The Moon shines for all, but it shines bright for the lonely individual whose face hides beneath threaded wool.

A figure kneels prone at the altar of sterling inside the chappell. The Moon shines on her subject from above. Her light, pure as driven snow, rinses the sin of broad shoulders, and as a humble scierge is placed on the floor, an inconspicuous priest blesses the disciple before leaving him to his private prayers.

Holy blood may flow through the knight's veins, but even a son of the Moon must show his respect.

Quiron will stay the night under a plea for sanctuary, as he usually does after a job. Small towns near the frontier with Khrusos are conflictive, which means work and danger on equal portions. Still, he has made a habit of repenting after every job he finishes, in hopes that at least the Moon will accept his poor choices.

“So may it be.”

Her murmurs as he stands, taking a deep breath and opening his eyes to find himself standing alone, once again, in penumbra.