Winter Moon walked through the city of Zantaric. He made it his habit to visit the dark city now and then. One of the few places a creature of ill repute could feel truly at peace.
The coyote could roam the streets without even a second look from the inhabitants. He was far from the strangest of their visitors, in a city where half the population practiced black magic, and none obeyed the laws by which the rest of the world was wont to abide.
As he passed a narrow, crooked alleyway, a gloved hand reached out to encircle his neck and drag him inside, pushing him into the shadows.
Winter stumbled, but didn't fall, turning on his aggressor. A man dressed all in black, brandishing a large dagger.
"Let's see what's in the bag, freak," he sneered.
"Alright, alright!" he said, raising his hands in a gesture of peace. He leaned in to get a better look at the thief, and his eyes widened in shock. "By the gods, you've got it!" He took a step back in evident fear.
"Got what?" the thug asked suspiciously.
"The plague! It's come out of Kishahn Jungle. I've just been to the Temple of Ash, it's a graveyard. It starts with reddening of the eyes and once your skin turns yellow it kills in just a few minutes. See?"
He pulled a small, dingy hand mirror from his satchel and held it up. In the clouded, dirty glass the man's reflection looked decidedly yellow.
"I've got the cure but you have to take it fast, it might already be too late!" He handed the thief a small glass vial.
Confused and terrified, the thief popped the tiny cork and drank it immediately. After only a moment, he collapsed, unconscious.
Winter laughed, crouching to go through the fool's pockets.
