Azazel is good at stealing. Really, really good. Well, that and knitting, but that isn't relevant to the task at hand. Walking through Skystead Town presents a lot of opportunities to snatch something valuable. Especially in the summer, when all the rich folk are here at their summer homes for the season. They're the perfect targets for him: loaded and arrogant. They're so self-absorbed and snooty that Azazel can swipe just about anything from them with ease. They think no one can touch them.

An elderly delcatty shrieks, high and shrill, wailing, "My necklace!" Sure enough, the string of pearls perpetually around the neck of any rich wife is suddenly missing from her person. Fretting, she pats herself down and her husband practically dances in search of the missing pearls. When they realize the jewelry is nowhere in sight, she cries, "Thief! Thief!"

The bustling town square erupts into chaos. The rich tourists flounder and grip tightly to their valuables and the officers leap into action. But the locals simply roll their eyes and spew strings of curses at yet another heist these bumbling officers won't be able to solve.

"We know it's you, Azazel," a merchant accuses as he casually strolls by.

"Who, me?" He replies, feigning innocence. He tucks the necklace into his knapsack full of everything else he's stolen today and continues on his merry way.

It's a lucrative business, being a thief. But only if you're as good as Azazel, who's stolen the diamond off of a ring still on a woman's finger. He's also stolen a wad of one-thousand dollars, a rare coin collection on display in a large crowd, and candy from a baby—just for fun. Needless to say, he isn't just good at it: he's the best. And unless the law finally catches him, he's not stopping.

"You there! Stop!" An officer shouts, scampering after him. He looks over his shoulder, offers a nonchalant wave and a lazy smile, and continues on his way. The officer catches up to him, scrambling to block his path. "I said, 'halt'!"

"Oh, did you?" He asks, smiling with the slightest air of smug self-satisfaction. "So sorry officer, I couldn't hear with the missus over there screaming."

The delcatty, exasperatingly, continues to scream. This doesn't bother Azazel in the slightest.

"Open your bag," the officer, a watchog, demands. "I know you stole it."

Azazel puts a hand to his chest in surprise. "Officer Nigel! Why would I do such a thing?"

"Because you're a wily, crafty banette and you've been thieving in this town for over a decade!"

That's true. "That's entirely untrue."

"You're right, maybe it's been more than a decade!" The officer bursts, his face red with excitement and rage. Then, he pauses. "Er, how old are you again?"

"Twenty-five as of last week."

"Oh, happy birthday."

"Thank you."

"Getting close to thirty, you may want to think of settling down and getting married, and—gah! You did it again!" Nigel yelps, gripping the fur on the top of his head like he wants to tear it out. Pointing feverishly at Azazel, he cries, "You always do that, you always weasel your way out of everything!"

Azazel smiles pleasantly.

"Well, not this time!" Officer Nigel declares, snatching Azazel's satchel from his hands. Azazel lets him. Holding the bag above his head triumphantly, he says, "This time, I've got you!"

"Actually, you've got my lunch."

"Your… huh?"

Officer Nigel tears into the bag. Opening it reveals it is loaded with nothing but berries. Frantically, the officer shoves the food aside, desperately rummaging through the fruit.

"Would you like some?" Azazel asks.

"Blast!" Nigel exclaims, shoving the bag at him. "I really thought I had you that time."

Azazel slings the bag over his shoulder. "Best of luck finding that nasty thief. I'm sure the missus over there won't be too pleased if you don't catch them."

Nigel's eyes widen when he remembers the rich woman throwing a tantrum. With a emphatic groan of agony, he trudges back to the scene of the crime. Azazel resumes his path, grinning to himself. He takes a berry out of his bag to eat. He makes sure to remove the individual pearl he shoved into it before popping the berry into his mouth.

Skystead is a beautiful town. Even Azazel can appreciate an elegant arch stretching over a cobblestone road, but perhaps he appreciates it for a different reason. The beautiful architecture attracts rich people in droves. That, and the perfect view of the ocean from the cliffside. Architecture and a view are practically a snob magnet. What he enjoys most about the town is the bar and the inn. The latter of which he's headed to right now. He's sure they're expecting him there, too. He always drops in after a heist.

The main street continues around the bend, but Azazel branches off to a brief dirt road to reach the entrance of the inn. Felicia's Inn, the sign reads. It should also say, The most popular place in town, but Felicia's too modest for that. He pushes the door open.

The inn lobby is filled with tables and chairs, but there's still people standing around. This place has become such a social center that more people come than can find a place to sit. That doesn't bother everyone too much. They're here for company or food, seating is just an extra bonus. Azazel always manages to find a seat, though. He's got a few guys on the inside.

"Azazel!"

