The people of Milisevre, high-born and low-born alike, moved like the world's most colourful glacier in the direction of the archery range. Amongst the peasants, there were occasional pushes and shoves to get ahead so they could get a better pick of the seats, but those quarrels stopped dead in their tracks whenever the crowd had to part for a noble and his retinue, the common folk's heads predictably bowing down to their lieges before looking up in awe at the splendour of the upper classes, who rode on horses or were carried in litters so that they oh-so-noble feet didn't have to touch the ground.

Ground that was ideal for a pickpocket to operate in... and where one was already running riot.

Beneath a canopy of grid-locked people filtering into the archery range, Stalk's eyes zeroed in on his target, watching with unblinking precision as his taloned fingers slid into position. In front of him were a series of farmer's belts, with bulging brown coin pouches hanging off the leather bands encircling their waists.

Clearly they'd brought a good deal of their savings here – but don't bring anything anywhere if you're not prepared to lose it.

Slowly unfurling his index finger, a brief glare of light shot into Stalk's eye as his talon gleamed in the sunlight. As that happened, he froze and flicked his gaze around, cocking his head to the right to look upwards as his heart thumped harder and harder against his wishbone.

No-one looked his way, nor raised a hand as though the reflected light had hit them in the eyes. Instead, they kept looking right on ahead, acting as though nothing was wrong.

Well, as far as they knew, nothing was.

Stalk might have let loose a sigh of relief, but that was a beginner's mistake which had almost gotten him caught in the past. And a habit he had spent long years making sure he never repeated after he almost had his hands chopped off in Elturgard for pickpocketing.

Thankfully, he escaped... with a little help. After all, family sticks together.

As the queuing crowd remained at a standstill, oblivious to his presence, Stalk extended his index talon once more and, once it was in range of the twine holding his target's coin pouch in place, he swiped it inward while his other hand darted forth.

The absolute instant the sack of shinies fell into his fingertips – he caught it with those instead of his palm in order to muffle the rattle the coins might make upon impact – Stalk yanked the pouch in close to his chest, pinning it there protectively like a squirrel clutching the last acorn of winter...

But unlike said squirrel, this wouldn't be Stalk's last taking. Not by a long shot...

Slipping the pouch into the same flap he concealed his alchemical items in, Stalk fastened it up tight and then continued to prowl the crowd. He would reach, his talons would slice, his fingers would grab, and repeat.

Reach, slice, grab. Reach, slice, grab. Another coin pouch here, a gemstone in a noble's belt there. Half the time, he didn't even need to lift anything! The number of coins that had slipped out of people's pockets without their knowing was a dragon's hoard in its own right... and if that wasn't enough, his other takings would certainly fit the bill!

No rings this time, but there were fallen earrings and coin pouches galore! So much so that Stalk could hear the folds in his armour straining and creaking like old floorboards, and had to suck in his stomach to make space for as much as he could carry.

When the sound of his short, rapid breaths became too loud for comfort, that was when he decided to quit pushing his luck. Flicking his gaze around through a forest of legs and ankle-length skirts, he saw a viable escape – a gap in the crowd that was like the exit to a darkened cave - and dashed for it without thinking. Thankfully, he moved too fast for the shifting mass of limbs to be too much of a both.

'Thank you, Rapidity mutagen.'

As he slipped calmly out of the crowd, slipping behind a stack of ale barrels, Stalk slowly rose to his feet. Only when there were no cries of alarm from the crowd did he allow himself a toothless grin and a swaggering gait as sauntered towards the bright yellow tent that he and the others had been allowed on the tourney grounds, his eyes gleaming bright as stars.

He didn't even have to move too deep into the crowd to make an absolute killing. The nobles of Milisevre were obviously proud of flaunting their wealth... but when you wave something in another's face, you tend to draw their attention.

He couldn't help himself. And as his claws peeled the tent flap aside, he found himself snickering with glee as he saw an old crate, unlocked so that it could be used for whatever the Yellow Team needed, Stalk hopped up onto it, and crouched before opened up his armour.

