A sudden onslaught of dust and winds rolls into the area, bringing down a rueful sourness into the air, a bit reminiscent of the melancholy one suffers when losing a loved one. As its herald approaches, you feel a tug at your emotions, as if flared for a second, only to be sucked away into a craving void. The stranger, Occam, arrives and brings with him the certain taint upon the air, not in any way stench, but one just as noticeable.

The hooded, robed man trundles with what appears to be feigned difficulty; though glimpses of his figure could tell him to be fit and not in any way infirm, he walks as if beaten, or ashamed, like a child scolded by a fuming parent. Regardless of the temperature, he heaves his breaths and lets out a cloud of vapor. A trail of ominous-looking wetness follows him, seeping into the ground and tarnishing it. The stranger continues forward nonetheless, and plinks - slamming the dull end of a beautifully crafted war scythe on the ground as he leverages himself ahead. A large instrument, the imposing thing must weigh about as half of the man holding it, but there is a certain intricacy to it; engraved with silver fillings, it appears almost like a mural of some sort upon the flat piece of the blade, but its meaning is lost on you.

Between motion, he almost sounds as if coughing, his clean-shaven, groomed face appears contrast to the labored motion of his figure. An almost stereotypically perfect-looking face, with an aquiline nose and piercing blue eyes, watches to the distance. His cropped hair has an almost otherworldly quality to its rich, jet-black color. Contrast to his moribund exterior, this robed, fine-looking man appears to shelter many secrets.