The priest of the Unnamed, unidentifiable behind flowing night-purple robes and serene mask of polished silver, moved steadily through the market towards the statue of Valentia I. The crowd parted as he – or she – passed, leaving a respectful distance. The reputation of the Masked Order made even the bold wary of becoming involved with their intrigues.

Reaching the statue, the masked priest drew a night-purple xaról flower from the folds of his – or its – robe, laid it at the statue’s feet, then turned and stood by the pedestal, settling in to wait.

His – or hesh’s – instructions had been clear, if cryptic, ending, And provide no word of reason, as the Unnamed One commands.

Not that he – or ve – could have given a reason had he desired to; the commands of the Inner Circle were never explained to those below. Upon reaching the Middle Circle, he’d – or they’d – been taught that ”the purpose of the game is the game itself”; that the secrets and intrigues of the Unnamed One required no reason beyond themselves – which was undoubtedly true, but complete? That, only the Inner Circle would know.

There. He – or whoever – looked up from his musings, seeing the one his orders had described – a woman passing the statue at noon, with the rare silver-blonde hair and rose-copper coloring of the sunrise eldrae. Pressing the engraved silver token of the temple’s favor into her hand, he turned and walked away, leaving her looking after him in surprise.