Through the crowded room, he sees a lopunny enthusiastically waving an arm at him. He returns the wave indolently, sauntering over to where she sits on the staircase that leads up to the guests' rooms. When he sits beside her, she punches his arm. Knowing Gunnora well enough to know that's just her way of saying hello, he replies, "What's up."

"Oh, nothing much, just preparing for the general's wedding!" She exclaims, practically vibrating with giddy energy.

"Wow. You're still excited about that."

"Of course I am, the general's been my hero since, like, ever," she states, and he nods, mouthing the next words along by heart: "He's wicked powerful and super regal and just amazing in every way!"

Azazel rests his chin in his hand as he patiently listens to Gunnora ramble about the town's new favorite buzz: the general's upcoming wedding. Everyone's going nuts over it because the general (the great, the esteemed, etc. etc.) decided to have his wedding and subsequent honeymoon here in Skystead. He's even ordered a summer estate be built here in case he and his soon-to-be spouse wanted visit in the future. Everyone's been working non-stop for months to ensure that the town is in tip top shape for the general's arrival: which, should be happening any day now. Probably.

No one in town has done more to prepare than Felicia, Gunnora's mother. As the owner of the only inn in town, this is the only place for all the general's rich wedding guests to stay. Azazel hasn't seen Felicia sit down all year. He's only caught glimpses of her racing around the inn and jubilantly dusting, decorating, and dreaming about the finished product. Occasionally, she'll pause in her lightning speed bouncing to offer him a cookie. Like, right now.

"Cookie?" She asks, beaming down at him with a smile that's the spitting image of Gunnora's. If Azazel hadn't known her half his life, he might mistake her for Gunnora's older sister. Even as she gets on in age and grows a little plumper, she's no less beautiful than the years before. "They're baked fresh; I've been making tons with the upcoming wedding!"

Azazel accepts a cookie from the basket she offers him. "Thanks, Felicia. Your cookies are the best."

Her ears twitch forward to cover her face. "Oh, you're too sweet. Have as many as you like!"

She places the basket in front of him, hopping away to see to some other task. Azazel gladly takes the basket in his lap, swatting Gunnora's hand away when she tries to sneak one. She only has to punch him once to convince him to let her have her way.

As Gunnora digs into her mother's cookies, Azazel opens his satchel full of berries. Gunnora nearly dives into those, too, before he catches her hand to stop her. Pulling out a berry, he splits it open to pop out the pearl inside. Dropping the pearl into the cookie basket, he hands her the berry she'd been aiming for.

"Azazel, seriously?" She sighs, taking the berry with significantly less enthusiasm. Tossing it into her mouth, she whispers, "How many people did you steal from this time?"

"On the way here," he says, transferring his loot to the cookie basket, "About four or five."

"Azazel."

"What?"

"You can't keep doing this, man," she insists, waiting for him to remove the pearl from another berry so she can eat it. "If Officer Nigel ever wises up and calls me in for questioning about you, you know I'll have to tell him the truth."

"Why?" He wonders, knowing the answer but asking anyways just to be a little shit.

"Because," she says, "I'm a soldier in the general's army, now. It's my duty."

"What's your duty say about where snitches end up?"

She sighs. "In ditches."

"In ditches. Besides, you could never turn in lil' ol' me. Your heart wouldn't allow it."

She grins in spite of herself. "I'd turn you in for a stale loaf of bread."

"Wow, a whole loaf? I'd turn myself in for that."

The door bursts open and slams against the wall, but the inn is too loud and busy for anyone to notice. Storming in and making a beeline straight to Azazel is Officer Nigel. And he does not look pleased.

"Uh, dude, you might wanna go," Gunnora murmurs to him, her eyes shifting from the officer back to him. "He's really got it out for you today."

He leans back, closes his satchel, and kicks his feet back. "Nah."

Officer Nigel practically charges right at him. He's promptly flattened like a pancake when a familiar conkeldurr unintentionally steps in his way to wave at Azazel. Azazel waves back. On the ground and under the conkeldurr's foot, Officer Nigel twitches and turns blue.

"Dad!" Gunnora exclaims, pointing to the watchog. The conkeldurr, Fulk, looks down. Upon seeing the squashed rat, he nearly dances to get off him.

"So sorry, Officer," Fulk hastily apologizes, helping Nigel up. Nigel wheezes for a few seconds, his skin turning to its normal shade again. Then, it immediately turns red with rage.

"You!" Nigel shouts, marching over to Azazel. Azazel just raises his eyebrows as Nigel snatches his satchel away. The officer rummages through it, keeping his eyes locked on Azazel's as he declares, "As I was getting yelled at by the delcatty, I discovered where you've been hiding the things you've stolen!" Snatching a berry out of the bag, he proclaims, "You've been sticking them in the berries!"

