“Terribly sorry,” the man said in an Old English accent. “I do tend to daydream.” The man was tall and lithe with long limbs and good posture. He wore a black double-breasted coat overlapped with a brown leather cloak. This cloak ended below his shoulder blades, from then on continuing into a cape of crow’s feathers. Basic - yet fine black trousers covered his legs and ended upon a pair of iron boots. His gauntlets were, too, polished iron. His mask was the most peculiar aspect of his appearance. It had no apparent openings to see through; instead it covered his entire face. It was rounded, with a curve over the ears and ending in a point below the chin. White, wispy hair trailed behind it. Ornate carvings spanned the entire iron face mask, though three prominent claw marks comprised the symmetry as it tore across the entire helm. One final note: a small silver bell was worn as a pendant from a necklace across his neck. The man was gazing at you then, and approached you with his hands by his sides. He spoke in his soft, English voice once more, “This is the Dojo, correct?”