Everything around me is evaporating. My whole life, my memories, my imagination and its contents, my personality - it's all evaporating. I continuously feel that I was someone else, that I felt something else, that I thought something else. I feel as if I'm always on the verge of waking up to nothing. My past is everything I failed to be, and all that I could not recollect but nevertheless remained.

There are ships sailing to many ports, but not a single one goes where life is not painful. Soon I too will depart, but it is what I leave behind that troubles me most.

-Igos Du Ikana, King of Ikana

South Clock Town was buzzing with activity, despite being closed off to the general public for the day. Carpenters scurried left and right in a disorganized frenzy, attempting to cobble together some semblance of a parade path worthy of Ikana’s royal procession, which would be coming into town later that very day. Normally Clock Town’s administration was incredibly meticulous with making sure projects were completed in a timely manner, often weeks in advance to ensure things ran smoothly when the organizational nightmare that was the Carnival of Time came around. This particular task, however, had only been assigned just yesterday, when an emissary from Ikana appeared in the mayor’s office for the first time in 25 years carrying a parcel bearing the Prince of Ikana’s royal seal.

News of the Prince’s arrival spread quickly, and it wasn’t long before Mayor Dotour’s office was full of “interested parties” demanding to know why Ikana had suddenly decided to open their borders after all this time. Dotour nonetheless stymied all attempts to grill him for details, revealing only the following facts: the Ikana would be arriving tomorrow to begin negotiations, but the Prince would not be making a public appearance until the day after, when he will be giving a speech of some kind. Dotour then closed his office to all guests without an appointment and set about making his own preparations.

The other districts were busy in their own right, even with the carnival still three days off. Most of the celebration had arrived early, it seemed, and one could seldom walk five paces without bumping into a befuddled tourist hopelessly lost in the crowds. West Clock Town, much to the annoyance of the merchants already operating in the area, had become besieged by peddlers of all shapes, sizes, and varying levels of legitimacy as they desperately tried to squeeze as many rupees as possible out of hapless passerby. Amidst the ramshackle stalls stocked with trinkets, confections, and souvenirs, a few rare treasures could be found hiding in the rough; however, such a claim could’ve been a myth perpetuated by the merchants themselves to draw foolish “treasure hunters” to their gauntlet of aggressive advertising, but this is a truth best left resolved by the individual.

North Clock Town, despite being a quiet park for most of the year, was much of the same. Preferring the soft dirt and fresh cut grass of the northern district, the many Deku Scrub merchants in town for the Carnival preferred to set up shop there as opposed to the much more competitive atmosphere of West Clock Town. This had become something of a nuisance for the rest of Clock Town, as the northern park had always been a popular picnicking spot, especially around the Carnival of Time. For obvious reasons, a bunch of plant-men chattering about title deeds and offering you bargain prices on miracle medicines wasn’t exactly the most enjoyable back-drop for a carefree afternoon at the park, so the district had been carefully divided up to keep the picnickers and the scrubs as far away from each other as possible.

East Clock Town, the entertainment district, seemed to be the busiest of them all. As far as the eye could see (which was admittedly not that far considering Clock Town was surrounded by large walls), performances and games stretched all around the district, drawing crowds and lines that seemed to pile up in the center of the district as a huge chaotic mass of people all struggling to keep their spot in line or catch a glimpse of some talent act. The few unfortunate musicians scattered here and there struggled be heard over the competing acts, unable to shout over the sporadic eruptions of applause and screams of joy or defeat coming from all ends of the district. The unfortunate overworked Clock Soldiers did their very best to keep things under control all over town, but the odds were certainly against them. It was truly sad to see a lone, flustered guard in the center of a ring of tourists and townsfolk complaining about some issue or asking for directions or, perhaps most egregiously, the time of day (if there is one thing Clock Town has no shortage of, it’s clocks).

Gathered outside the western gate was what had colloquially been dubbed the “tent city” by most of the townsfolk. Especially around the Carnival of Time, space inside of Clock Town filled up quickly for merchants, performers, and other entrepreneurs; in order to fairly divide up the space for visitors, Mayor Dotour’s office required all interested merchants to apply for business permits that would reserve them space during the carnival season. These permits were not only expensive, but also sold out quickly and required applicants to abide by certain standards of operation in order to keep their spots. These operating standards, set forth by the Mayor’s office, were put in place to counteract a rising trend of rigged carnival games and poor quality merchandise plaguing the carnival for some time, and were generally positively received by much of the public. All those who could not acquire a permit were forbidden from conducting any sort of business inside the city walls, and as such, the tent city was born of these misfit merchants.

About as large as one of the districts but perhaps a little less crowded, the tent city is an entirely different world from the rest of the carnival, despite ostensibly looking somewhat innocent. Among the sprawling rows of tents and sheds thrived a certain seedy, nefarious element. No guards patrolled the tent city, as it wasn’t technically part of Clock Town; as such, thieves and swindlers made their homes among the tents. Honest merchants could be found here and there, but any shopkeeper worth their salt would never dream of bringing their precious wares into the tent city without some line of defense against the rogues that called it their home, usually in the form of armed guards or a very prominently displayed weapon hanging from their belts at all times. This temporary village was home to the outcasts and the scoundrels, and most everyone in Clock Town was glad that they only had to suffer the eccentric “boons” of the tent city for a week or two each year.

In the busy streets of West Clock Town, one merchant stall was attracting attention for quite the unorthodox reason. It was a market stall reserved for wares fresh from the mountain, consisting of various steel weapons from the Frozen Hearth Smithing Company.

Or, rather, it was advertised as such. Of course there were some of the company's famous weapons on the countertop, but those took up about a quarter of the space. What took up the rest of the space were other, less recognizable items. These items were small little devices run on clockwork and springs. One item in particular was prominently displayed, along with its like companions. It was a small metal ball with a tiny crank. Once primed, the ball buzzed around and moved in a seemingly random pattern, pushed this way and that by the panels that formed its exterior. It was a toy for children, and definitely not something one might expect at such a stall.

The toy wasn't the reason the stall was attracting attention, though it did make some nice whirring sounds as the demonstration model danced about the table. What was really catching to the eye was the individual standing behind the counter. He was wearing a bright pink tunic which made him stand out like a sore thumb amongst the other merchants. Whenever he stepped out from behind the stall, his orange pants were plainly visible. It was a horrible combination of color, but it was getting people's attention. Eyes were catching on him because he stood out, and that was exactly the idea today. Sure it was scared some people off, but it was bringing others closer. No doubt to check and see if their eyes were deceiving them from a distance.

Dillan Tasley was the...erm...colorful individual. He was highly animated as he spoke to those who came to look at the weapons and trinkets of the stall. Children seemed highly interested in the toys when their parents brought them near, and Dillan jumped onto the counter to sit down on the other side when kids were there. Once he "slipped" on one of the ball toys, sending it buzzing around on the ground to the delight of the kids while he "fumbled" to right himself, laughing over his "mistake."

