The Long Dark was a blessing for a ghost. Bianca moved through the freezing streets of the capital, a shadow among shadows. She was wrapped in a heavy, charcoal-black cloak that swallowed the faint light of the distant lanterns.
Beneath the wool, she wore the plain, nondescript clothes of a tradesman's wife... durable, drab, and entirely forgettable. Her unmistakable midnight blue hair was tucked tightly beneath a dark linen coif, and the deep hood of her cloak obscured her face, leaving only the sharp glint of her eyes visible.
In the realm, illusion magic was a myth, a fairy tale for children. There were no spells to weave a new face or mask one's height. Bianca had to rely on the ancient art of physical deception. She walked with a slight slouch, tempering her noble gait into a weary trudge.
