[b][i]Reflections[/i][/b] [b]Dojo, Inside a Bar, 11:00 PM[/b] [i]The air outside was getting cooler, snow dusting the ground, clouds blocking much of the starlight. Nicholas Clarkson didn't mind much, it was no different from Hereford this time of year, cold and wet. He himself sat at the bar counter, a glass of scotch before him. His helmet was off, clipped to his bandolier belt, but he wore his SAS beret on his head. The combat hardsuit he wore was black, his cloak matching. A silver spread-winged crow was embroidered in the back of his cloak, and on his gauntlets, there were silver etchings of feathers. The mask at his waist was black, matching the rest of his armor. Three blades atop each gauntlet lay folded down and inwards, his tac-pad covered by a protective metal cover that could be retracted. He wore a single bandolier across his chest, which held his munitions and grenades. On his back, a bo staff was folded down, his G28 DMR situated with its suppressor and scope covers. At his hips, two handguns, M45A1s, both black with silvered feathers engraved in them. His knife lay situated on the rear of his belt, hilt facing his right. On his right shoulder, where he once wore the insignia of the blood red cobra, he wore the insignia of the British Special Air Service. The man himself looked to be in his early fifties, perhaps fifty-two, his hair black with streaks of grey, his neatly trimmed goatee matching. His expression was hard and seemingly cold, and he sat alone.[/i] [spoiler]Open[/spoiler]