[i]The room was dark, for none of the lights had been on that day, save for a candle that illuminated the area, resting in the middle of a table. The Dojo was darkened, as it was still the wee hours of the night, barely able to be called eleven. But, nobody was inside the actual building at that time, save for one man and one man alone. The Frontiersman stood, and he stood tall. His duster was tattered and torn all g the bottom lip of it, which was lined with a layer of dirt that signified its age. It was a light brown shade, which managed to match his wide brimmed hat flawlessly. His face was not covered by a shadow as it typically were, rather his partially charred mug was visible to all who look at the left side of his face. It was truly distracting compared to his handsome right half. A single, angelic white beard covered his face from the nose down, reaching from ear to ear, and covering a large part of his neck. At either hip was a gun, a twin set of six-shooters. Either revolver was a dark black shade, the pair of exquisite firearms being a bit bulkier and heavier than any other, to throw off any who managed to disarm the Marshal. His guns were weighted so nobody would be accustomed to them but him. Across his back, a shotgun of three barrels, forming an extended triangle of them. It had no stock, which allowed the cowboy to grip it and fire the uranium slugs singlehandedly. It had a pair of twin triggers, one below the first one on its handle. Beneath the duster was armour and a jumpsuit. The armour was simply just plates of steel, each one connected by leather that covered his chest, and legs. The jumpsuit was green with black trimming, though it seemed to be tightly pressed against his body. He sat, he waited, he trained. Push-ups, sit-ups, all of it, he was seemingly training physically for something. [/i] ((Open))