"That's way too devious and creative for me to think of," he replies. "Have you ever considered a career in writing crime novels?"

"I'll prove it! Look at this!" Nigel states, ripping open a berry. Nothing pops out. Gunnora and Fulk share a glance. Azazel sits, still comfortably sprawled out. Nigel stares at the empty berry, his expression stuck in a smile that's no longer quite as triumphant. Slowly, juice drips onto the floor.

"You can eat that, if you want," Azazel offers, holding out the basket where his loot hides under a layer of cookies. "Cookie?"

"Blast," Nigel mutters, munching on the berry in defeat. "I thought for sure that's what it was." After a moment of glum deliberation, he takes a cookie as well.

"You'll catch them eventually," Fulk encourages, patting his shoulder and throwing Azazel a knowing look. Azazel simply bites into another cookie.

"I better," Nigel says, "No one wants any thieves lurking around during the general's wedding."

After a few minutes of comforting Officer Nigel and hearing about his deep-rooted fears of failure that stem back to his childhood, they send him on his merry way to chase after a thief he'll never catch. Unlike Azazel, Gunnora and Fulk are not as amused by this.

"Azazel," Fulk scolds in a tone that's strikingly similar to Gunnora's, "You're going to drive that poor man half mad trying to catch you, and you're going to drive me half to death with worry. When are you going to stop all this nonsense?"

Azazel shrugs carelessly. "When it stops being fun. And when it stops paying the bills."

"There are other enjoyable ways to make a living," Fulk reminds, stroking his beard. Azazel slumps against the stairs, disgruntled, knowing that Fulk is winding up for one of his famous lectures full of boring old man wisdom. "I used to think being a soldier was all I wanted in life. But now, working at the dojo and helping out at my wife's inn, I realize I had been misguided in my youth. You see…"

Azazel pipes up just to get Fulk off his train of thought, hoping to avoid this spiel. "Funny, now Gunnora's a soldier. Guess she's following in someone's footsteps."

"Yeah, the general's!" She leaps to her feet, full of vigor and enthusiasm. Then, sheepishly, she says, "Um, and you too, Dad! ...But mostly the general. Sorry."

"Damn. Brutal," Azazel remarks, grinning. Fulk laughs good-naturedly.

"Come on, can you blame me?" Gunnora demands, her eyes shining like a child's. "He's just so strong and unbeatable and imposing! I hope I can meet him before his wedding. Gosh, how cool would it be if he'd actually give me some advice? I could be a great general just like him someday!"

Fulk says, "You can be a great general without emulating him."

Their conversation comes to a halt as soon as they hear two pans banging together. In the center of the room, Felicia stands and holds the pots high in the air. With everyone's attention now on her, she smiles bashfully and announces, "The general's personal attendant is here to see the inn and approve it for the wedding guests. Please give him—Pepin, was it?—please give Pepin a warm welcome!"

A staravia takes her spot in the center of the room, a long list tucked between two feathers on his wing. Clearing his throat, he holds the list up and reads,

"The general honorably and humbly requests this list of necessities be provided at the venue in which his wedding guests will be staying. He expresses his sincerest gratitude for the kind hospitality of the people of Skystead for seeing to his respectful appeals.

"Firstly: he asks that those who are not wedding guests or inn employees will refrain from entering or loitering around the inn forthwith, until the time of the wedding guests' departure. Crowding the guests' venue with non-participants will only serve to suffocate and strain the guests."

The people murmur to each other, slightly put off. The inn is the town hotspot. Where else will they go?

"Second: he has provided his own decorations for the venue. No other decorations will be necessary." Pepin takes a glance around at all of the colorful streamers that have been so dutifully hung. To Felicia, he snips, "These will all have to be taken down."

Embarrassed, her ears twitch in front of her slightly. She meekly nods.

Returning his eyes to the paper, he reads, "Thirdly: he has provided his own beverages, meals, and delicacies to be given to the guests. Under no circumstances should the guests be eating anything that the inn provides. It will most likely not match up to their more… refined tastes."

All the hard work Felicia's done is being torn down by one measly list. The whole room deflates, their bodies sagging. The wedding swelled them with excitement, like a balloon, and now they've met a needle.

Azazel glances down at the basket of cookies in his lap. After discreetly transferring his loot back into his satchel, he takes a cookie in hand.

"Fourth—gah!" Pepin cries, his wings flapping, flustered after being hit in the head with a cookie.

"Boo," Azazel jeers, throwing another cookie at him.

Gunnora snorts, hiding her face in her hands. Fulk shoots him a scolding glare, but behind the counter, the rest of his children—all nine of them—burst into loud, boisterous laughter. Felicia purses her lips to avoid giggling, waggling a finger disapprovingly at him.

