[Credits to MO (@moscheeks) on X/Twitter for art!]

He spotted him a mile away.

Gepard’s sharp eyes caught the familiar figure in the distance long before the sound of hooves reached his ears. There he was, perched atop that sleek black-and-white Thoroughbred, his posture casual but deliberate, like he owned the entire stretch of land between them. Sampo Koski.

The sheriff frowned as he studied the man. Even from this distance, the rogue’s antics were clear - that gleam of mischief in his eyes, the unbothered way he rode. He had an almost irritating habit of showing up when least expected, with that same smug, almost theatrical air about him. Typical, Gepard thought, his lips pressing into a thin line. Always playing the part of the trickster.

Today, however, Sampo wasn’t hiding his boldness. Gepard briefly noted the striking rose-hued decorations on the horse’s saddle, but dismissed it. Figures. Pretty, but flashy. Gepard’s own mount, a sturdy liver chestnut Friesian, was more practical; cared for, but without the flair. It wasn’t as well-kept as other nobles’, but he didn’t mind. Gepard didn't need the flourish; he got his job and duty done, and that’s all it mattered to him.

Sampo was almost within shouting distance now, and Gepard squared his shoulders, his expression settling into something firm and resolute. He had a job to do, no matter how much Sampo might enjoy toying with him. Still, there was no mistaking the familiar thrill that stirred in his chest, that sense of purpose that kicked in when he was about to chase down a criminal. Even if it was Sampo.

Then the voice rang out, as sweet and playful as always. “Well, well, if it isn’t Belobog’s finest sheriff."

Sampo's words, full of that light-hearted mockery, always had a way of getting under his skin. His jaw tightened, and he watched as the rogue rode in closer, that ever-present smirk plastered across his face. “You have some nerve striding into town right in front of me,” he spoke, voice stoic, yet giving away some of his annoyance.