"I beg your pardon?" This sharp question slices through the rabble. Its source: a stern, thirty-something-year-old man with shoulder-length white hair that looks as if it has only been perfunctorily combed. He wears floor-length grey robes with an equally stern red mask and...honestly does not look terribly frightening at first glance. More like some kind of religious (or cultish) man.

A man who looks more than prepared to send these ruffians on their way.

Except...there's a problem. Namely, the lack of aether available to him. Even though this is the Underworld (or 'hell' or whatever you want to call it), which should really be the heart of his power. He can't seem to access that deep font of aether which he has always taken for granted. Still - he hasn't survived these past twelve millennia without learning to brawl. Accordingly, he raises a fist.

"Lay a single hand on me and you shall regret it."

"Absolutely not."

He stands there, scowling deeply, resisting the urging of the strangers around him who wish to see a six foot man stuttering about on two dangerous-looking stilts of wood. What if he twists an ankle? Breaks a leg, hits his head - any manner of injury is likely with this rowdy crowd, and he's already seen several people fall. Stars above, all he wants is to find somewhere to drink without being bothered. He'd heard that the bars in this area serve decent liquor, but no-one warned him about how boisterous and lascivious the establishments here are.

The public broadcast seems to be abuzz with news about some prominent figure or other announcing a bounty on someone's head, but Emet-Selch turns away from the inevitable crowds to pursue a more manageable quest: the thieving bakeneko. He has no idea what he's supposed to look for though, and asking around only gets him the very unhelpful answer that they look like regular felines save for their two tails.

None of the cats he spots darting about the streets resembles one. Eventually he surmises that they must be disguising themselves, so he starts trying to chase down each one he sees and stare them down intently, eye to eye.

...He may have gotten a scratch on his cheek at some point for his trouble.

"Are you one of the thieves?" he asks his latest feline capture, holding it firmly around its midriff at eye level.