Sleepless nights didn't seem to come as often as they used to over the last few years. A definite blessing in the grand scheme of things, but it meant that Kasimir didn't have as much time to write his thoughts, or if he was feeling particularly pretentious on a given night, he might even refer to them as his memoirs.

Given the choice between sleeping or having an unfinished collection of memories from Fillydelphia cluttering his office, he'd choose sleeping every time.

Still, these nights came around every once in a long while, and today was the third day in another bout of insomnia. He'd spent the last two nights looking back over what he'd written and editing things here and there, but it was hard to decide where to pick up next. To be honest, not a lot of particular interest happened over the next few years. There were a few mishaps and accidents that might have been worth writing about, but it would take so much boring context that he decided against it. At least for now.

He tapped the pen against the desk and considered giving up for the night to go on a pointless patrol around Sunburn, but the scratching of small talons against the wooden floor in the hallway drove the idea away as quickly as it came.

As fast as he could, Kaz closed the book and slid it beneath the stack of mail and assorted junk that had found its way onto the desk. And not a moment too soon.

A small white feathered head peered around the corner. Golden eyes looked around and locked with his.

“Papa? What're you doing?”

He returned an attempt at an innocent smile. “I was just going through the mail. Now, Ida, what are you doing up?”

The little griffon stepped inside and frowned as much as her black beak allowed. “I woke up. Mama's cussin' again.”

Strange, he hadn't heard anything. He didn't doubt it though. “You know she can't help it, and she doesn't mean the things she says.” He pushed back a bit from the desk and patted his leg.

Ida took the offer and climbed up into his lap, propping up on the desk with her claws. She grabbed an empty envelope and studied it, as if trying to read the address. “Papa, what's a motherfucker?”

A tiny sigh passed his beak. “What did I say about repeating the things you heard your mother say when she was asleep?”

The little griffoness shrank away a little. “Don't.”

“That's right. That's an ugly word, so don't go saying it around town, alright?”

She put the envelope down and nodded. “Okay.”

He patted her on the back and blew out a breath. “But to answer your question, that's a very bad person. Someone worse than anyone you'll ever meet.”

“Who was it?”

“I don't know,” he answered honestly. “Your mother and I used to know a lot of very bad people. It could have been any one of them.”

From down the hall, muffled and half-spoken shouts were becoming audible. “Do… do something. Don't… Valerie! H-help her!”

Oh, right. He was the motherfucker this time.

Listening to this never got any easier.

Ida stared through the wall back toward the shouts. “Papa, who is Valerie?”

“Someone who died a long time ago.”

“What happened to her?”

He rested his claw on her back. “I'll tell you when you're older.”

Her wings tensed and rose a little as she snorted. “You said that last time...”

“And I'll probably say it next time too,” he replied. Stories like that weren't something he liked repeating to adults, much less griffawns. He urged her to get down, and once she did, he eased out of the chair. “Come on, let's go get some coffee started for your mother. I'm sure she'll be awake in a minute.”

He could probably use a little himself, and while he doubted he'd have a chance to start on it tonight, he did at least have an idea of where to pick up on his memoirs next.

Four years after where he left off. Fillydelphia only had about a year left in its future at that point, but that year alone had enough material to write ten volumes as long as the one he'd already written.

It was going to be difficult to recount some of the stories coming up, but sometimes he wished he'd started there instead of his first days in Fillydelphia.

That last year… that was what really kept him up most nights these days.

Level Up - Level 11! - You don't even get a training montage, but a few more years in Fillydelphia is worth a couple of levels.

Bloody Mess - All attacks deal an extra 10% damage, and tend to make the worst mess imaginable when they kill someone.

Organizer - You've got a knack for packing away lots of little goodies, so anything weighing less than 1 kg weighs only half as much as it otherwise would.