Down the Wrong Path → OPEN
There was suspicion lingering all through the air of Valhallow. Azrael wasn't exactly sure what it was, but there was definitely something off about the town on this particular day. It seem uncharacteristically happy, with an air of blissful unawareness. It disgusted him. Azrael scoffed and threw his half smoked cigarette onto the cold pavement. His feet moved at about half the speed of his mind, which was racing at twenty thousand miles a minute. What was going on? Why did the town seem so content? Most importantly, why didn't he know about it and how could he stop it? Being born and raised in hell itself, the demon was accustomed to misery, and the sheer sound of joy was enough to drive him insane. Azrael quickly zoomed around the corner of the block when he reached it, and was met with answers to all of his questions. Music flooded through the cool Valhallow air, and townspeople of all sorts swayed along in unity. There were kiosks set up all along the strip, filled with merchants selling records and the like. Azrael's mouth turned down as his eyes shifted anxiously from place to place. The vibes were much too good here. He felt out of place.
Azrael had been hanging around Valhallow long enough to know what this was: the annual music festival, which always brought cheer and livelihood along with it. Merely thinking about this day would bring disdain to his heart, and now that he was in the thick of the masses, he really regretted even leaving the house. The whimsical voice of some young trollop flooded into Azrael's ears, truly disturbing his peace of mind. No, he didn't like this at all. Not one for music or happiness, Azrael sunk his head down and let his eyes rest on the ground. His feet picked up the pace when suddenly, almost instantly, he reached the end of the main block where the festival finally came to a slow. The music still reached him, causing a thick, pounding headache from Azrael's temple to the back of his skull. The only thing that saved him from complete collapse was the steady breeze and the faint memory of his quiet, solitary house which contained none of these "happy" folks. If only he could get back.
The headache caused Azrael to lose focus. More than once, he tripped over his own feet and had to catch himself on one of the brick walls. He tried to light another cigarette in order to regain focus, but it was of no use as his mouth had gone completely dry. There was no hope for him; the only thing left to do was to flee from this god-forsaken place. Who on earth would even attend one of these functions? Were these things supposed to be enjoyable, with the constant clamoring of poorly tuned musical instruments and sickly sounding performers? Azrael shook his head, took a puff of the cigarette despite his desert-dry mouth, and then coughed loudly. When he finally thought that he had seen the last of the parade, Azrael picked up his pace, but before he knew it, he ran head on to another person. Their bodies slammed together as if neither of them had been watching where they were going, and Azrael cursed out in anger. Who the hell were they to disrupt his discontent? As if things needed to be made worse.