Scooping out all of its contents, he created a mountain of riches over six inches high beside him, and before long, he was like a roosting jackdaw. The glittering of gold and silver dazzled his eyes as discs and studs of precious metals caught the light and sparkled into his eyes. There was too much to count right now, so he made a note to shovel it all into a bag and find a place to put it.

Somewhere the rest of his team wouldn't find it.

But he had something else to do first; the crowd had been a reminder that he was due to appear for his bit in the tournament. And so, for his next trick...

The hidden flap in his armour still hanging open, and now clear of glittering gold, Stalk could see his mutagens again. And his eyes locked on the one whose cork stopper was marked with 'C' for Celerity. Without a second thought, he pulled it out and unplugged the stopper, preparing to take a swig.

But then...

"Stalk?" he heard a voice suddenly call from beyond the tent. Romain's voice.

'Shit.'

He barely had enough time to turn around before the tent flap was pushed open and Romain stepped in... and as he beheld the pile of riches that Stalk had been caught red-handed alongside, he stopped dead in his tracks and his eyes bulged, all levity suddenly draining from his face.

A long silence hung in the air, awkward as all nine hells, before the Milisevran raised a trembling finger and asked, "Stalk... what is this?!"

The kenku felt the urge to shrug twinge in his shoulders. There was no point in hiding things now, so he might as well just embrace it. And thus, with a clawed hand, he gave a wide flamboyant gesture towards his personal dragon's hoard.
"Behold... my stuff," he said, his tone so thick with sarcasm that if anyone else tried to pull it off, it would have gotten caught in their throats.

Romain's brow suddenly furrowed - all the more so once he caught sight of the flask in Stalk's hands. "And... is that a potion?" he asked, his finger still shaking as it shifted over towards the colourful liquid.

Stalk clutched it closer, eyes locked on Romain's hand to make sure the knight didn't snatch it away. "Kinda. It's a mutagen – one of my flock's little tricks." His smirk then widened. "Specifically, this one will improve my poise, reflexes... and accuracy."

Then, just as Romain was taking in a breath so that he might speak in protest, Stalk opened his beak and quaffed the whole thing down to the dregs. The gelatinous liquid felt zesty and electrifying upon his tongue, and then switched to a fiery, spicy tang as it poured down his throat to bubble and froth like a witch's caustic brew.

Almost instantly, Stalk felt all his nerves buzz sharply, from his talons to the top of his head. It was only for a moment, as if a static shock had been sent through his body, and then... then came the after-effects.

His mind's touch, his attention span, seemed to cascade down from his skull like a waterfall and pool within all his other organs, before spreading out and flooding his nerves and muscles right down to most minute synapse and fibre. He felt control and presence in every inch of his body – so much so that there would not be a twitch, an itch or a tremor anywhere on his person if he did not wish it too.

As the sensation pooled within his eyes, he then felt something else. The chattering of the crowd outside, the gently swaying of the tent flap in the breeze, the blinking of Romain's eyes as he watched... it all slowed down just a little. With the renewed senses filling his limbs, Stalk felt faster, quicker, more dextrous. Like if an assassin with a crossbow bolt took a shot at him right now, he'd be able to dodge it even if he didn't see it coming.

Sadly, that last part was now going to be more likely. For then, the world began to shift around him, edges and lines gelling together, all the surfaces and textures around him became softer, less detailed and more smudged. The blades of grass and the minute holes in the fabric of the tent were no longer visible, disappearing into a faceless swathe of green and a rippling yellow ocean respectively.

It wasn't as if everything was blurry – more like the world became the background of a water-colour painting; the detail was still impeccable, but it was just a different sort of detail.

His hearing was still normal, though. All the better for it too, since Romain wouldn't stop bleating

"Stalk... this is cheating."

He kept his tone soft, and Stalk instantly could see why – for just before he said it, he glimpsed the barest flicker in the sockets he assumed to be the Milisevran's eyes... and that was all he needed to know that Romain was glancing towards the tent-flap, where it was plain to see through the small gap that the crowds of commoners moving to the archery range were still both visible and nearby.

If they heard the words he just said, they'd all be out of the tournament, Romain included. Just as much as they would if they lost the next contest.

Stalk knew that too – hence why he didn't raise his voice either when he replied with:

"I know. You think I'm not aware of that?"

