A hunchbacked bundle of rags hobbles along the edge of the streets, muttering and proffering a grimy cup to passersby. The streets of Ai are a cacophony of riotous sounds; each new street a fresh, tumultuous attack on the senses, but the beggar is unaware of the building excitement in the city, hobbling his way out of the residential district and down the long road towards the Angel's harp.<br/><br/>The hooded beggar doesn't for a moment glance at the armoury to his left. Anyone on the street can hear the frenzied clatter of steel on anvil, feel the heat of the forge, and smell the black smoke billowing from its many chimneys. Nor does he pay heed to the sprawling flotilla of stalls to his right. He has no need of sanctified weapons, holy talismans, potent potables, or any of the other dubious, likely fraudulent goods the bawling vendors proffer.<br/><br/>A chorus of cheers erupts behind him as a platoon of soldiers rounds the corner, singing a call and reply cadence to the beat of marching feet. As they stomp past, their sergeant cries a fresh verse,<br/><br/>"We seldom see elves though we wish them to stay..."<br/><br/>The men continue in robust baritone,<br/><div align="center">"For whene'er we see them they scamper away. <br/>If they run, we will follow, we'll smite them to hell, <br/>If they hide, we shall slay them where'er they dwell.</div><br/>A boy in gleaming military dress places a pamphlet into the beggar's cup, "Honor, glory, and ten pence a day starting pay," He trills and paces along to the next likely conscript. The beggar reads the bold text heading the slip, "Glory, Adventure, Exotic Lands". Under the words a handsome armored man holds aloft a gleaming sword. His helm is fashioned from a wolf skin that flows down into a cape, and he clutches an elfin noble's head. Gems gleam from the crown atop its head, and a droplet of blood hangs from its bulging tongue. He tips the paper into rubbish heap as he passes by.<br/><br/>The platoon is massed outside the Angel's Harp. A handful of squabbling early drunks spill out into the street, and the soldiers begin beating them to the ground with cudgels. When they come to tomorrow, they will be in the barracks, in like uniform to their assailants. This platoon will return tonight for the mercenaries pouring in from across the continent. When the drunken riot breaks out, they'll be ready to press more able swordsmen into service.<br/><br/>The beggar crosses the road as the last man is knocked to the ground by the sergeant himself. He sees quick fingers binding drunken hands with hempen rope, and then is gone along an empty alleyway between the bazaar and the priesthood college. No one is there to notice the disappearance of his limp, nor how his hump slides down his back as he straightens up. It's in fact a small pack whose strap slips easily into his palm. He tucks his cup away, and retrieves a grappling hook.<br/><br/>Laszlo pulls down his hood, and surveys the wall above him, noting that the windows nearby him are, as he had hoped, closed and curtained against the harsh noise of the bazaar that's attached itself to the Rose. Satisfied in his privacy, he swings the grapple, scanning the roof high above for the ornamental drain spout he'd noted earlier.<br/><br/>He grunts as it flies from his hands. Cloth wrapped around the hook mutes the clang of metal on stone to a dull clatter, and with a practiced swing the hook catches the rope and tightens around the drain. He tugs sharply on the rope, the spout doesn't budge.<br/><br/>He climbs the rope slowly, ever so slowly, bracing his feet against the wall before him and making steady, measured motions. He glances at his grungy clothes, the gray dust rubbed into them matches the stone around him to near perfection. Still, were a careful observer watching the academy's wall at the moment, they may eventually notice a gray shadow slowly creeping up the building. Were there a guard stationed on the roof, the rope would be summarily cut. The reward for apprehending a thief is 50 cents, dead or alive.<br/><br/>Laszlo hoists himself atop the roof, and pulls the rope up after him. Creeping across the rooftop towards the grand temple, he lays prone at the edge, retrieving a slim optic from his sack. He extends it, focuses on the temple, and begins counting guards and noting their positions. Several are on patrol circuits along the temple grounds and ramparts. He silently counts their paces. A dull roar is beginning to build far off to his left, the spectacle at the garden is what pulled his wall watcher and roof guard off their usual posts. Satisfied with the temple, he studies the formation of guards maintaining the rabble's distance from the garden. There stand his former wathcers, together and to the far right, armor polished, arms at parade rest.<br/><br/>Shifting his scope upwards, he sees the prize they are guarding. She's a lovely young girl, winged and golden eyed, perhaps the most beloved celebrity in the human realm, Anethrial, daughter of Iarasis. Her presence indicates her father must be nearby, perhaps he's the one making the proclamation everyone's been hearing rumors of for weeks. Curiosity trumps reason, and Laszlo is compelled to study the girl further. He notes her tension, the glances out across the murmuring crowd, fingers fidgeting with her robe, a slight twitch of the wing.<br/><br/>"What's in your head, little bird?" he mutters to the rampart.