He's done his job, though, and soon enough, the entire inn is booing. Nobody in this town likes being bossed around, especially by an outsider. Especially when it comes to the general's wedding. No one's more excited for this event than Skystead. In their minds, they've got somewhat of an emotional right to provide for the wedding the way they'd like to.

Felicia tries banging her pots together to quiet the inn down again, but the people are too rowdy this time around. They shout over the sound of the pans, demanding to speak to the general themselves. The general will understand, the general wouldn't shut us out like this, the general will fix this! Azazel suspects the general couldn't care less about them, but he's not going to step on anyone's toes saying that. Especially not Gunnora's. She looks about ready to punt that bird straight through the ceiling for even insinuating the general dislikes their set up.

Pepin is futilely shielding himself from a barrage of cookies and other inn provided foods when someone swoops in with a blanket to cover him. Then, they turn to the crowd and glare. Immediately, the mob freezes, holding their fists full of food in midair as if they've been strung up. Even Azazel pauses. This stranger, a mismagius, has a sharp coldness about him. Like ice. If someone were to strike him, Azazel suspects that their hand would suffer frostbite.

"You all would assault a personal attendant simply carrying out his duty?" The mismagius demands. "Would you similarly assault a mail carrier? A baker? A doctor?"

"Depends," Azazel says, "Are they an asshole?"

The mismagius fixes him with a frigid stare. Azazel returns the look with nonchalant indifference.

With a single motion from the mismagius, the crowd parts in an instant. They almost scramble away from him, as if he's untouchable. He cuts through the tense air toward Azazel like he intends to slice him in half. When he reaches him, he looks down on him from where he hovers in place.

Fulk steps forward to apologize for him. "Azazel here is a bit of a wily one, but he means no harm—" Without looking, the mismagius raises a hand to silence him. Fulk begrudgingly closes his mouth.

"You ought to be ashamed," the mismagius proclaims, staring Azazel down, "For making a mob out of this room. You carelessly incite violence to serve your petty ego, and you drag everyone into the fray. Have you no sense of right?"

"No," Azazel replies, "I can sense both my right and my left."

The mismagius' mouth twitches downward into a stern frown. "I suppose you find yourself funny."

"Hilarious, if I'm being honest."

"There is nothing funny about bringing danger upon another," he declares. His yellow eyes burn under the dark shadows cast by the hat-like extension of his head. "If you're half a decent man, you will humble yourself to Pepin and apologize for what you've done."

Leaning his head slightly to glance past the mismagius, he looks to the frazzled bird hiding under a blanket. Pepin's face drips with some juicy food.

"Sorry," Azazel says, "That you're an asshole and only a worse asshole is willing to defend you."

The mismagius' eyes flare with rage, and a chorus of frightened murmurs rise up from the room. Felicia looks ready to die of a heart attack. Gunnora's mouth is hung open. Even Pepin looks stunned by Azazel's audacity.

It's Fulk who hastily steps in to mediate. To the mismagius, he says, "Please, allow one of my children to escort you and your attendant home. If you leave the list with us, I assure that we will follow every request to the letter."

The mismagius turns those cold eyes on Fulk. For a moment, it seems that he'll deny Fulk's generous offer in favor of continuing the fight. Instead, he sharply turns away and says, "And keep him out of my sight."

"Of course," Fulk says, lowering his head obediently. Quickly, he motions for his second eldest to walk the man home.

The mismagius stalks away, followed by Fulk's son. "Pepin, we're off."

The three of them leave, everyone's eyes trailing after them until they've disappeared. A tense minute passes, no one daring to talk. It's as if the mismagius is still glaring at them. But slowly, gradually, like a squirtle coming out of their shell, the people begin to talk again. When the room has returned to its usual noise, Gunnora hastily sits and punches him in the arm. It's not a 'hello' punch.

"Dude! What on Earth are you thinking?!"

"Honestly? I'm thinking if that mismagius guy wasn't such a stick in the mud, he'd be pretty hot."

She punches him again. "You cannot say that. Seriously, do you know who that guy is?"

He arches a brow at her. "Uh. Should I?"

"Should you?!" She cries, throwing her hands into the air incredulously. "He's the general's fiancé, Alistair Laurembert!"

"Huh. I guess I haven't paid a lot of attention to the wedding," he remarks, handing Fulk the empty cookie basket when he gestures for it. When Fulk leaves, he adds, "I thought the general was an older guy. Like, your dad's age."

"He is."

"He is? Isn't his fiancé a little young for him?"

"You need to be worrying about yourself right now," she states, serious. "If the general finds out about the mess you started here, he'll be furious. Offending him or someone in his wedding company could be grounds for challenging you to a duel of honor."