Small gasps of disbelief seemed to sharpen the silence before Romain broke it.

"Stalk... I cannot believe this!" he said aloud - for the first time, the paladin seemed to become genuinely furious. Through the veneer the mutagen brought over his eyes, the Milisevran's face became more of a moving magic portrait than a person. Trying to gauge the knight's emotions was like trying to read a book from the far end of a corridor, the details in the ink blurring together into lines of meaningless nothing.

Stalk saw a grim, foreboding ripple above the rapidly darkening sockets. But even without that, something he couldn't describe washed over Romain as he kept talking, his smudged features suddenly seeming colder and harsher as though the paint had chilled into sharpened shards of ice.

"You swore an oath!" Romain yelled, shock tinging his every word. "You pledged to uphold the values of chivalry! And yet, mere hours later, you do this?!" He shook his head dejectedly. "Have you given no thought to the pledges you made in the cathedral?! Before the eyes of your fellow knight, and before Bahamut Himself?!"

Stalk felt the shafts of his feathers quiver, motes of sharp tingling sweeping across his flesh while the edges of his beak scraped and ground together.
"Look buddy – gallant gestures come easy for people sat on their high horse. People like you, who've never known what it's like to be starving, be hunted... to be downtrodden," he said. "My people have. In fact, that's all we've ever known. Right from the beginning, we've been cast down, spat on, shat on... and worse."

His shoulders seemed to ache dully as a hollow, icy emptiness – a feeling that something dear to him, and that should have been part of him, had been pulled away – began to form in both places. And, though Stalk didn't want it to, something inside him then began to spill out. Something far hotter and more temperamental than the potion he just drank.

"Now, this 'Lake of Virtue' or whatever might be the only chance I have to change that..." he said, every word booming from his beak. "And I'll be fucked, damned and everything inbetween if I let it slip through my claws at some bullshit notion like 'honour' or 'fair play' – 'cause there ain't no such thing!"

Only once he had spoken did he realize how loud he'd become, and a surge of tension shot through him as he buttoned his beak shut and twisted about towards the tent flap. Then he willed every drop of concentration he had into his ears, listening for the slightest shift of noise that indicated someone had heard him. That he had been given away...

The sounds of the chattering crowds didn't dip or drain, nor did anyone ask about what they had just heard. That might have offered Stalk some relief... if Romain wasn't so silent.

A long pause hung in the air between them, looming like a gallows tree just as Romain's body seemed to do, still as stone and dreadful as death itself. His presence seemed to envelop him, surrounding him on all sides like a murder of crows in dead, twisted branches...

And then Romain spoke.

"So... you don't believe in your vows?" he asked, his voice so low and quiet that Stalk's heightened nerves began to prickle with alarm. As if he was in danger.

The kenku fluffed his feathers. "Not the ones I gave you, I don't." He could think of no way of saying that wasn't as blunt as a brick. "Yeah, I said some words an' let you tap me with a sword... and not long after, I said some words to the elders of my flock. I told them I'd never hold anything else more important than our family's security, and our kind's future... so between those two promises, it's no question which one I'm going to break."

He then paused before adding "And you think I give a shit what the Platinum Dragon has to say about it, he can come off his own high horse an' tell me himself. All the gods can if they want to, the uppity arrogant cunts!"

The churning sensation in his gut suddenly seemed all the more violent as a blaze lit within his soul, scorching his skeleton and boiling his blood. His skin sizzled beneath his coat of smoke-black feathers as this flame coursed through every fibre of his essence.

The flame of pain. The flame of hatred. The flame of vengeance.

Insulting a god that way made Stalk feel so brazen that he couldn't help but feel proud of himself – the surge of excitement he felt was uplifting, like a light that banished every darkness and doubt from within him, and made him feel like he could rise to stand tall and proud over all that stood in his path.

However, the sensation withered the moment he looked at Romain – in the knight's gaze, Stalk saw no similar feelings. Instead, he saw disquiet, his brow lowering and his mouth opening as a breath thick with unease escaped his mouth.

Stalk's body braced then – braced for Romain to treat him like the scum he was. But then, Romain's eyes met his, and in his gaze Stalk saw something he'd seen little of from humans in his life.

