Closed starter for @soil-from-slaghtaverty Greedy Paws
Sometimes you could find yourself a nice, busy little town that filled up their alehouses to the brim, so that no more could comfortable stay inside and would start to mill about and have fun outside of the doors of the establishment. Those were towns that people were comfy in, where they weren't worried about having a good time out in the streets for what was there to worry about? Like having a comfortable flock of sheep that didn't spook at the slightest disturbance. Easy pickings.
Not that Siridean really picked at people in any overly devious way- just enough to get by. Just a hand in a pocket here, removing a bracelet or a watch there, pilfering what was quick and easy and slipping away before any inebriated individual might realize they were a few trinkets lighter.
Now it was in one of those such towns, on a very fine night that hardly had a cloud in the sky, that the young, short-statured man idled around the corner, hands in his baggy pockets. There was music playing in the street and a decent crowd was dancing, cheering and drinking the night away, overflow from the nearby bar. A perfect sort to go picking from if you knew how to do it.
His wild green gaze roved over faces that didn't matter, watching couples, and singles moving about, different states of inebriation and alertness. Like watching a school of fish. You had to look for the slower ones on the outside of the moving throng.
And there was one, sort of hanging along the edge, not too close, not too far, but sure as hell stuck out like a sore thumb to Siridean. Easy. Pickings. Nevermind the fact that there was a scent in the air that made his hair stand on end, made him want to snarl and bear his teeth. By now Siridean had all but chalked those urges up to being where he was now. This strange land, far from home. Granted, nothing felt quite the same as this. But he wouldn't need to feel it for long, just enough to get a decent haul then he was gone again.
Wetting his lips with his tongue, Siridean kept his eyes on the man, feet as quiet as any beast stalking a target that was prone to bolting at the first sign of movement. Slow and easy enough to be part of any idle background but getting closer. Closer. And the closer he got, the more that god awful smell put him on edge, enough so that Siridean had to clench his jaw against the guttural, snarl wanting to make its way out of him. One of his deft hands edged into a pocket, feeling the coins there and seizing hold of them, ready to bolt as soon as his hand was out of that pocket. For more than one reason.
