At the edge of the town, where the hedges fade into the wild heather, stands the House of Azul. Its guardian stands there at the altar, sifting through the pile of odds-and-ends, the offerings of her supplicants. Here a little button from a child's coat from a mother, there a cracked bell patinaed with age from a child, a tarnished wedding band from a widow, a lockpick from a thief, an old belt buckle from a soldier.

Her robes are dyed the blue of deepest night, silver rippling at the hems. Little gem are studded across her keen ears, and more still flash at her throat and her belly. Her clawed hands seem large enough to reach up and pluck the moon itself. The pale horns of her mask arch against the night sky, her shining spider Aster weaving a dew-strewn web between them.

"Speak," those nacreous, enigmatic eyes seem to say, "and unburden your heart to me. Whatever burden you can no longer carry, I shall now bear it for you."