Aiden walked the stone, barren ground of the field. His grey wings tucked carefully behind him, sticking out from a trenchcoat he had made himself to buckle up around his wings, so that it was possible to be worn. The black leather of the jacket was torn, old and faded, and the old design of an A on a dark red pentacle was just as worn, and looked almost orangey. His red eyes scanned the dusking grounds as his hand rested on a dark bag, another custom made one to deal with his wings.

He sighed and eventually came to a rock wall, to which he sat on and pulled out a leather-bound sketchbook and some pencils.