He gave a sigh of contentment as he looked around the street. It had been too long since he'd been in Clock Town. He'd left about a year ago, and it felt good to return. Nostalgic, really. Some things had changed in the past year, but many had remained the same. He'd really have to visit his old haunts before heading back to the mountain. And, of course, he needed to visit his family. They'd be quite cross with him if he didn't at least pop his head in to say hello.

There was something of an inexplicable camaraderie floating around amongst the dwellers of East Clock Town: A feeling of esprit-de-corps, as circus-men and hired carpenters alike worked synergistically to construct stages and rostrums of all shapes and sizes, to accommodate performers from far and wide who’d ventured there for the Carnival of Time.
And whilst some of those bright-eyed entertainers had seemingly been overshadowed by the pure immensity of the gesture- such as the musicians, who’d been drowned out by the chatter of crowds and left lost amongst their writhing forms- most seemed to be enjoying themselves immensely.
It was a time for merriment, after all! There was a static in the air that seemed to predict the coming of something earth-shattering, and excited spectators throughout the Eastern quarter seemed to be picking up on it.

And somewhere amongst all this joyous chaos, on a small plot of the land that had been sealed off- at least for the moment- by a troop of his fellow performers, strode Anemos Seuhans.
All around him, mighty wooden beams were being erected, rising from the floor and piercing the skies as the troupe’s “strongmen” battled their weights with long rope, which they attached to iron spikes.
Right now, all they formed was an oaken skeleton: But once it’d been garbed properly, and furnished, this little plot of dirt would be transformed into The Spectacle Rock Circus, Anemos’ pride and joy.
It was to be adorned with a silken tent, coloured all autumn shades of red and gold…
But that was a long way off, yet. Beams still needed to hoisted, and stands constructed: A circus took time to construct, it took money.
And nobody knew that better than its conductor, owner and manager, Grout Mutah.

Anemos had been motioning to leave the building site when first his boss approached him, his heavy silver mono-brow worn low over his eyes, indicating a disgruntled and worrisome expression…
One that Anemos honestly couldn’t make out, due to his better’s short disposition, which certainly wasn’t made better by his habit of slouching forwards.
His callused hand had seized the young man’s just before he’d crossed the threshold, and stopped him dead in his tracks.
There was a few moments silence, after that.

“Going somewhere, Anemos?” he asked, his heavy brow complimented by the shaking of his equally faded moustache. There was concern in his tone.
Anemos nodded, and turned to look down at him, “Yeah, I thought I’d go for a stroll, maybe explore a little! Why?”
“You’ve been… disappearing an awful lot, lately,” he observed, relinquishing his grip on the performer’s wrist, “Missing practices.”
There was a moment’s pause between the two, before the acrobat replied, “But I always come through when it counts, right?”
“Luck’s a precious thing,” the older man warned, “Don’t squander it, son.”

With a playful grin, he patted Grout on the shoulder, “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna run off and join another troupe, alright? I thought I’d just go and say hello to the neighbours!”
With an alleviated sigh, the older man’s shoulders dropped into a more relaxed position, and although it wasn’t visible, Anemos became certain his face had softened, too.
“Right,” he nodded, thick brows rising slightly, “So, you’re going to scope out the competition?”
“Competition?,” Anemos arched a brow, “What competition? We’re just here to give these people a good time! The show of a life time!”
“No, you’re here to give them a good time,” Grout explained, pressing a stubby finger to Anemos’ chest, “I’m here to make them pay for it.”
“Boy, Grout,” Anemos began, taking a few steps back, “You make me sound like an escort!”
“You’re not that pretty,” the older man observed, in a playful tone.
“But I am pretty, right?”, Anemos replied, convivially.

There was another short pause.
“… just go and explore, Anemos.”
With a chuckle, the young human began pacing- backwards- towards the threshold of the circus’ territory, “I’ll be back before practice!”
“You better be!”
Anemos gave him a sportive salute, before turning on his heel, and bounding off into the crowds, disappearing amongst the waves of heads and bodies.

"UGHH!" what sounded like an angst-riddled teenager who'd suddenly lost their spine due to some trivial calamity sounded from within the room at the Stock Pot Inn. ‘Might as well have been, Lyn figured. "Honey-- have you seen my scarf? The green and orange one? Like that one we got at the beach that one time, remember? I'm, like, so sure I packed it… I just know I did!"

Lynnette blinked at the bustling street below one last time before pushing herself away from the windowsill to help her mother search for her hideous green and orange scarf. "Why don't you just wear the blue one?" Lynnette sighed, beginning to search through her own suitcase of clothes in case her mother had absentmindedly packed it in there-- not an uncommon occurrence.

"This is the one I wore last time! He said he liked it!" her mother insisted, stopping to cake on another layer of bright red lipstick in front of the mirror, but not before scrunching her cigarette with two bright red French fingernails into the already-nearly-full ash tray in front of her. Vanessa, or Venny, as most knew her, was a fairly plump woman, which exaggerated her hourglass shape, a trait she'd passed on to Lynnette, but without the unnecessary flab. She had shoulder length brown hair that was done up with enough hairspray to fill a small pond and wore more make-up than anyone her age should probably even own. Her mother's many unhealthy habits hadn't exactly kept her looking very youthful either, but the younger guys only ever tended to go after her the day after payday anyway-- which was also the day before she either spent it all or gambled it away.

Lynnette pursed her lips in frustration, biting back a comment she would likely regret whilst she continued searching. As usual, her mother's newest catch was more of a sickly, leeching bottom-feeder, but trying to get her to “throw it back" was about as likely to happen as getting her to give up on finding that terrible orange and green scarf… or, at the least, stop thinking about her dingy date and more seriously consider that which was scheduled to go down that very afternoon.

"Lyn, dear, you know I could care less about politics," was all she had said when Lyn told her the news about the Prince of Ikana visiting Clock Town. Was she suffering from senility and actually forgot or did she honestly not care about possibly seeing her family again after 25 years?

Three sharp knocks at the door saved her from the impending argument that was sure to happen if she stayed and watched her mom fret about like a prissy school girl any longer. "Let's get goin', sweetheart!" a man's voice called from the other side of the door. Shouldering her satchel under her cloak, Lynnette tossed the scarf her mother had been searching for on the vanity in front of her.

"It was hiding in that striped shirt of yours," she said simply, making her way to the door.
“Lyn! Come o- oh!” Lyn opened the door. “Well, hello there, sweethea-“
“Let’s go already,” she groaned, rolling her eyes as she brushed past him.

