Every world has their stories, their legends. Tales of heroes and villains, of tyrants and dictators, of gods and men. Of aliens and monsters. After all, it is within the nature of most to tell stories. Be they true, be they urban legends, folklore, or scary stories to protect innocent lives. Some stories are the same across many worlds, some are different. Perhaps a dozen worlds or a trillion have some variation of "Batman" or "Iron Man."

But a story, lesser told, only because each world had their own variation when touched by such, was the Rockwoman's. A lone traveler, wandering the world, sometimes passing through a remote village, or a country town, or anywhere. Perhaps reports of them were isolated to one area, maybe longer. Maybe they were on their own, perhaps they fought in a team, but one thing remained. A loner who walked a path known only to them. For some worlds, this story swelled, to make them seem larger than life, to the point of true tall tales, to urban legends. But sometimes, the truth is stranger than fiction, or more mundane than a simple legend. Everyone has a goal in life, even if their goal is to do nothing. Something that which they expend energy or none towards. Something drives them.

For some, it is the thought of home, that drives them onwards. Through smoked battlefields, across icy tundra, or atop the urban sprawl, or underneath the crust. Wherever the journey takes, its about the adventure had, not the end goal, in the end, perhaps. A goal that the Rockwoman followed, no matter how long it took. Even if it meant an eternity.

Rain cascaded down outside, a storm perhaps brewing, or perhaps just a random bout of rain. Ultimately, it didn't matter. The door slipped open, as a single hand pushed it open and inward, stepping in from the cold outside. An umbrella held overhead was already being brought down, closed, before vanishing abruptly into thin air. A hooded figure stepped in, not in a long, black cloak that might make one think of the Grim Reaper, nor in red robes that might make one think of cults, or any other number. No, just a hoodie, blackish-blue in hue, a simple white star emblazoned on the back, over whatever was worn underneath, sweatpants adding to more or less hide the figure's actual body from view. The two hands previously out, slipped away into the forward pockets just as quickly as one could imagine, so fast that it would have been a blur to a mortal. The hoodie's hood was pulled forward, casting the owner in shadow. Despite the storm outside, they were as dry as could be, even down to their shoes, blackish in color, which almost could be mistaken for boots.

Though their eyes could not be glimpsed, one could feel their gaze traversing the space. Shoulders that seemed tensed from who knew what abruptly began to relax, as the music was felt. Underneath the hood, tired lips quirked up in a faint smile, before just as quickly, flattening out. In a strange way, it felt almost familiar, and for a moment, a pang of homesickness ran down their spine, before being dismissed. Steps were taken, nodding slight once addressed, before taking a seat at the bar, whichever seat was closest to a wall, for a split second, the right hand came out to assist in sitting down, before just as quickly returning to the pocket. A few moments passed in silence, before the visitor spoke, their voice soft, refined, but not at all haughty. And more accurately, female.

[i]"Thanks, what do you have to drink?"[/i] A simple statement was given, and while the hood remained pulled forward, the bartender would be able to feel eyes lifting to focus upon his. Nothing further was done, as the speaker merely waited politely.