He saw... empathy. Compassion. And the sight of it made his nerves prickle with alarm. All the more so when Romain moved towards him.

There was no threat in his movements or his expressions, but Stall still had to fight the urge to pull away.

Romain then spoke to him, his voice gentle and kind.
"I understand your anger, Stalk. Truly, I do. Though I have not suffered as your people have, and I shan't pretend that I have done, I know how it feels to be wronged..."

Stalk's nerves continued to buzz, and he cocked his head as he heard those words. "How?" he asked, his scepticism sharp and clear as cut glass...

And Romain's reply made his feelings just as clear.

"I have seen men of low moral character earn honours, offices and titles that they have no right to hold, and I have had to kneel before men like Milton du Vertlac for as long as I can remember, as did my father and grandfather." A small tang of bitterness radiated in his tone. "Hells, my grandfather had no land to his name before the Battle of Cendrefeu Pass, and had to take service with any lord who would put a roof over his head and spare a meal at his table..."

The gravity with which he spoke made Stalk fall silent for a while, letting Romain speak. Watching closely, he saw no shifty glances about, nor rocking back and forth on his feet. In short, no signs that he was lying.

The knight continued. "But when you cheat or betray or backstab to win, you do not prove that you're better than your enemy. In fact, you prove the opposite," Romain said, his voice quiet and calmer than before. "You prove that you are no better than him, and while that might mean you win, one thing you cannot disavow is that other people, even kindred souls, would rather side with a soul who has integrity than one who does not." He then started to smile. "Also, make no mistake – there are other victories which being honourable can win you, and being dishonourable cannot."

Stalk raised an eyebrow at that statement – because to him, it didn't make sense. "Whaddya mean?" he asked.

Romain gave him a smile, then began to say "There was a story I loved as a boy-" to which Stalk immediately groaned aloud.

'Oh, for the love of-' echoed through his head as he pinched the bridge of his beak before turning to Romain and saying "Look, buddy – I really don't have time for a long-ass anecdote now.

All Romain did, however, was widen his smile and say "Humour me..." as his eyes sparkled in amusement. Clearly he wasn't above a little playful japery and teasing as well.

And Stalk couldn't help but respect that, even if he seriously didn't want to.

"Alright, fine. But keep to the point, alright?"

Grinning, Romain then continued to speak, folding his arms and cocking his hip slightly as his tale unfolded...

"There was a story I loved as a boy – the story of Sir Oswald de Stulorne. He was a knight who entered a melee held by one of the earliest kings of Milisevre, King Clement III, using an enchanted blade," he explained. "In those days, weapons used in melees had to be dulled – a rule since changed by King Charles due to people finding the fights boring – but Sir Oswald concocted a plan to win an unfair advantage. With the help of a wizard, he created a sword which appeared to be blunt, but was actually fully-sharpened and not as cumbersome as a result."

Unable to resist listening, Stalk chuckled as he heard this. "Sounds like a clever man..." he remarked, amusement tinging the tone of his voice.

"Indeed..." Romain continued. "Sir Oswald was very intelligent... but while he had wits, he was lacking in wisdom. In the melee, he carved through all comers... only to find that the last other knight standing, the young knight Sir Aesan de Cretien, could match him move-for-move even with a blunted blade, and no other tricks that Sir Oswald tried to pull could make up for his opponent's sheer skill and courage."

He went on, so fully engrossed in the story that his eyes glazed over... as though he were seeing it for himself. "Moreover, as their duel dragged on, when the knights Sir Oswald had killed died from the slash wounds he gave them, eyebrows were raised. King Clement brought the fight to a close early, and when Sir Oswald's blade was inspected, his deception was discovered."

The levity that Stalk felt listening to this story died down the moment that sentence was uttered.
"What happened to him?" he asked Romain. "Was he executed?"

The Milisevran shook his head. "No... but one could argue it was far worse. Sir Oswald was stripped of his knighthood, declared a knave before all the eyes of the realm, and had his lands and wealth given as compensation to the families of those who killed. He died not long after, having lost so much more than he would have gained by winning."