Marcus Bonner, a 27 year old man who was only considerably skilled at three things, in Lynnette’s opinion—sword swallowing, fire magic, and getting on her every last nerve almost every minute of every day, despite his muscular physique, “dashing” good looks, and mysterious ability to wink almost every five seconds without fail when talking to whomever he deems an “attractive lady-friend”. She secretly wished he would break his so-called “celebrity code” and date one of his many drooling fan girls for once-- if only so they could finally discover what an unbelievable dick the man was and spread the news. She’d long since given up on demanding that he not call her sweetheart or “Lynny” and, despite her complaints, Fyer still insists he be the one to escort her everywhere.

Once outside the Inn, Lynnette pulled her hood up and they merged as discreetly as they could into the crowd, making their way towards the much less crowded North Clock town. She hoped to make a full circle of the town in order to get a look at all of her favorite shops before the Prince’s speech that afternoon—she was in dire need of some new jewelry.

Amidst the many performances and right beside the Stock Pot Inn was a small act meant mainly to advertise for the Black Marsh Circus— a painted wooden stand-up sign next to a shady, canopy of many dark colors and Ruck, the four-armed Goron, impressively juggling seven swords to beating drums and a trumpet while another member of the troupe stood in front of an abnormally large hat and collected tips. That was good, Lynnette thought. It meant that Fyer wasn’t around to—

“You two,” a gruff voice barked from behind them just as they passed the canopy, causing both Marcus and Lynnette to jump. Oh, great....
“Pin up these flyers.”

Lynnete felt a light slap on her shoulder as Fyer handed her a fat, rolled up stack of the things.

“Oh, come on—are you serious?” Lynnette droned.
“Yeah, Mr. F, can’t you get somebody else to do it?” Marcus argued.

Fyer gave them both his usual dead-eyed look, “It’s either this or you two can go help shovel tiger shit and help pound in the tent stakes and nails at the park for tonight.”

Lynnette wrinkled her nose and sighed, taking the flyers and pushing them into Marcus’ chest whilst turning on her heel in a huff.
“Whoa—hey—fine,” Marcus grumbled, barely managing to catch the things, “I’ll carry them, but you’re hanging them up.”

“Whatever,” Lynnette breathed, taking off her cloak and stashing it in her bag, “Let’s get going.”

"Well, here we are. The North Gate. This is as far as my contract extends, but I need to stop by the main office in West Clock Town, so if you're headed that way we can walk together," offered Oliver. This was a courtesy he rarely extended to clients, but given how incredibly crowded town was likely to be with all the visitors, he figured it was the least he could do. After all, this guy looked like he'd never been to Clock Town before -- or any town at all, for that matter. It was somewhat unusual for lone travelers to hire the Clock Caravan Company, as they typically dealt with at least small groups of merchants; otherwise it was more cost effective to hire a local guide, but this strange old man had insisted on sending for just one escort, and all the way from Clock Town, to boot.

Strange was a bit of an understatement, but Oliver had worked with stranger before. If he had to sum the fellow up in a few words, those words would be "hermit, quiet, short, never sleeps." Such summations were actually a requirement for Oliver, something that Zunari constantly liked to remind him of; when filling out his client ledger after completing a contract, he was required to jot down the basic details of the client (name, race, sex, departure, destination, amount owed and paid) as well as fill out a short "miscellaneous comments" section. This last section afforded the poor contractors very little room to write anything, but was nonetheless required, so Oliver and his colleagues were forced to keep it to a terse few words in the interest of space and neatness.

Oliver liked to keep his favorite clients in the front pages of the book, while he worked from the back to the front for everyone else. Some notable favorites included "Jenny: nice smile, smelled of roses, tipped well (50)", "Grant: hilarious, told great stories, skilled fisherman", and "Rebecca: great rack, changed with the tent flap open, did not tip." Oliver had become so accustomed to summing up people in a few words that he began to do it subconsciously upon meeting someone new, even with non-clients. Oliver was fairly sure this particular man, one "John Smith: hermit, quiet, short, never sleeps", would not end up on the first page, and would more likely be filed away and forgotten between "Henry: tall, nice, seldom bathed" and "Trey: short, fat, belligerent."

John Smith (Oliver was fairly sure this was not the man's real name, as 1)it was far too normal for him and 2)no parent would be so cruel as to name their child something so bland and unremarkable) was an elderly fellow with leathery brown skin and a scraggly white beard. His eyes were dark and distant, and almost always squinting; it was obvious that the man needed eyeglasses, but Oliver imagined that no pair of glasses in the whole of Termina could possibly accommodate Mr. Smith's comically large hook-nose. Oliver guessed the man was either bald or balding, but due to the hermit's choice to constantly wear a ratty old hooded traveling cloak at all times, the young contractor was never quite sure. Despite always seeming tired and weary, Oliver never saw the man sleep a wink once during the entire week they'd been traveling together; at night, the old fellow would just sit by the fire and stare off into the distance, sometimes reading from a dusty old tome. It was almost as if he was waiting for Oliver to fall asleep, but after pretending to be asleep the first night just to make sure, Oliver was too tired to care beyond that.

He always seemed to be hunched over, which only accentuated his shortness, and seldom walked faster than an inchworm. Normally Oliver wouldn't have been particularly bothered by such a slow companion, as he billed by the hour, but ever since Oliver heard that the Prince would be coming to Clock Town yesterday, he became considerably more frustrated by Mr. Smith's complete lack of speed, as he worried he would miss the entire affair.

"No, I'm fine, thank you. Farewell," said Mr. Smith, who quickly turned to leave (the first time he seemed to be in a hurry the whole week, mind you). Oliver frowned as he watched the man go; it was very rare that he wasn't tipped for his services, and Mr. Smith had been neither good company nor a particularly interesting companion. Mr. Smith's fragile gait did not seem to be particularly well equipped to handle such newfound hustle, it seemed, as the old man suddenly tripped after taking only a few steps, crying out in alarm as he fell (flailing helplessly) to the ground. Oliver took a short moment to revel in the schadenfreude before making his way over to the man to see if he was okay. The contents of Mr. Smith's old cloth satchel were now strewn all over the ground, and the old hermit was struggling to shove them back in his bag, muttering frantically to himself.

Among the more mundane items were a few strange trinkets to which Oliver's attention was immediately drawn. Three strange medallions were the first thing to catch his eye; all three seemed to be made of ornamented gold, and as Mr. Smith hurriedly scooped them up, they seemed to pulse with energy as he touched them. The only other item of note was a strange book, different from the old historical tomes he'd seen the man reading before. It seemed to be very old by the look of the binding and the yellowed pages, and it bore a strange symbol on its front cover, unlike the plainly printed titles of the other book. Oliver picked up the book along with a few others and offered them to Mr. Smith with a fake smile, who seemed surprised and then quickly enraged when he noticed had seen his treasures.

"You fool! You've seen too much!" rasped the old man, shoving his satchel aside and lunging at Oliver. Reacting quickly, Oliver thrust the stack of books forward, hitting the old man square in the chest and forcing him to recoil a bit.

