Azathoth hid himself below the balcony of the hostel, which emanated a strange, yet somewhat familiar smell of liqueur , and sweat. The place was despicable, yet it was the only place he could stay. Anywhere else he left was too dangerous, or the owners would eventually scare him away. He had met the innkeeper before, and he said he was fine with it. He was a friendly man, and perhaps he was the closest he had to a friend.
That night, the town would have the most important night of all. The Tribal Dinner. Of course, Azathoth wasn't invited, nor welcome. As a matter of fact, he wasn't welcome anywhere.
He could already picture everything in his mind. People joining, and celebrating with delicious food, except for him. He saw everyone who was having a time to feast, and remember for the rest of their lives, or at least until the next dinner, as the materialistic creatures they were. That's what happened every time.
The only thing he considered favorable of that night of excess, was the fact that the town folks always wasted not only food, but everything in this kind of events. He knew, that he would have, at least, something to eat.
He decided to have a short walk outside his hiding place, so he went outside, carefullly observing everyone, and trying to not be spotted.