He fastened the tarnished silver clasp and slid the black leather Book of Prayers into the satchel that carried all his work necessities and went everywhere with him. Waiting until the other passengers had finally filtered out of his box, he then slowly unfolded himself from his seat. From the empty seat beside him, he picked up his gun belt and buckled and strapped it back into place until the familiar worn leather hung just so, low on his hips. Then, purely from habit, he checked each gun. They had not been touched since he had taken the belt off after getting to his seat on the train, but he checked them anyway. Silver bullets in the left revolver, rune bullets in the right. Guns taken care of, he picked up his black frock coat and shrugged into it, not bothering to shut it. Next, he raked a hand through his thick, dark brown curls then settled his wide-brimmed, black felt hat on his head. Then he picked up his saddlebags and slung them over one shoulder and slung his satchel over the other.