"What's your problem, you old coot?" asked Oliver, taking a step back. "Just take your books and go!" He wasn't yet sure if he needed to draw his sword; after all, this guy didn't seem to be much of a threat. The young swordsman was fairly sure he knew a few Deku Scrubs who could snap this guy in half if they wanted to. Mr. Smith, however, seemed unwilling to just leave, and rushed at Oliver again. This time, however, he thrust his palm forward, his entire hand pulsating with some dark energy. In an impressive feat of speed, Oliver stepped forward as Mr. Smith drew closer, grabbing the old man by his bony arm and deflecting his magical palm thrust off to the side in one swift movement. Considering how light the enraged hermit was, Oliver easily swept him off balance and threw him to the ground.

Mr. Smith groaned in pain, having landed rather roughly on his side with an unsettling cracking sound that made even Oliver uncomfortable. Nevertheless, Oliver drew his sword and cautiously approached the old man, ready to strike should he try anything. The old coot shot Oliver a spiteful glance, and for a brief moment the two locked eyes. Strangely, John's eyes suddenly flashed red. Before Oliver could react, the hilt of his sword seemed to catch fire in an instant, forcing him to quickly drop his blade to avoid his sword hand becoming terribly burned.

"What the hell?!?" exclaimed Oliver, rubbing his hand and eyeing his (dropped) sword, the hilt of which was glowing a bright white. "What kind of magic is that?" he queried, more than a little bit confused and frightened. The old man gave no answer, grabbing a glass vial from his cloak and smashing it on the ground in front of Oliver. The young swordsman reflexively leapt aside, expecting it to shatter and explode in his face or something gruesome. Instead, the strange green, gelatinous fluid spread out and constituted itself into a Green ChuChu, the rather weak blob monsters that Oliver often encountered out in the field. The things were mostly harmless... as long as you had a weapon, something that Oliver currently lacked, as his sword was literally too hot to handle (or perhaps it just had a handle too hot?).

As the goofy, grinning blob lurched at him with a strange, quivering hiss, Oliver frantically threw a punch at it out of pure panic. Unsurprisingly, his fist went straight through the thing and out the other side, leaving it hanging on his arm and flailing about rather awkwardly. The two made eye contact for a moment as if to mutually say "Well now what?" before Oliver remembered his secret trump card. Drawing the hidden dagger from behind his cape with his free hand, Oliver quickly thrust the blade into the gelatinous body of the ChuChu three times, causing it to promptly wither away and slide off of Oliver's hand, collapsing into quivering clumps of green goo. Oliver heaved a sigh of relief before suddenly remembering the old man, who was now nowhere to be seen. It would seem as if he quickly fled while Oliver was distracted.

Oliver was more confused than anything at this point, scanning his surroundings to make sure Mr. Smith wasn't lying in wait behind some bush, poised to attack with another creepy pet. Reclaiming his now hex-free sword from the ground, Oliver sighed once more, trying to digest what had just happened. As he wiped some of the remaining chu jelly off of his right arm, he began to make his way back through the gate, although not before noticing something rather strange. In his hurry, Mr. Smith had left behind the stack of books Oliver threw at his from before, including that strange ancient one.



Oliver hurried through the North Gate, only to be stopped by the guard on the other side, who seemed concerned that Oliver had no intention of slowing down.

"Halt! I said halt! Stop right there!" ordered the Clock Soldier, clutching his spear tightly. Oliver slowed to a stop, sheathing his sword to show that he meant no harm. "Why are you in such a hurry? And what makes you think you can just breeze through this gate with a sword drawn?" he queried, still eyeing the young swordsman rather nervously.

"Did you see an old man come through here just a moment ago? He was wearing an old hooded cloak and had a long white beard," explained Oliver, looking around for any trace of the strangely elusive Mr. Smith. There's no way he could have gotten far on those old spindly legs.

"It's been at least half an hour since I've seen anyone else come through here," answered the guard, calmly. "Why are you looking for this guy? Did he attack you? Steal something from you?" he asked. He'd always thought theft in the park was a fairly common crime, and that some guards didn't do much about it. In fact, some of them just stood still and let burglars prance right past them. (Reference +5)

"I was attacked, actually. The guy was a client of mine; I work as a guide for the CCC," explained Oliver, showing the soldier his silver badge. He hesitated as he wondered what to do next. Should he trust the guard with the information about the strange book? Maybe he should try to figure out more about it on his own first... "You know, I was so sure he ran through here. Are you sure you didn't see anyone?"

"I'm sure. Well, you should definitely go report all the details about this to main office. We're really busy and shorthanded right now, but I'm sure someone will get around to investigating it," said the guard, who seemed to be fairly busy himself, keeping a weather eye on the business scrubs to make sure they didn't stray too close to the picnic area and vice versa. "Be careful out there, sir," he added, with a nod. Oliver thanked the guard and continued into the park, still overwhelmed by everything that'd just happened. He made his way over to a nearby bench, across the way from the scrubs, and began to examine the strange book a bit closer.

Reminder: change "John Smith: hermit, quiet, short, never sleeps" to "John Smith: hermit, insane, tried to murder me."

~Northern Clocktown, Dawn of a New Day…~

As the first morning light crested the skyline, the Northern Park of Clocktown was already a bustling hub of activity amongst the Deku encampment and market. Although the Deku of Woodfall typically were up with the sun, this was an occasion of particular haste and activity as merchants competed to set up shop and attract patrons as early as the city guard permitted. Indeed, the pushy mercantile nature of most of the Business Scrubs were a bane to the tourists or residents of Clocktown who were simply trying to enjoy a peaceful stroll in the park. While selling baubles and poultices was the main aim of many of the Deku procession that was sent to the festival on the King’s behalf, others were more interested in just getting caught up in the festivities of a historic event.

One such Deku Scrub was contented to set up his wares on a finely woven rug and let the patrons come to him on the perimeter of the Deku designated half of the park; now resembling something akin to a wild garden not only on account of the scores of wood people but their looming flowers and plant. While the gardens in Woodfall Palace were the envy of Termina, the park looked like a slightly more organic version of the Tent City that propped up on the Western outskirts of the city. The Deku Scrub didn’t mind the chaos and racket of his kinsmen; indeed he was well accustomed to it from his time in Marshfall peddling his own wares. His family was well reputed and had no trouble making ends meet, regardless of how he performed on this particular venture. Despite his lack of drive to sell his wares off, the Deku Scrub was doing rather well for himself, having had a semi-steady stream of patrons, many of which recognized him from other occasions.