"That would be hilarious."

She's about to snap something else, but the door opens and hushes the room once more. A cold gust of wind rushes through the room, but not cold like the mismagius from before. It's an invigorating kind of chill, a cold that sends shivers of energy through the room. Standing in the entryway is a tall, sturdily built, impressive figure. This time, this is someone even Azazel can recognize. It's not like Gunnora doesn't have a million newspaper clippings of this very empoleon in her bedroom.

"The general," he remarks casually.

"The general!" Gunnora squeals, covering her mouth with both hands.

Immediately, the room erupts into praise and shouts of excitement. Everyone is torn between clearing a path for him or pushing their way front and center to humbly greet him. But no one dares to get too close. He's a regal figure; he's practically glowing amidst the common inn. The crown-like structure on his face glimmers in the light, golden. Azazel can see why people go crazy over him. He's an unattainable ideal.

He greets everyone who approaches him, benevolent and courteous. Some mothers hold up their babies for him to kiss. It almost makes Azazel believe that the general could be as good as Gunnora imagines, and that he might even be here to tell Felicia that she can continue on with all of her dedicated work. Realistically, he figures the general is here because his fiancé whined to him about the people throwing food at a bird.

Sure enough, the general's eyes find his.

"I can't breathe," Gunnora wheezes, and Azazel pats her back. "It's—I can't breathe—it's—it's—"

"Take your time."

"It's the general!" She wails, kicking her legs in the air from sheer excitement. Clutching her hands to her heaving chest, she utters, "I can't move. I think I'm dying." A wide grin slowly spreads on her face. "This is the best day of my life."

"Why don't you go talk to him?"

"I will—no, I can't—no, I have to!" She mutters to herself, her aspiration and insecurity debating with each other. Finally, she turns to Azazel and pleads, "If I go to him, will you come with me?"

"Of course. Although, I think he's headed this way."

Gunnora's attention snaps straight to the general, who's gradually making his way toward them. He's stopped, rather often, by people asking for advice or wondering about his favorite meals. Graciously and patiently, he answers every question, his eyes flicking to Azazel every once and awhile like he might flee. Azazel sits back on the step, waiting with Gunnora for him to arrive.

Watching him slowly meander through the crowd is unsurprisingly boring. He can only stare at one person for so long before his attention starts to wander, even if he is the most impressive person in this room. At least, he has the most notoriety. The greatest reputation. The highest profession. Probably the richest, too.

That's the part that wakes Azazel up again.

He glances down at his satchel filled with stolen riches, then back at the general. Somehow, the sparkle in his loot seems to dull. It's all been soaked up by the general.

How much is the junk in his bag worth? A couple hundred? That's probably the cost of a dishrag in the general's estate.

His eyes drift to the satchel slung on the general's shoulder. It's closed, secured tightly. How much cash does he carry on him? What other valuables would a rich, untouchable general walk around with?

Well. Only one way to find out, isn't there?

The general approaches them, and Gunnora immediately leaps to her feet, her hand to her head in a rigid salute.

"Gadet Cunnora at your service, sir!" She practically yells. Then, blushing profusely, she corrects herself, "Er, I mean, Cadet Gunnora! At your service. Um, sir."

He nods his head to her, saying, "At ease, soldier."

She lowers her hand, trying to fight the giddy smile creeping on her face.

"You're stationed at Fort Norwich, I presume?" He asks. She nods rigorously. "A wonderful fort for anyone who lives in Skystead. It's very close to home."

"Y-yes sir! That's why I like it, too," she replies, her feet shifting anxiously. "I'm very close to my family and friends."

"Is this one of your friends?" The general asks, turning his attention to Azazel. The general probably expects him to rise, but Azazel's not a soldier. He'll just sit on this stair where he's quite comfortable, thank you very much.

Gunnora must not be content with that, because she shoots an arm down at him and yanks him up in the air. He floats and rubs his arm, frowning at her disdainfully. "Yes, this is my best friend, Azazel."

"Azazel," the general repeats. "I believe I've heard of you."

"I believe I've heard of you, too, at some point or another."

"I've heard you're a bit of trouble," he remarks, "From a friend in the area and from my fiancé."

"They're not wrong."

"Officer Nigel and my friend also informed me that you," he says, "Are from Beggar's Hole."

For the first time all night, Azazel is caught off guard.

Silence interjects itself between them.

"...Yeah," he eventually responds, pretending not to feel Gunnora's sympathetic, comforting hand on his shoulder, "I am."

"It's a tragedy what happened there," the general laments, and Azazel manages a half nod. Regarding Azazel with something almost like hesitance, he asks, "Do you… remember what happened?"

