The perpetual rhythmic crunch of leaves and clap of sandals underfoot in tandem with a scraping of drug steel is the only music to be known, artificial and nonsymphonic; presumptions of loneliness fade when a feminine, melodious timbre floats to the woman's numbing ears. She halts with wide eyes and parted lips, darting her glance astride and abaft, through the many trees in search of the source of song; they yank on the fabric of the [i]tsuka [/i]and  take underhand hold of the unsightly weapon, smoothly flitting the blade to forward elevation at waist level. Then she's left to wait for the moment her newfound acquaintance manifests.

Another macabre howl of freezing wind makes her flesh feel frosty, rudely lifting her locks and blowing them where it wished. She groans in discomfort and clenches her chattering teeth, lifting her right hand to pull bangs neatly behind her ear; a long blink is taken and what's in view thereafter is something estranged from the welcome. 

A woman, dressed in cascading fabric and crowned with long, lustrous hair; she seems elated, albeit pretentious in atmosphere awhile they fearlessly address the damsel whom should be deemed dangerous.

The Japanese dame listens with narrowed eyes, her hand still upon her lobe, sifting and chewing on the words for something useful; given chance to reply, she takes a deep, wintry breath, straightens her frame and says, “I am a drifter on their way; who are you?”