“Why, is that Teruk?” a friendly voice called out as he approached the Deku, who was laying out his wares on the rug, illuminated by a makeshift lamp post of bamboo and vines with his oil lantern hanging sturdily from the nook he had shaped with his forest free magic, shaping the bamboo stalk before harvesting it. Amongst the items on display were bottles with various potions and poultices, promising to cure ailments, give the consumer a magical boost, increase virility, and so on, a small table with a alchemy set and carving knife sorted across the surface in an orderly fashion, and various other hard goods from carved figurines, wallets and purses, pendants, and even a couple knives carved from bone. Teruk had also fashioned himself a simple but sturdy chest made of bamboo with a padlock he had secured from a locksmith his first evening in town. While not quite the extravagant set up some of his kin had, Teruk’s shop was a cozy and welcoming place that while wasn’t quite as eye catching as some of the other merchants’ efforts, proved to be something of a relief for the senses for those weary of loud battering plant men, blinding lights, and the poignant and overwhelming scent of dozens of distinct floral scents that weren’t necessarily complimentary. Teruk had heard the term ‘miasma’ thrown around by more than one passerby.

“You’ve got me.” Teruk said, throwing his hands up in mock surrender before nodding enthusiastically; it was rather difficult to form a smile when you lacked lips. “I seem to remember you from the autumn in Marshall. You had children with you, if I recall correctly.”

“Good memory! I held onto the customer chit you gave me last time, I was hoping it still counted for something.” The man, a tall middle aged fellow with a well groomed red beard with hair to match looked around the park. “I would be lying if I said I wasn’t relieved to have found you before chancing that gauntlet.”

Teruk laughed, taking the carved wood from the man and working on another notch. “I live with that rabble nearly every day, I can empathize, my friend. Why do you think I’m all the way over here?”

That earned him a chuckle and a grin. “You’re alright, Teruk. So now that I’ve made the effort to find you again, what can you do for me?” he inquired.

“What interests you?” Teruk replied, sweeping an arm over his wares. “Pick anything under 20 Rupees and it’s yours with another purchase. Half off anything above that.” He clapped his hands together. “Of course, feel free to take your time and ask questions. Something for the children, perhaps? Maybe the wife-”

“She left me. For a Zora, of all things.” The man sad, shaking his head.

“The world is a strange place. I hope she enjoys sea food.” Teruk offered, heading to the chest, rummaging through it.

“Yeah, it was a couple years ago, but it’s been harder on the kids than me. She was kind of a- what’s the word?” the customer asked, looking at a pair of carved figurines.
Teruk came back, holding a leather water flask. “Here, on the house. I figured there’s more than one tavern here willing to top you up for your patronage.”

The customer took it gratefully, sincere smile across his face. “As I said, you’re alright. I think I’ll pick up the Goron and Mad Scrub for the kids.” He said, before a loud commotion caused both the man and Teruk to turn their attention to the street, a man struggling with a Green ChuChu latched onto his arm. He found himself rather compelled by the titan struggle between the man and the tiny green pest, and both Teruk and his customer were rather transfixed on the commotion, momentarily forgetting their commerce. The show was over as soon as it began with the flash of a dagger and the man collecting himself and the book he must have been carrying off to the gate.

“May I interest you in a dagger?” Teruk asked suddenly, turning his attention back to matters at hand as his customer fetched his wallet.

Dillan had been winding up the small crank on one of those little balls for a waiting child when he noticed a flash of light off metal from the corner of his eye. His attention snapped immediately onto the woman who had just drawn a scimitar, but his eyes were very shortly set more on the woman than on the blade. She was... Well, quite frankly she was stunning. Her looks quite thoroughly had his approval.

"Well hello," he said, hopping over the counter like he would for a child. He sat down quite close to the woman, seeming to have forgotten about the others crowding around the stall. They were still on his mind, though. He didn't want to completely ignore them. But this woman certainly was more interesting than they were. He might like kids, but he didn't often seen pretty ladies. The ones on the mountain tended to be a little...rougher around the edges. One of his coworkers at the forge came to mind. She was built like the mountain she'd been born and raised on, with arms as thick as--

No. No. Stop thinking about her. Just... No. Back to the present.

He gave the scimitar-wielding woman a charmingly goofy smile. "Oh I would love one," he answered her apple query. "But tell me, sweetie... What name was given to a vision such as yourself?" His eyes fixed on the scimitar a moment, then on the straight swords on the counter. A horrible, horrible pick-up line came to mind. It made him internally wince that he was even thinking about saying it, and perhaps it was for the best that he exercised some self-control in this moment. There were kids around. That wasn't a line he was going to cross with innocent ears there. Even if it would have been hilarious to see her reaction.

Looking past the rambunctious clothing the boy appeared very strange indeed. He was shorter than Alex by an inch or two and his build was as slight as hers. He might even be as agile as she was with his spindly arms and legs. His hair was long and tied back in a ponytail but his reflexes were good judging by how he hopped over the counter at the sight of her. He'd recognized immediately that she wasn't trying to behead him which was something a lot of the crowd hadn't as they'd drawn back a few feet when she'd taken the blade from its binding.

All of this Alex sized up in seconds, he was an interesting person to be sure but she felt confident that if necessary she could outrun him and a solid hit just below his rib cage would give her enough of a head start. Her face was already on the Clock Town wanted posters so having another sketch of her done couldn't hurt anything. Besides the Clock Town sketch artists could barely draw. She'd looked at some of her wanted posters in the square and even the Clock Soldiers standing nearby hadn't recognized her from it.

Marshfall was a different matter; Alex still had one of the wanted posters that had hung there. It was now about seven years out of date but for the time that it was made it looked almost exactly like her. The Deku people could draw, or maybe they sung the image on the paper. She honestly didn't know that much about them. They were secretive to any not of their ranks.

"Well hello," the merchant said like he was talking to one of the children that were gawking over his toys. He accepted the apple gracefully and Alex had no problem handing it over. She found it rather funny seeing honest people eating stolen wares without knowing it. It was even funnier when the owner of said wares realized it and the two started an argument over thievery but now wasn't that time.

The boy was clearly not native to the forge where he worked but Alex could hazard a guess that he'd been working there for at least a year, perhaps longer. Alex loved the mountain village. It had been one of the few places where she felt truly safe but Alex had to admit that women there were less than appealing, growing up like Gorons they ended up large with plenty of muscles looking more like rocks than girls. That would account for the way this man was slobbering over her and Alex's assumption was confirmed when he said in a playful voice. "But tell me, sweetie... What name was given to a vision such as yourself?"

Alex felt the urge to puke and pushed it down. No man in his right mind would possibly think that saying something like that would actually attract a girl, though now that she thought about it the tipsy maids that hung around the milk bar would have gone for a line like that. It was pathetic. She also didn't particularly like how close he'd gotten to her. When he'd first jumped over the counter and landed next to her Alex's first impulse was to grab his shoulder and use his momentum to lay him in the dust. She'd been doing it her whole life and found that it was much harder to know when to fight than the fight itself might be.

The crowd around had lost a bit of interest in there interactions and had gone back to looking at the man's wares and moving onto other locations. If she kept this going then there was always the chance that she would get the opportunity to take one of the rarer devices on the table or if she was willing to play it out then one of the prototypes he was working on. She'd get a good price for devices like this she thought but was the act really worth it. It was so much more fun playing someone who was in command as opposed to imitating the Milk Bar maids. All she needed now was a name. She saved Alex and Ali for big jobs that she liked having her family attached to but for this something ordinary would do.

