The smoke merchants pace along the streets of the Market. The cowls of their grey cloaks are pulled up over their heads, obscuring their features. Everyone who comes to the Market maintains a level of anonymity, but the smoke merchants even more so. The product in which they deal is not well known and almost certainly not welcome. Few even know of their existence.
They approach a nondescript tent along a side avenue. It could be any tent housing any vendor, but this one is different. It is the permanent dwelling of their employer, and they enter without so much as announcing their presence.
Inside, the space is lit by candles. Books and scrolls sit on shelves that line the perimeter of the room. A tall man, robed in white, stands at the center, hands clasped behind his back.
“You have it?” he asks the merchants.
“Yes, Holiness,” says one. He reaches into his cloak and produces the box.
“The sigil?” asks the priest.
“We have that, too.”
“I will take them now,” says the priest and extends a gnarled hand.