking your fingers too.”
Thinking it over carefully, she never would snatch away someones fingers, (especially someone with food) but she is far past any kind thoughts for people who tease her with charity.
She inches forward, and the food inches back, another toenail forward, the food retracts by a hair. She stares bayfuly at the prize and wills it to jump out of his hands and into her salivating maw. The sailor, oblivious to her agony, laughs with delight and calls over his shoulder at a fellow crew member.
“Look what I caught Salam! Bet he could do twice your work and I could pay him in bread and water. Maybe-”
And with that opportunity her jaw closes around the fillet, a hairs breath from his calloused fingers, and is prancing away with at least three fourths of the fish swinging from her mouth. Leaving the young sailor cursing and pulling himself out of the netting he had fallen into, and the man Salam baying in laughter.
Still beaming in triumph, Rhy gallops to the shore and walks with the bay on her left as she looks for a decent spot to indulge in her meal. If she wasn't being so cocky, she might have spotted the two mutts following her. If she took a closer look, she might have spotted the dangerous expression on both of them.