"You sir..." she said using two fingers to crawl from his heart to his shoulder before using a slight force to push him back a few steps. "can call Sophia." It was nice to have a little bit of space around her. She didn't like to be crowded. The name itself she thought belonged to... a tourist she'd met in Marshfall or maybe someone in the Mountain Village. She couldn't remember, not that it really mattered. She had a list of twenty names that she could respond to as well as if she'd been born with them in her head at all times just in case an opportunity presented itself.

“This is such a pain,” Lynnette hissed, stooping over to pick up the nail she’d just dropped.
“Come on, Lynny,” Marcus grinned sheepishly, taking a step back and obviously enjoying the view, "It's not that bad."

“I told you not to call me that,” she frowned, retrieving the nail and hammering it into the large board beside the archway leading from East Clock Town to the park with several light taps, “Especially not in public, Marcus.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Marcus scoffed, his hand gravitating to her shoulder whilst she finished hammering in the last nail. She quickly turned and stepped past him, evading Marcus’ creepy gesture of “it’s been three years and I still haven’t learned my lesson”. After three years, however, this routine was just that—routine.

“He can’t seriously expect us to pin all of these things up,” she sighed, “He made way too many. I mean, look—“
“I heard he’s been on about that Rock Circus in town, you know,” Marcus shrugged as they kept walking.

“Why should I have to suffer for his dumb feud with that Grout Mutah guy?” Lyn sniped, “Whatever. Let’s just pass some of them out for now. I want to get some shopping done… come on.” She slipped the hammer and small box of nails Fyer had given her into her satchel and took a few flyers from Marcus. There was a somewhat lanky looking man sitting on a bench nearby looking at a book. Looking, she thought, because the man certainly didn’t look like he was reading it. How could he? Whatever was written on those pages he was leafing through didn’t look like any words she’d ever seen, she noticed as she approached him. If he was some dorky historian, he certainly didn’t look the part.

“Hey,” Lynnette said softly, extending her arm to hand him a flyer. The image on the flyer was an intricate piece of artwork done in black and blue ink with the words “Black Marsh Circus” neatly written across a banner at the top of the paper. A depiction of Lorelei the Siren, dark waves of water, and a few other performers from the troupe, including Marcus, decorated the page. At the bottom were several show times for their nightly and afternoon performances over the next several days, the nightly shows known for being of a more mature nature.

Once the man looked up, she smiled faintly.... he was pretty cute. “Catching the show tonight?” she smiled.

Oliver's investigation of the mysterious book ended up being rather inconclusive, sadly; the strange script was just as undecipherable on page fifty as it was on page one, although this came as no great surprise to him. He began flipping through the pages rather absentmindedly, scanning each page for any sign of a language he could understand. At last he settled on a something he recognized: the Royal Crest of Ikana. It seemed to be part of some sort of diagram, based on the various arrows, footnotes and a small map on the adjacent page. Before he could investigate further, however, he was promptly handed a flier by an attractive young woman. Rather surprised that he suddenly had company, he quickly took the flier and snapped the book shut with his other hand, unintentionally creating a rather loud clap that startled even him. The whole affair made him look quite defensive, in the end, and although he didn't want anyone asking too many questions about the book, he never liked to come off as overly suspicious.

"Catching the show tonight?" asked the girl. Whatever she'd said before was lost on Oliver, who had been thoroughly occupied with his complete failure to glean anything from the book. Oliver took a quick moment to scan over the flier, which was for one "Black Marsh Circus." He'd been to Marshfall a few times in his travels, so he'd heard the name, but had never been able to spare enough time to see a show. Upon closer observation, the aforementioned girl happened to be featured prominently on the flier.

"Hey, this is you, right?" he asked, pointing to her picture on the flier. "Wow, I can't believe I'm talking to a celebrity right now. You don't look nearly as blue in person, though," he joked, referring to the stylized ink drawings on the flier. He hoped that little quip made up for the awkward defensive book snap reaction, but he guessed she was probably eager to move on and pass out more fliers. It was at this point that he realized he had yet to actually provide an answer her initial question, which was likely all she wanted to hear from him in the first place. He hadn't actually read the show times before, so he figured he'd just give a blanket, non-committal answer.

"Gosh, though, I'm actually really busy handling contracts this time of year. I will try my very best to make it to a show while you guys are in town," promised Oliver, placing both the strange book and the circus flier in his satchel. These assurances were both lies, however; once Oliver had heard the Prince would be in town he purposely arranged to have his contracts covered so that he could be free to see that. He also had little intention of actually attending some circus act now that he had this strange book to investigate. Either way it was unlikely that she would notice him even if she did show up; by the looks of things she'd been distributing fliers all day. He doubted that she would sorely miss one mildly handsome young swordsman amid a slew of far more interested fans.



"Will you be signing autographs after these shows? I don't want to hold you up now, I'm sure you're terribly busy and I'm already being a bother as it is, but a friend of mine is a very big fan of yours, and I'm sure if you signed something for him he would be delighted," he lied. The very least he could do was throw her a softball, small-talk question before he went back to his reading.

Northern Clocktown

In the midst of the many Deku merchants, customers, and disoriented tourists that could be found in the business side of the park, a Zora could be found meandering from merchant to merchant, squatting down to look and talk as he went.

Although the Zora seemed quite interested in many of the goods being sold, he had yet to buy anything, and even if he were to, the Zora's belt could not hold any but the smallest of trinkets. A few of the salesmen seemed to have noticed this, and would either give him an angry look as he left, or simply wave him away in hopes of attracting a more lucrative customer.

It was at one of those less hospitable stalls that the Zora became distracted by the sight of a man stabbing a ChuChu to death.

"Don't see that very often around here!" the Zora exclaimed in a cheery, baritone voice.

"Nope," the Deku Scrub said wearily, "You gonna buy something?"

"I don't think so. It's all very nice, though!"

So it was that the Zora returned to meandering, and eventually reached the outskirts where, with as much random curiosity as he had at the beginning of his "shopping" adventure, he approached the mat where Teruk had set up shop.

"Good morning!" the Zora said, kneeling down so he was a little closer to the Scrub's height, before offering his hand for a shake, "My name's Griga, and I'm looking for something interesting."

“Yeah,” she chuckled at his joke and lightly nodded her head in response to his inquiry. Definitely a much less exaggerated response than she was expecting—did this guy live under a rock or what?

She smiled again as the man assured her he would try his “very best” to go to a show despite his busy schedule. She couldn’t possibly count how many times she had heard this exact line. If the man hadn’t recognized her immediately, then it was obvious he’d never been to a show and it was unlikely a flyer was going to get him to go now. These sort of people really threw her off. Why wouldn’t anyone want to go? Aside from getting their purse stolen, that is—but few ever connected that to the circus itself and instead blamed themselves for not watching out for pick pockets in the crowd.

