What a place of exquisite sorrow, the landscape as grey as humanity’s prospects, shaped by the senseless violence which had scarred it. One crystalline drop of water welled beneath the snowy-white mask, dripping into a shirt collar, and the crunch of ash sounded beneath the figure’s feet. Another step, carefully placed, making effortless the traversing of an area many would fear to tread. Why had the man come to this place some may have asked, what possible motive could one have to put themselves in such a situation?

The Weeper drew himself up in his shabby brown trench-coat, though it was not from the bone-chilling cold, surprisingly. In fact, his simple white shirt and black trousers, along with the black boots he wore to protect his feet, seemed more than sufficient for the man. It was rather the intense sadness emanating from the long dead, the earth around him even, which forced a flood of adrenaline to hasten his step, and an involuntary shiver to course through his body. One could see only the sadness written on his operatic-mask, so fitting in such a dark place, perhaps it would be enough to suggest something of his motives for being there after all.

Melancholy. 

The blade at his side gave an odd twitch, and despite the sudden urge to draw the simple pistol he had holstered underneath his jacket he passed it off as nothing, at least for now. Though a chill was permeating the air like nothing he had felt until then, and the darkness somehow loomed more completely in that grey, lifeless land. It seemed as if it was naught but an overcast afternoon, yet he was more deeply intone with such things than many more powerful individuals currently stalking the world within the everlasting arena. The question was, would The Weeper find another lost soul, on which he would be forced to bestow the gift his blade provided?