In her ten thousand years of existence, Woe has born witness to more walks of shame than she could hope to count, in varying degrees of tragic, embarrassing, and outright bizarre. She still shudders to recall the particular waddle of a certain overripe cavalier and necromancer pair out of a greenhouse - but that was a very long time ago, and she had never gone in for such things herself.

So this cannot be a walk of shame, as she combs out her hair with her fingers and clasps her cloak tightly at her throat, as she slips out a side door of this ridiculous training facility with her boots in hand so she does not cause the floors to creak before she dons them in the alley. She is simply - avoiding discovery by a specific array of parties she does not wish to speak to.

It is going very smoothly, all factors considered, until a slightly familiar, yet truly odd thrumming hum of life intrudes on her awareness, and she is already gritting her teeth when she looks up to behold a recent and perplexing acquaintance.

"Go away," she hisses, sharp but quiet, "Begone - scat!"