“A celebrity?” Marcus scoffed, obviously more than a little disgruntled that Lynnette had laughed at the man's joke. She never laughed at any of his jokes…. “Lorelei the Siren is a prodigy! A legend amongst performers! If you haven’t seen one of her shows, you haven’t lived, man!” he sneered, crossing his arms with the roll of flyers gripped firmly in one hand.

What a big baby. Lynnette subtly rolled her eyes and smirked so only the stranger could see her, slightly shaking her head.

“I could sign something for you now, if you like,” she answered sweetly, pulling a pen from her bag. Fyer had demanded that she provide an autograph whenever asked, no matter how “busy” she was. What a pain. “I would really love to see you there,” she said as she started writing, “Nevermind the afternoon shows, though—those are more for kids. It’s the midnight shows from 11 to 1 you want to catch. “ She winked.

“Who would you like me to make this out to, by the way?” she paused.

Oliver did his best to hold back a smirk as the girl's companion snapped at him for referring to Lynette as a mere celebrity, although he did muster a sheepish smile, as if to apologize for not properly recognizing this "legend amongst performers." Though, now that he was thinking about it, if this Lorelei was such a prodigy, then why was she stuck doing her own advertising? Surely if she was as good as this punk claimed she was, she would be in some dressing room drinking tea while hired hands distributed fliers in the park. He decided he'd rather keep this observation to himself, as he already felt Lorelei was beginning to catch on to his white lies. He wasn't expecting her to offer an autograph right away though, so he quickly retrieved the flier from his bag, figuring that was as good of a thing to sign as any.

"Hey, you're on this poster too, aren't you?" he asked (of Marcus), as he handed the flier over to Lorelei. "That's pretty neat. I like the drawing a little more, though... it's much quieter," he said, in a rather nice, almost saccharine tone. Oliver wasn't one to shy away from a battle of quips, and this fluffy little ponce didn't look like he'd be the type to start a fight -- especially with his babysitter standing right there. It was odd to him, too, that this Lorelei girl kept heavily suggesting he should come to the late, adult only shows (which he most likely guessed were geared towards a male audience, what with Lorelei being featured so "prominently"). He hoped he didn't look like one of those creepy older pervs who went for that exotic dance kind of stuff, always drooling over scantily clad young girls like the one currently standing in front of him. Another lie at this point couldn't hurt, right? After this autograph thing she'd probably forget he ever existed.

"Well, I'm not in town a lot so I'm trying to spend what time I have with my family, y'know? If I do come, I'll probably be taking my younger sister along, so it'll most likely be one of the earlier shows," he explained. "But I do appreciate the offer. I'll let my friend know; he kinda likes that... sort of thing."

He wasn't sure what he meant by "that sort of thing," but hopefully this girl would take it in the least offensive way possible. This conversation was quickly becoming a bit of a trainwreck, something that wasn't really helped by Oliver neglecting to think of a fake name for the autograph during all this time. He tried to play it off nonchalantly.

"Well, my name's Oliver C. Pike IV, but you can go ahead and make it out to..."

Oliver let his eyes dart away for a split second, fishing for some inspiration in the busy park. His eyes landed on a large signpost staked in the ground in the distance, and Oliver finally found a worthy name to use.

"Grout Mutah. Make it out to Grout Mutah, please," he answered, relieved. "Maybe add something nice, like 'with love', or 'to my biggest fan.' That'd be really special, he'd like that a lot," he finished, heaving an internal sigh. Hopefully she'd just sign the autograph and be on her way, and this whole mess would be behind him.

"Sophia," Dillan tried out, putting a bit of a musical tone to the name. "Lovely name. I'm Tasley. Dillan Tasley." He winked at Alex, seeming to be quite pleased with himself in this moment. He'd gotten the name of a pretty young woman! T'was a good day for Dillan indeed... If he actually cared all that much. The unsavory fact of the matter was that he was merely putting on airs. Sure she was easy on the eyes, but he didn't consider himself to be in quite the state of his life where he should be actively pursuing a relationship. His work mattered far more to him than some dame.

He took a bite of the apple she'd given him, chewed, swallowed, then asked, "So are you in town for the carnival, or do you live here?" She didn't strike him as being someone who was from around here. The shade of her skin was a little more exotic than that, and that curved sword wasn't exactly found in every shop in West Clock Town. He'd never actually seen a scimitar in person. His father had made mention of the curved swords used by the pirates that had stolen the hookshot from him, but Dillan didn't take this girl for being one of the pirates. There were a couple women around here hailing from pirate land, but they all had this very distinctive look to them, capped by very red hair. The young lady before him right now simply didn't match. Her hair was quite the throw-off. Surprising how much a change in hairstyle or color could do when it came to disguising oneself.

An errant thought popped into his head as he took another bite of the apple, and he couldn't help but ask, "It's not poisoned, is it? It would be wounding indeed for a lady such as yourself to be capable of such a horrid trick as poisoning food offered to a stranger." He wasn't being serious about the poison. It would be highly arrogant of him to think someone would go out of their way to kill him like this. He hadn't pissed anyone off to the point of hiring assassins who use such methods.

At least, he assumed he hadn't angered anyone that much. There was that one guy he'd maybe-sort-of-accidentally-not-really-but-perhaps made lose his job at the forge. An older worker who had been there for years, but the quality of his work was diminishing rapidly. Dillan had high standards for himself when it came to his own work, and he hadn't liked seeing someone trying to pass off sub-par equipment as being battle-worthy. He'd spoken up, and the old man had been pissed. Far angrier than anyone had ever gotten from one of his jokes, though this had not been a prank. The man had said something about feeding his family and whatnot, but Dillan hadn't really been paying much attention by that point. He'd had a little strike of inspiration for a new project, and he'd been mulling over the conceptual details in his head.

Regardless, he could think of no one with the means and intent to have him murdered. It did appeal to think of this woman as some kind of deadly seductress. That was a concept he liked. It was fun.

“Ha!” Lynnette had to cover her mouth with the back of her pen-holding hand to prevent herself from laughing more at Oliver's stab at Marcus. Marcus obviously wasn’t as amused by the man’s second joke about the poster and she heard him hiss “What?” under his breath as he took an aggressive step forward.

“Cool it,” she told him, waving her arm front of Marcus' path with a trace of laughter still in her voice, “I think I like this guy!”

"Well, I'm not in town a lot so I'm trying to spend what time I have with my family, y'know? If I do come, I'll probably be taking my younger sister along, so it'll most likely be one of the earlier shows. But I do appreciate the offer. I'll let my friend know; he kinda likes that... sort of thing."

Her smile faded a bit when he said that. “Oh, that’s a shame. But I’m sure you two will enjoy the show just the same, even though I don’t perform for those ones,” she smiled apologetically.

