A tumbleweed rolled past a pair of utilitarian boots. Boots which lead up a self-assured sort of man -- the kind of man who did not impose himself upon the scenery, but who fit into it regardless of where he is. This was Hoi Hidekan -- and for the moment, his face was practically unreadable. But perhaps that was because it was half-hidden under the wide brim of a dark hat. The man had clearly taken a beating or two since last scene at Depot 8, but he wore his battle scars in the way of one who’d gladly suffered his injuries either for ideology or else for pride. Little about him was frivolous, and much approached a zen-like composure which tensed only upon the approach of a Lucetian volunteer.

He could be found most often stalking the edges and lesser-known pathways of his camp -- on a makeshift patrol, as if he could supplement his guards simply by being near. But a fortunate soul might also catch him at the mess table at any of the daily meals, for he was never above eating across from anyone else -- be they friend or foe or wary stranger. In a similar show of dubious courtesy, he would speak with anyone who chose to speak to him...even if he might often allow his suspicion (or his distaste) bleed unmistakably into his words.