by: A.R. Jameson
He lay in the alley covered in piss and shit and waited for his target to leave the tavern. This old bugger was not your ordinary sort of burglar, oh no sir, he was a rat thief. And rat thieves went any where rats do, every place no normal individual would dare venture to explore.
She came out then, looking awash in fine linen and well pampered hair. Her friends were with her. Laughing, chattering, obnoxious group of hens. They were of little concern, however. The daughter to the Viscount Demetris was sure to have a fat sack of coin on her person, not to mention something ever so more sweet buried between her thighs. The cutthroat licked his lips in anticipation and followed at a safe distance.
When they reached the top of the hill and turned down a desterted street, that was he chose to act. A growl came from the pit of his gut, like a dog, but it grew louder and louder. They group turned around, thinking some lost pooch was looking for dinner. They weren’t far wrong.
Suddenly he transformed into a snarling wolf, then bounded upon them and dug his claws ferociously into their flesh. Her guards stabbed him through the heart and he bled to death on the street, cold and lonely and just a little bit hungry.