Raziel
Pronunciation: ray-ZEE-uhl

    Raziel’s coat is of tabby design, colored very dark brown with black stripes on its back and ringing its tail. He has mid-length hair and a longer ruff of hair on his chest, like a lion. His eyes are yellow and he weighs about twenty pounds standing at twelve inches at the shoulder. His overall body length is forty-one inches. He has very dexterous paws that allow him to grab things, allowing him to open doors or pick up small objects. Sometimes he even eats from his paws.

    Raziel is a very proud cat and he defers only to Kisten, maybe because the half-elf rescued him or because he keeps the feline fed or he’s just friendly to certain types of people. However it is that the good regard came to be, he’s been with the half-elf for six years and hasn’t abandoned him yet.

    There is a knowing glimmer in his eye, almost as if he knows a secret. He is very intelligent, agile, and mischievous. On more than one occasion he’s been a cat burglar, with a special liking for shiny things. When he speaks, his “meow” is usually more of a trill. Just like any other cat, he loves playing. He especially enjoys the occasional ball of thread. His favorite perch is on Kisten’s right shoulder and he has no difficulties staying there, even if the half-elf sets off at a run. If he isn’t found near Kisten then he is usually above everyone’s head getting a bird’s eye view of everything. He knows the rooftops well enough to be able to scout ahead and he lets Kisten know the details of any happenings they notice.

    Seven years ago a brown tiger-striped cat was born a stray in the streets of Raiden. For a while when he was still young he was temporarily adopted as a mouser by a baker, but the man went out of business and so Raziel found himself back on the streets again. It was the story of his life and it was a tale that he didn’t seem to mind living.

    Some days were worse than others, however. One day, five years past, he was being chased by a group of adolescent boys and he was corralled into an alley that, thankfully, had several structures he could climb. It had happened countless times before, but the delinquents had a new boldness about them this time. They massed beneath him, shouting and plotting and he looked down on them as if he were a god watching its unworthy minions squabble around in the mud. Then one of them picked up a rock. They really wanted to hurt him.

    Within a moment the one who had snatched up the projectile was sprawled on the ground. Several loud cracks were made as he tumbled over the ground haphazardly. He was still alive, as evidenced by the whimpers that came from him periodically. The rest of the punk’s buddies scattered when they saw a taller, more ominous figure standing over them enshrouded in a cloak.

    When the gang was gone the figure stood beneath him with some food in his hand. The cat wasn’t particularly hungry, but he eyed the newcomer as if deciding if it would still be a good idea to get down. He could smell elven blood in the being, but it was still several minutes before he cautiously stepped his way down. When he was within the reach of the elf the dark cat darted to him, running down his arm and onto his shoulder. He was facing the body still whimpering on the ground and he hissed disgustedly before turning away, as if shunning him. It made his new friend smile.

    They walked out of the alley and the man came up to a child, swinging the cat from his shoulder to let him within reach of the boy’s arms to keep him distracted. It worked well enough, as the man told the child about the punk still wallowing in his misery in the alley. They never heard from the gang or the authorities, nor did either give the incident a second thought. It was as if they had been together for years and this was just another ordinary day.

    About an hour later he held the mangy cat out and looked him in the eye, “You are very prideful. Let me call you Raziel, cat. I am Kisten.” The cat purred in response.