The Prince of Thieves walked through the more run-down sections of Varrock. The stench of waste and rotting food hung in the air. That wasn't the worst smell though. Since his sense of smell heightened, he now inhaled the worst of all the city had to give. He was confused, having just visited his old flame in the Draynor Manor. He was now in southern Varrock, a place that he knew well from his childhood. He had grown up here, among the smells and screams of back alley fights. He knew the town like the back of his hand. Although, now that he came to think of it, his hand had fur! It was shaped like a paw! This was news to him, and yet it seemed completely normal. He tried to stand up, and fell backwards. Flies were beginning to make themselves fell at home on his body, in larger numbers than they ever had before. He swat at them with his hand, but he found that his leg was better suited. He scratched and scratched, and then, for a moment, wondrous relief. He continued on, staying in the shadows, fearful that someone might see him. He had been banished from Varrock many years ago, for stealing a crown of some king or another. Dreadful punishment, really, for a crime that seemed so trivial. He had sneaked in a few times since, for meetings or midnight rendezvous, but he had never been stuck inside for a night. He was far from his hidey-holes in the North Wall, and even farther from the Thieves' Way in the Northwest corner of the outer ramparts. He supposed that his old flame had teleported him here as a joke. After all, she was a witch.
More pressing matters soon overcame his mind, and the desire for food ruled out all others. He decided to pay a visit to Straven, for a hideout for the night and some food for his belly. He had contacts in both the gangs and never really understood why they fought so much. Sure he'd been betrayed by thieves, but he'd betrayed them. No honor amongst thieves, the saying went, but that was not always true. He pondered the fact that the thieves' code of honor made more sense to him than oaths of fealty. What you did to someone, you could expect to be paid back in kind. It was a one to one system, and simple. His stomach growled again, and he found himself at the rundown headquarters for the Phoenix Gang. He reached for the door handle, and found himself unable to reach it. He yelled and shouted, until finally Straven poked his head out of the door.
“Scram! You filthy mongrel! If you keep up that racket there'll be one less stray out here by dawn,” he shouted.
The prince was angry, and rightfully so. True, he and Straven had never been the best of friends, but he couldn't think of any debts, both monetary or honorable, that he owed the gang leader. He was willing to pay for his bed, and Straven should be glad for the extra income. He decided to risk the Blue Moon Inn, for he was unwilling to trust the alley prowlers to leave a man alone.
He headed there, and after a short walk he arrived, and entered. Normally, his friend Johnny the Beard was there, and tonight was no exception.
“Johnny, I haven't seen you in years,” he called out.
“Oi, you stupid dog, get out! I don't want your fleas in here,” the barman shouted.
"Dog?" He thought on it for a moment, and then retreated outside as the barman advanced toward him.
“And stay out!” he yelled.
He saw a puddle and walked over. He glanced in it, and a dog's face stared back. He opened his mouth, as did the dog. He shook his head, as did the dog. He shouted “Hey!” The dog's mouth opened and a loud bark was heard echoing. The witch had done it. She finally caught him with another woman, with her stupid scrying glass, and paid him in full for the heartache. An adventurer walked past.
“Hello, there. You look hungry! Have a bone on me!” The adventurer threw a cow bone at him. He walked over and picked it up, the juices making his mouth water. It began to rain, and the adventurer turned and headed to the Blue Moon Inn, leaving him with drops of water on his dog face. Or were they tears?