The soft steps under her boots hastened, as she retained some new willpower and increased her pace. She saw the smiling soldier and turned to him, nodding, refusing the handshake entirely. She looked like glowing magenta, thin black hair that flowed over a bruised face, looking of Eastern descent. She was out of sight a second later, staring up to the monolithic, intimidating doors of old oak and bolted with steel that protected the Dojo she had searched for. She was near invisible within the onslaught of a blizzard, a white phantom that shimmered among falling sleet and snow but had allowed herself to be seen. She wore a long coat which dragged across the cobbled path as she approached the doors, thin and torn, but remaining some of its integrity. It looked of the garb of a slave or lowly beggar, refurbished and made an onyx hue for intimidation. In direct contrast from this was the knives sheathed within the folds of her cloak, adorned with ivory and silver, each engraved with a name of its own. Two flintlocks hung at her waist, along with swaying pouches of gunpowder and homemade remedies, assortments of small odds and ends, worn trinkets. She wore a curved hat, slashed and antique, with a single quill of vibrant color tucked within. She touched the door with her palm, stroking it, feeling the coarse wooden grains under her raw skin.