In spite of the chill morning's hours before dawn, activity was afoot, or at least upon closer inspection it had been for some time. 

A man, passing for but a humble commoner down on his luck, sat upon a cool stone porch across from a row of shops with but a single gold piece running between his fingers. It's metallic form moved in a manner that suggested thought, or at least the illusion of it, as it drifted between each digit and back again with a fair amount of dexterity. In spite of the coolness and humidity of the morning, he showed no ill effects for how little he wore, not so much huddled or bound up like most.

Taking note of those about as they started on their days, spurred by the faint purple of oncoming dawn not terribly far off, he eyed them with a sense of curiosity and watchfulness. One of whom, understandably, caught his attention in that he projected a flame from a hand and snapped it away with a clever motion of the wrist to no ill effect.