Raymond had not visited the markets with the first influx of pygmy dragons, whose very presence was enough to inspire a chaotic flurry of activity amongst the stalls. Instead he waited for the rush to die down, for the dragons to disperse and settle into a more catlike rhythm of sleep and play and sellers and shoppers alike to return to their usual routines. Then, under a shroud of night that did little to dull the Denoctean people's spirits, the red stallion made his first visit to the market square.

The silver light of a waning gibbous moon, mirrored in glorious fashion by the replica shining back at it from below, cast Raymond in an ethereal silver light that softened the bright crimson of his coat to a more mundane grey-brown, and by such camouflage he was able to attract only perfunctory glances as he drifted through the market toward its glowing centerpiece.

He had seen exotic wares in his life. He had immersed himself into the goings-on of at least a dozen cultures that were not his own, and though none of the cultures represented here were ones he had encountered in his past wanderings there was still a certain familiar charm amongst all the strangeness.

But the moon-disc - perfectly spherical, perfectly following the waxing and waning of the actual moon, shining as though reflecting the sun itself - that was a sight to behold.

The late hour had seen a considerable thinning of the citizens milling about in the market, leaving the square surrounding the moon sigil almost reverently empty. A few pygmy dragons lounged irreverently across its silver-white surface and eyed him sleepily as he approached.

Raymond stopped just short of the sigil's edge, tilting his head in silent appraisal. Was this the work of the Night Mother, Caligo?

He had not seen her, or any of the gods, in flesh or stone beyond the various effigies dotted about the patron gods' respective dominions. He had not seen the fruits of their labor beyond the happenings upon the summit - until now, where the silence and closeness of night made the silver-white light fall all the more intimately across the planes and angles of his face. The red stallion reached down with a curious muzzle to examine the sigil, a warm plume of his breath cascading across its surface.

"What are you?" he murmured, and he wasn't sure whether he was addressing the moonlight trapped at his feet or the goddess responsible for it.