Luneris drew his lips into an ironic smile as the people before him carried on in the endless monotony of their daily lives. Here was a woman, carrying bread home, her skirts dirty in the normal fashion, the dust from the streets mingled with the sweat from her own body, the residue of the fatty soap she had used to clean it. This woman would be doing the same thing her entire life. Minor changes notwithstanding, this scene would be repeated until her death. Luneris deftly sidestepped from her path, his own clothes dirtied, but falsely. The stains from sweat were from another wearer. These were not his clothes, he was not the man who normally filled them. This thought gave Luneris a piercing thrill, his almost feral grin betraying him for less than a second, where he replaced it with the guise, his humility and lowness, the common filth of the peasants he stood within without belonging. One, he would have belonged, but this was not once before. Striding through the streets, Luneris needed no disguise for his motives until he reached the houses of the rich, the wealthy abodes that whispered secrets of luxury those peasants would never know in their daily struggle against mere hunger. The inhabitants of these houses glutted themselves on foods that would repulse the peasants, not filling their bellies for a day of work. It was here Luneris would perform his masterpiece. Adopting the humble air of a servant, Luneris slid in through the peasant's entrance, where a few young faces in the kitchen he entered spun to glance him. Acting as though he belonged, Luneris climbed the stairs to the bedrooms. No one would remember him, he was a nameless, faceless person, a servant. Creeping inside the bedroom as he reached the top of the stairs, Luneris caught his target unaware. It was as he planned, but he still felt utterly godlike as he incapacitated his victim without a sound from either, a fluid movement and a broken neck. With an impartial glance down at the body, Luneris studied his wetman. His target, but you could miss a target. A wetman was dead five minutes ago, called so because of the blood slick he would leave behind. It was a ritual; Luneris never forgot the faces of a single wetman. It was his repentance. A rustle of cloth made Luneris whirl, his knife against the slender, ivory neck of a woman. From cushiony red lips came a melodic voice. "You've been hard to find, Lune, but that is of course why they sent me. We are needed back, the others within Tangan Kematian have been notified. They will soon arrive, there are grave matters afoot."