“The Black Marsh Circus,” Anemos read aloud, as he tugged the poster free of its nail, and took a closer look.
Reading audibly was a habit he’d developed when very young- His father was wont to do the same- and one which had followed him into his 30s, much to the annoyance of the troupe’s psychic, Sparrow, who made no hesitation in telling Anemos that the practice made him ‘look, and sound, like a mouth breather.’ 
He’d never taken much notice of Sparrow, though: The man was a fraud, after all. 
A failed psychologist, who made his living from reading faces.
Anemos was willing to bet that, had he read some of his text books aloud, he might’ve gotten somewhere with his life. 

He narrowed his eyes as he examined the poster’s contents, slightly faded but still distinguishable: A rather pretty young woman was the most prominent element, against a background of dark rolling waves. 
He recognised her, to some extent: This wasn’t the first time he’d heard of The Black Marsh Circus, nor the first time he’d seen [i]”Lorelei the Siren”[/I]'s likeness on paper.
Other performers, too, made an appearance on the flier, but they seemed somehow less important. 
He frowned, thoughtfully, at the sight of it all: It seemed just slightly too dark for his more ebullient performing tastes. 

Still, however, he folded the image up, and slid it into his shoulder bag. 
Although Grout had quite strictly forbidden it- [I]“Never, under any circumstances. It’s final. No.”[/I]- he still intended on paying the performance a visit, albeit a brief one: He’d never had any qualms with other troupes, despite what Grout might’ve said to try and sway him.
Besides, it was difficult to consider Lorelei his [i]”rival”[/i] (as Grout had so kindly worded it in one of his innumerable rants) without having ever seen her in action. 
Maybe he'd even learn a thing or two about showmanship: Although he doubted it, as his act was intended to bedazzle, and hers to bewitch. 

With [i]The Black Marsh Circus[/i]’s advertisement now in his possession, Anemos turned his attention to his surroundings.
Colloquially, they called it “tent city”, but he'd heard it described as "the Clock Town slums." 
At first glance, it looked innocent enough: A series of small, tented communities, filled with all sorts of discount merchants and carnival-types, keen to flog their wares and make their livings… 
But there was no denying that there was a sinister undercurrent that seemed to flow freely between the marquees, a hint on the breeze that was impossible to the touch, but distinct in scent.

It was only now that Anemos became fully aware of the weight of the mask that he wore beneath his cloak: A sleek, black thing… a false face, which bore no feelings, and thus no qualms. 
Most days, the mask in which he performed was of a radiant and autumnal design, lustrous and engraved with an exuberant smile. 
But now, the one that hung upon his belt was an antithesis to that: Cold, and devoid of all feeling. 
[i]Orca[/i] existed to forcefully undo the wicked: And there was much wickedness in the air of tent city. 

And that’s why Anemos had come here. 
Of course, he hadn’t journeyed across Termina- and dealt with the mayoral office for many an hour- in order to combat petty thieves, to debilitate ambitious pickpockets and make black and blue the skin of wretches… 
There was a far viler killer on the loose, perhaps even stalking these tents right at this moment.
A foul creature, that claimed lives, and took faces. 
But he wouldn’t strike, yet.
The cover of darkness had once been his target’s emancipator: Unfortunately for them, however, it was also his alter ego’s closest playfellow… and natural habitat. 

Suddenly, however, Anemos shook these crepuscular thoughts from his head, and motioned to return to Clock Town’s walls. 
Orca represented a nocturnal instinct, but as day was still upon them, he had little place clouding Anemos’ mind. 
He was quick to make his way into, and through, Western Clock Town, and made the same progress through the Northern district: He was eastward bound, in the hopes of finding some means of distracting himself from the evening to come.
He entertained the idea of starting practice even earlier, but soon dismissed it.
After all, East Clock Town was filled with all manners of performers to admire.
“Maybe I’ll find a musician,” he mused to himself, the smile returning to his face as he stepped through the eastern gate, “Or a dancer.”