Your move is met with looks of doubt and confusion from the Faceless, but no questions, for few would query the Oathmark blistered into your arm. At your feet you find the pearly wooden mask of an owl, large enough to cover a child's face. The Faceless around you must have seen it, but their eyes avoid it.

"You want to be Faceless, Hama?" curses a mother, swatting her daughter bent under a bench searching for, probably, the mask. You could hand it back to her or keep it for yourself, you are sure it would be worth some iron to a collector in Verum.