He remembers what happened, just like the rest of the world knows what happened: everyone died. But that's about where the recollection stops for him. His only memories of the event are haphazard, splintered fragments. He remembers Beggar's Hole, before the incident and as the flames swallowed it whole. He remembers his shanty house, before and after it was smashed into the ground. He remembers his people, hardworking and alive, then dead and soaked with each other's blood.

He remembers feelings he associates with the incident. Fear. Rage. Confusion. Anguish. But he doesn't remember who brought that hell down on them; all he can remember about them is a shadow. A big, looming shadow that stood over him as a child and bashed his mother's head in.

"I don't remember," he admits, even though he hates to. Sometimes, he'll have a dream, and for that instant, he'll remember everything, but it all washes away when morning comes. And he hates himself for it. "I guess it'll just be one of those unsolved mysteries."

Gunnora rubs his arm.

The general regards him skeptically, as if he would lie about something like this. As if he wouldn't have hunted the perpetrator down himself if he'd known their identity. Then, the general nods solemnly, saying, "Very tragic indeed."

Gunnora doesn't argue when Azazel excuses himself from the room.

He returns after a half an hour, surprised to see the general still milling about the lobby and chatting with townsfolk. His hand is placed casually on his stuffed satchel. The inn has since cleared out a bit, and Gunnora is now sitting at a table with some of her younger siblings. Azazel joins them, his eyes fixated on the general's bag.

"Hey," Gunnora says, "You okay?"

"Fine. What do you think the general's got in that bag?"

"Money and stuff," one of Gunnora's siblings replies, her chin on the table like she's bored. "I saw him open it to pay for a drink."

"Huh." Azazel studies the bag a moment longer. Turning to the girl, he asks, "How much, would you guess, does he have in there?"

"Oh, lots and lots," she insists. "Like, maybe a bajillion quadrillion million dollars."

Azazel nods. He keeps his eyes on the satchel. "Huh."

The table falls silent.

"Dude," Gunnora begins, her voice wary. "Don't get any ideas."

"I've got ideas, Gunnora."

"Well, stop them!"

"Can't. It's too late now."

"Azazel, no!"

"I'm gonna do it."

"Don't you dare!"

He turns to her, grinning. "I'm gonna rob the general."

She groans, slamming her head on the table.

He hops off his stool, strolling casually over to the general. He ignores Gunnora as she hisses for him to return. The general, currently, is talking with one of the few rich natives of Skystead town, Sir Eustace VonBauld. He's a snooty swalot who owns an art museum in town that all the rich tourists frequent. When Azazel arrives, Eustace grimaces at him like he's a stain on the floor. Azazel smiles and waves.

"Ah, Azazel," the general says. "Hello again."

"Hello to you too. Whatever your name is."

Eustace nearly turns red with rage. "Whatever his nam—this is General Thurston Rambugnon III, the greatest military genius of the century! It would do you some good to show a little respect, you no-good thief!"

Azazel shrugs. "I don't know why everyone thinks I'm a thief. It's really unfair. It's not like anyone's ever seen me steal anything."

"I know it's you!" Eustace bursts, jumping up and down, about to blow a gasket. "I know you stole the glass Articuno from my legendary glass figurine collection!"

"Easy there, old friend," General Thurston says, calming Eustace's tantrum. While he's not looking, Azazel swiftly unlatches his satchel. He glances back at Gunnora, who's violently shaking her head. He grins. "Why don't you head to my estate for some tea? My fiancé will be there to greet you, and I will be following you shortly."

Eustace consents, grumbling several colorful complaints about Azazel as he harrumphs out the door. When he leaves, the general turns to him. "Was there something you needed of me?"

"Only a question or two," he replies, carefully keeping his eyes away from the satchel. "I was wondering what the day of your wedding is, it's slipped my mind."

"That's because we don't have a planned date yet, but it should be within the season," he replies. "Why?"

"Oh, it's just a big deal around town. Everyone's excited. By the way, I couldn't help but notice that our bags look similar," He says, lifting his own bag up for the general to see. General Thurston's eyes follow the bag in Azazel's hold as he sneaks a hand into the general's bag. "Mine is a gift from a friend, Gunnora actually. Remember her?"

"Yes, of course," General Thurston says, turning his gaze to Gunnora and offering her a smile. She forces one in return, gripping the edge of her stool in anxiety. Azazel's hand wraps around something made of paper. Covertly, he slips it out before the general returns his eyes to him. "She'll be quite the soldier someday."

"You should tell her that," he says, slinging his bag around his shoulder and sneaking whatever he stole into it. "She'd probably faint on the spot."

"Well, we wouldn't want that."