The silent stare that Romain gave him then, the final words he uttered seeming to echo though the tent, made something run up Stalk's spine. Folding his arms, clawed hands clutching his biceps, he shivered and turned away from Romain, looking down at the floor.

"Well... he should have thought his plan through better," he retorted. However, when the way he saw Oswald being able to get away with his cheating came to mind... that was too cold to say out loud, even for him.

So many lives lost... just for victory.

Romain's mouth curved into a knowing smile. "Or... he could have followed the same rules as the others, and taken defeat with grace if he met a superior foe instead of trying to trick his way into a victory he may not have deserved."

Stalk couldn't help but scoff as he heard that, turning his eyes back up to meet Romain's and shaking his head.

"Will you say that if one of our opponents beats you in the joust? You and Logan were good enough yesterday, but a lot of knights we're against 'ave got more experience than you." He then recalled something that was mentioned yesterday. "Ain't been Milton the reigning champion for a long time now? D'ya really think you're gonna beat him on fair ground?"

Romain's response to that was surprising – moving over, he sat down beside Stalk, the treasure pile resting between them as the knight gave him a friendly, casual smile

"Look, Stalk - I despise Milton just the same as you do, and as I'm sure you despise... others... who have wronged you..."
He paused as he said that – as ever, Romain was too pious for Stalk's taste.
"... I hate how they often pull rank to make me bow and scrape before them... but just because they might rank above me doesn't mean they're better than me. I've found that doing what is right, and proving through my deeds that I am an honourable man, allows me to know in my heart of hearts that I'm a better person than them... and above all else, a better knight."

He seemed then like he was going to try and put a hand on Stalk's shoulder, but after a small shift of his hand, Romain relented.

And Stalk appreciated that, because the words he said next were uncomfortable enough already.

"Because, Sir Stalk... like it or not, you are a knight now. And you have to choose what kind of knight you're going to be..."

That feeling in Stalk's shoulders flared up again... only this time, the feeling of longing was mixed with something else. Alongside it, Stalk felt a weight sag down upon his shoulders and chest, as if a knapsack filled with iron bars had been forced onto his back.

As this happened, his heart and head began to pound in unison... and then, as he looked to Romain, an image seemed to flash before his eyes.

One of Sir Milton du Vertlac loomed up in the back of the tent, casting a shade over Romain that bathed the younger knight in darkness. The old Count's smirk was as crooked as his beaklike nose, which curved down menacingly from beneath his venomous green eyes.

Eyes that had a knowing, sinister gleam...

Stalk blinked and shook his head, swinging his gaze away, heart trembling within his chest. Glancing back up after a moment, he saw that Milton was gone, checking even though he was sure that what he had glimpsed wasn't real at all.

Then, he weighed his thoughts carefully, letting them simmer in his head before he finally responded to what Romain had mentioned:

"That may be so... but being a knight's still not going to stop me from doing what needs to be done..."

And with that, their conversation seemed at a close. Stalk heard a small sigh, then felt Romain's presence wane. He could sense that the Milisevran had left his side, and watching the floor, he saw the slim and slender shadow grow smaller and darker as its owner walked towards the tent flap.

However, then it stopped, and Romain's gentle voice said one last thing.

"I don't like what you're doing, Stalk... but I won't betray your trust, nor will I compromise what you're trying to do for your people. You have my word on that."

Hearing that made Stalk's nerves prickle again, and he looked up to see Romain standing just in the doorway of the tent, turned sideways and looking at him with an expression of compassion and empathy.

Again, Stalk's nerves prickled, and all he could do was ask "Even though I'm a kenku?"

Romain nodded and smiled. "Of course..." he replied. "Stalk, I never said nor believed that you couldn't be a noble knight because you were a kenku – you have my word on that as well. If anything... it seems like you're the one who believes that."

And with that, the knight left.

As they parted ways, Stalk remained sat where he had been, roosting amongst his alchemical supplies and the riches he had swiped.

But as he looked down at them, something twinged within him then – something he couldn't explain, but was like a sharp yank beneath his chest, just above his heart.

It left as quick as it had come, but he knew from long experience that it was not a side effect of his mutagens. For, after he felt it, the sight of the glittering gold and the sensation of his enhanced dexterity did not raise his mood, nor lift his spirits...