...Not. Her show was the reason most people came. Not that the other shows weren’t good, but… hers was definitely the best. (In her own opinion anyway.) That was part of the reason why she was so pissed about having to pin up flyers. But whatever— his loss.

"…Grout Mutah.”

Lynnette froze, her jaw dropping a bit with a small “uh” sound. Was he... serious? "Make it out to Grout Mutah, please. Maybe add something nice, like 'with love', or 'to my biggest fan.' That'd be really special, he'd like that a lot.”

“HA! Hahahahaha!” Marcus burst out laughing before Lynnette had a chance to say anything.

“Uhm… heheh,” Lynnette laughed a bit nervously, “Are you—“

“Are you SERIOUS?!" Marcus cut her off, "Hahaha, oh man! That’s a good one!” He continued laughing, holding his sides while Lynnette tried to think of some way to make the man's attempt at a lie a bit less awkward.

“You don’t really know Grout Mutah, do you?” she rhetorically asked as politely as she could, “The only reason Grout Mutah would ever want an autograph from any of us Black Marshies would be to therapeutically set it on fire and watch it burn. Here.” She couldn’t help but chuckle a bit as she handed back the flyer with just her autograph on it.

While Teruk was not anticipating a large number of sales, the sale of the dagger, a couple figurines, a handful of potions and other odds and ends, the Deku was actually much further ahead than he had anticipated, which got him excited. He was in Clocktown with his aunt and uncle, as well as two of his cousins, the group working together in different shops towards a collective pot that would go back into the family business. The arrangement suited Teruk fine; if he didn’t have to guard his possessions zealously, it feed him up to actually attend the festival in a capacity beyond a merchant. The thought of being stuck in the overcrowded park for three days while the Prince of Ikana made an appearance, the first anyone had seen or heard from the elusive kingdom in decades, was a chance of a lifetime he had no intention of missing.

When Uncle Jera approached, Teruk didn’t hesitate to toss his relative the large bag of rupees from his chest, who caught it in surprise. “Someone’s been doing well for himself.” Jera observed, feeling the heft of the bag.

“Should be about 154 rupees in there, mostly 20s. Almost half of it came from one of my daggers.” Teruk said as he knelt on his rug, sorting out more of his goods on display and checking the wooden price chits. “Considering my goal was about 200 a day, I’m going to pack up in about an hour and take a look around town for a little while and catch the sundown rush before the night shows.” He stated, looking over at his Uncle. “If you wouldn’t mind keeping an eye on my merchandise, that is.”

“Of course not.” Jera replied, his voice chipper. “We’re here on behalf of the King, are we not? He’d want us being seen as something other than a bunch of nosy junk pushers and actually get out there and mingle.” He said with a laugh, well aware that the King probably couldn’t care less. “I was expecting to go to that Black Marsh Circus performance tonight with your aunt. You should come.”

“We’ll see. People won’t shut up about it, so I assume there’s more to it than hoping to see an injury.” Teruk replied, shaking his head. “I’m interested just to take in the culture and see life from outside our little isolated bubble for a while. Plus, knowing my luck, some lanky Zora bastard or a Goron the size of our entire family will get the seat in front of me. Maybe I’ll get on the top of the tent and cut myself a hole.” He teased. He pulled a key out from his robes and handed it to his uncle. “Here’s the spare for my chest. If I take off, at least you’ll be able to get into my chest if you need to before you cart it back to camp. Talk with you later?”

The next twenty minutes proved to be rather fruitless until a Zora, of all people, arrived. Unlike much of his kin, this particular man was quite a bit bulkier and a considerable bit taller than your average Zora, with peculiar green eyes to match. Teruk had not run into many Zora in his travels, so he couldn’t know for certainty, but most everything about this particular man was an anomaly, which made him some what interesting. The fact he crouched lower to speak face to face with Teruk was a refreshing change, at least. He was far too accustomed to looking up to anyone but human children when conducting business. When the Zora extended his hand, it took Teruk somewhat by surprise. Either this guy didn’t do much shopping, or he was a social enigma who didn’t care much for what was typically expected in a customer-merchant transaction. Usually, the handshake came after.

Regardless, Teruk took the hand. A friendly face was a friendly face, and Rupees were Rupees. “A pleasure, Griga. Please call me Teruk. Now, what could possibly be your interest? What one man many consider a frivolous trinket, another may consider it a priceless treasure.” He said, sweeping his arm over his goods. “Myself, I sell what I think is rather interesting, since it is all handcrafted goods I have produced with materials from my homeland in the Southern Swamps. Leather and bone goods, wood and potions, I give everything a guarantee and an unquestioned exchange policy.” The Deku dug into his satchel, producing one of his customer loyalty chits, which he offered to Griga. “If you purchase something today, I will mark it on that token, and should you find me again, I will make you a deal on further purchases. So, if something here doesn’t catch your eye, I will do my best to fulfill your wishes.” He said with a nod. “Please, take your time and ask me if you have questions. In the meantime, are you from the Great Bay region?” he asked.

“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 ”Lorelei the Siren”'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- “Never, under any circumstances. It’s final. No.”- 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 ”rival” (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 The Black Marsh Circus’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.
Orca 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.”

Oliver didn't seem to be nearly as amused with his reply as Marcus did. He openly frowned as the obnoxious sword-swallower ridiculed his request. Sure, perhaps it was a paper-thin lie, but they didn't have to be so mean about it. He threw another glance at the signpost to find that it was clearly advertising for the Rock Circus, which likely competed with this Black Marsh operation every year. So not only was his lie thin, it seemed, but it was also wholly absurd. Fantastic. At this point he could either pretend it was a joke, or just keep going with the lie. The former seemed much easier.



"Oh no, that was just a little joke. I've never met the guy personally, but if he competes against you guys he must be crazy," he smirked, hoping that she would play along with his alleged sarcasm. "My friend's name is actually Clyde Kenneth. Could I trouble you to write that in for me, again? Sorry about that," he apologized, handing the flier back to Lorelei, rather sheepishly. If he didn't try to get the flier made out to his imaginary friend, then he would be admitting to the past lies, and his retroactive joke disguise would fall through. It was a dangerous game at this point.



Oliver figured now would be a good time to get some information that might be slightly helpful to his cause with the book, and also make it seem like he was interested in whatever this circus had to offer. Two birds with one stone, as the saying goes.

"So you're the troupe's exotic dancer and he's your servant boy, right?" asked Oliver, even though he knew that the girl's companion was a performer due to his prominence on the poster. "Does your circus, by chance, have any worldly, psychic, clairvoyant, fortune-telling magician types who might know a lot about magic and such? I've recently found myself in need of some arcane consultation, as weird as that sounds," he explained, with an awkward chuckle. "I know, I don't look like the type who gets involved in such interesting pursuits, but I think this time the mystery managed to find me," mused the swordsman, trying to explain his situation without mentioning the book. She'd probably forgotten about the book right by now, right? Of course she had.