"I suppose you're right," he responds, smiling proudly. He can almost hear Gunnora screaming inside her head. "Well, I'll see you around, General. Wouldn't want to keep you from tea time."

"Yes, wouldn't want to keep my old friend waiting," he says. "I best be off."

Azazel waves him goodbye, returning to his seat with Gunnora and the others. They all lean in to see what he stole. Azazel grins, relishing in the suspense for a minute. Then, with deliberate pauses, he slowly draws his newest steal from the bag.

They all, subsequently, stare at the absolute worst thing Azazel has ever stolen.

A picture of the general's fiancé, unsmiling.

"Ugh," he moans, dropping his head on the table. Gunnora laughs. "I don't want this."

"Too bad, so sad," she teases.

He looks up from the table to see the general just stepping out the door. He leaps to his feet, racing to him before he leaves.

"Mister General, sir!" He calls. General Thurston turns. Handing him the picture, he says, "I think you dropped this."

"Oh, heavens," General Thurston exclaims, gratefully taking the picture. "Thank you dearly. I wouldn't want to lose something as precious as this."

Yeah. Precious. Azazel is pretty sure looking at that picture for too long could make a man wither up and die.

As he walks home through the dark, empty streets, he whistles to himself and rummages through the loot he piled together today. He managed to swipe the wallet of a posh looking man as he left the inn, so all together, he's had a pretty lucrative day. But it's not enough for him. Now more than ever, he wants to snag something from the general. Partially because the payout is sure to be great, but mostly because he wants the challenge. After tonight's failure, he's determined to steal something from the general before he leaves the island.

The farther he walks, the more the town begins to change. The elegant architecture and quaint scenery begin to fade. What takes their place is something much less impressive. Shanty huts and dirty streets lie before him, just past the giant stone wall and iron fence he walks through. This slummier, less attractive part of town is what locals call the Underside. No one wanders through these parts of town, especially at night, unless they live here. Like Azazel, for instance.

It's a dangerous part of town, where all the thugs and vandals lurk. Other than Azazel's bouts of theft, it's really the only source of crime in the town. It's an entirely new social sphere compared to that of the Topside of town. Topside, people are relatively convivial. Underside, if you look at someone the wrong way, they'll cut you. Right now, Azazel is running through a list of Underside folks he's run into lately, trying to remember if he's gotten on anyone's bad side. He can't recall doing anything to any of them; that would be suicide. But he must've done something, because someone is definitely following him right now.

He hasn't turned around to see who it is. Quite frankly, doing that would probably be a pretty bad move. He's not eager for confrontation with some delinquent looking for a fight. Besides, they're probably hiding in the shadows. Glancing back wouldn't get him any information, it would just get him killed.

He considers circling around and going back to Felicia's Inn and staying the night there. He knows they'd let him, they've told him over and over that they'd love to have him live with them, but he can't lead his stalker right to them. Who knows how dangerous this person is. For now, all he can do is walk home, lock the door, and hope for the best.

His house (if you could call it that) is coming up on the side of the street. It's a small shack that looks just as rusty and rundown as the rest of the street, but hey, it's home. Pulling his keys out of his bag, he unlocks the door. He tries to catch a glimpse of his stalker through the corner of his eye. He sees nothing but shadows and rolling fog.

Opening the door, he enters and locks it. He pauses, stands still by the door, and listens. Outside, the only noise is the distant hooting of bar patrons and the occasional shouts of gangs congregating in the alleyways. No footsteps. Stepping away from the door, he places his satchel on the ground and turns to face the small room, which is the entirety of his house. There's a bed. An icebox. A water pump and a bathroom area surrounded by curtains. You know, the works. He can't imagine this person following him would want to rob him, of all people. Although, it would be ironic. Could he rob his robbed stuff back? Probably.

He only gets a second to wonder about this before he's attacked.

He's struck from behind, thrown into the far wall. Immediately, he rolls to his feet, coming face to face with the angriest butterfree he's ever seen. Strangely, the door behind her is still shut and locked. How did she get in?

She swoops right at his face, and he phases into nothing just in time to have her run face first into a window. When he rematerializes, she's already reoriented herself and is charging him again. She tackles him, gripping him with her stubby, sharp little claws. He grapples with her, grabbing her wings as they beat painfully against him. Falling on his back, he rolls into his descent and throws her off. Flipping to his feet, he spins around to meet her next attack.

She's gone.

His arms drop only slightly. He whirls around, raking his eyes over every inch of the room. The door is still latched shut. The window is, too. She's nowhere to be found.

"What the hell…?" He utters.

Suddenly, his legs are swiped out from under him. He hits the ground, hard, falling under a croagunk. She draws her fist back, preparing to bash his head in. Immediately, he sinks into the ground. She punches the floor, denting it.

