It seemed that wherever Anemos seemed to pass- be it through tent city, the western district, the north or the east- and no matter how many different groups of people congregated within the town’s walls, there was one topic that every soul in Clock Town seemed to be collectively ecstatic about: The impending arrival of [i]The Prince[/i], son of Igos Du Ikana himself. In Tent City, some of the impoverish spoke verbosely of how his return to Clock Town would mark “the end of their suffering”, as if he might take pity upon them all. In the West and North, most of the enthusiasm was directed towards the possibility of perhaps establishing new trading relationships with the once dead kingdom… or at the very least, flogging off some wares to The Prince’s assembly. And in the East, every performer worth his penny was keen to show The Prince himself what it was they had to offer in terms of entertainment, each of them self-assured that their acts were a notch above the rest. Anemos, however, did not quite share this enthusiasm. Whilst it was true that some aspect of him- the young child that’d dreamt of glory, and believed truly that Ikana would take him to it- was heartened by the idea that, perhaps, children he’d known [i]then[/i] would be knights [i]now[/i], there was another part of him that juxtaposed it. The part that begrudged the kingdom it’s right to withdraw its men, and surrender the land to lawlessness. And whilst, true, Termina hadn’t fallen into degradation, the damage was definitely noticeable: In dark alleys, and small towns… And Tent City. Had the knights remained, would there be a killer on the loose at all? That was a pointless train of thought, he supposed. They’d left it to the likes of [i]Orca[/i] and the local guard to protect the land: A squire, doing the job of a knight. “The right way, and the hard way, is often synonymous,” he reminded himself, as he weaved his way out of the crowds, and found himself a place of relative peace in the shade of a skinny tree’s leaves. He closed his eyes, and took a moment to savour the Eastern District’s ambiance. The music had been jagged- obscured in parts by the bustle of the throng- and impeded on his thoughts. But now that he was focusing on it, it added a more joyful touch to the air. There were so many different genres playing at once, though, and not a single one of them could be heard to completion: That much was a pity. He opened his eyes again, to survey the scene. So many people in one place: Prince or no, it was a remarkable- Wait, just who the [i]Hell[/i] is that? Departing from a conversation with some gentleman Anemos didn’t truly recognise, came a pair of familiar- and by extension, disconcerting- faces. Hurriedly, he scrambled to withdraw the poster he’d pilfered from the walls of Tent City: And lo and behold, he was staring down the likes of Marcus Bonner and [i]Lorelei the Siren.[/i] Whilst it was true, he harboured some intentions of visiting their performance, he had absolutely no interest in confronting them: If they shared even an ounce of Grout and Fyer’s loathing for one another’s troupe’s, then they’d surely take an immediate- and potentially physical- disliking to him. And if he was to maintain his alter ego’s secrecy, he certainly didn’t want to be involved in any form of scuffle. Of course, it was totally possible that they were actually perfectly lovely people- although Grout had ensured that they were nice and thoroughly demonised amongst the troupe- but even if that was the case, they probably wouldn’t be so joyous to meet the likes of him. What Grout had said, he was sure their troupe-master had mirrored. Quickly, fluidly, he motioned to raise his hands and blast himself aside with a sudden rush of wind: However, some other thought had reached his mind far before the air had left his limbs, and caused him instead to stall. They hadn’t a clue who Anemos Seuhans was, truly: They knew only [i]Gales Tempesta[/i], just as he only knew [i]Lorelei.[/i] But whilst she featured quite prominently on her posters, Anemos always wore a mask in his. In fact, he wore his mask right up until the end of a performance: Taking it off only to make his final bow. She surely wouldn’t recognise him, not unless she’d actually [i]attended[/i] his shows at some point, which seemed less than likely. He was willing to wager a shiny rupee upon the fact he was a total stranger to her. With a breath of relief, he returned the Black Marsh Circus’s poster to his bag, and leaned back against the tree again, watching as the two of them traveled around the district, browsing wares. “Hm.”