He pops up from the floor behind her, kicking her into a wall. She stumbles but regains her balance, leaping high into the air to strike down on him. Her fist pummels into his chest, slamming him to the floor. He rolls out of the way just in time to avoid another punch, but he's not quick enough to slip through her fingers entirely. She snatches him, hurling him into the side of his bed. It might've been a soft landing if it wasn't such a shitty bed.

He whirls around and tries to ignore the spinning in his head. He's prepared to handle another strike from the croagunk, only, she's not the one charging at him. Out of nowhere, a cranidos barrels toward him, her head down and aimed straight for his chest.

Jumping into the air, he flies to the ceiling and puts his feet against the wall, pushing himself to the other side of the room. The cranidos crashes into the wall but regroups herself aggravatingly fast. Seeing him near the ceiling, she scowls and lunges into the air. She's not quite tall enough to reach him, but that croagunk might have the leg power to grab him. That butterfree could snatch him, too.

With the moment he has, his eyes dart around the room. Where are they?

By the time he returns his gaze to the cranidos, she's gone. A vine shoots out of the air and snaps around his ankle, yanking him down. He slams into the floor and is immediately pounced on by a bayleef, who has his leg in a vice grip with her vine. She raises her front legs, smashing them down on his chest.

Relentlessly, the bayleef thrashes him with her front hooves, nearly kicking his head clean off his body. That would be a pain to stitch back on, and impossible to fight without. He swipes at her face, scratching her eyes. She howls in pain, staggering back. Kicking her in the stomach, he sends her flying into a wall. Now on his feet, he grips the leaf-like appendage on her head and tugs it, dragging her forward and throwing her against the floor.

Raising a fist, he prepares to bring it down on her throat. Instead, just in the nick of time, she lashes him with a vine, striking him right across the eyes.

Momentarily blinded, he stumbles back and forces himself to phase into the floor. He has to focus all of his energy in remaining under until he can see again, fighting the laws of physics that demand he immediately be ejected. When he can see again, he rushes back to the surface, aiming a punch at where he last left the bayleef.

It doesn't make contact with anything. Instead, the moment he comes up, he's grabbed by two large hands and electrocuted.

He writhes his way out of the electabuzz's grasp, sizing her up from across the room. At this point, he doesn't even need to check to see if the bayleef is gone. He already knows it's just the two of them, now.

"Where are all of your little friends?" He demands, on his toes. "They didn't just leave you here, did they?"

Whoever these murderous ladies are, they're not really the talking types. She lunges right at him, her fists crackling with electricity. He grabs her hands, allowing jolts to course through him so that he can roll to his back and flip her straight out the window.

The glass smashes all around him, raining down like slivers of ice. Outside, he hears her hit the ground and roll. Without a second to lose, he leaps to his feet, ready to keep her at bay. She stands, electricity zapping down her arms. However, now outside, she's forced to pause.

Down the street, a gang is gathering. They watch her with careless but curious gazes, waiting to see what she's up to. Azazel knows she could kill him right now and they wouldn't bat an eye, but she hesitates. She must decide no witnesses are worth the risk, because she backs away, racing off into the night.

Exhausted and reeling from the shock, Azazel flops down to sit on the floor. He stares out the broken window, trying to piece together this incident like puzzle pieces that belong to separate boxes.

After a long few minutes of staring into space, he's suddenly reminded of the other intruders. Where did they go? Are they still here? Where?

He jumps to his feet and begins his feverish search. Under the bed, in the cramped closet, behind the curtains; he looks everywhere twice and then a third time. Nothing. He pokes his head outside and checks there. Nothing.

There's no one here. Just him and his things. And after checking his things, he confirms that nothing was taken, either. It's almost as if nothing even happened tonight, if not for the evident broken window.

So, what was all of this?

They didn't steal anything. They didn't demand any information from him. The only logical conclusion is that they wanted him dead. Why, he doesn't know. Right now, that's the least of his concerns.

What the hell is he supposed to do? Who does he go to when a violent group wants him dead? He can't go to Officer Nigel or the other law enforcement officers, they'll investigate and that could turn up some evidence for his thefts that he'd rather they not see. Gunnora is always first in his mind to go to when something goes wrong, but he hesitates to go to her now. Even if Gunnora is a soldier and Fulk is a veteran, going to them for protection doesn't sit well with him. He'd be putting them in danger.

But where else can he turn? He needs someone who won't have time to dig up his crimes, who is strong enough to help, and who he doesn't care enough about to worry over.

That narrows it down to about one person in this whole town.

He knocks on the giant oak doors. When they open and reveal General Thurston, Azazel smiles up at him.

"Good evening," he says, "I'd like to request your protection."