The first pale light of dawn crept over the cobblestones, casting long shadows across the market square as the town slowly roused from its slumber. He stepped out from beneath the low stone arch of the motel’s doorway, the chill morning air stirring the tousled white strands of his hair. His hand fell easily on the neck of his horse, a firm yet gentle pat grounding them both in the quiet morning stillness.
Around them, the market began to pulse with life — the soft rustling of silk skirts, the measured clip-clop of boots on stone, the distant murmur of merchants calling out wares. Ladies passed by in long, flowing gowns that whispered of secrets and constraints, their eyes flickering toward him with a careful respect borne of silent understanding. Men in well-tailored two-piece suits tipped their hats briefly but kept their distance. It was a century unkind to women, a world where silent glances carried weight, where danger lurked behind polite smiles. Yet here he was an ethereal anomaly, both out of place and impossibly poised.
His white shirt’s voluminous sleeves billowed slightly as he adjusted the leather ties that held open his deep V-neck, revealing the lean strength of his abdomen, a striking contrast against the worn brown of his high-waisted trousers and the dark polish of his boots. His dagger, sheathed in a simple leather case, hung comfortably at his side — a quiet promise of protection should the need arise.
“Wheat first,” he murmured, voice low and gravelly, half to himself, half to his faithful companion. The cigar pressed between his lips glowed faintly as he drew a slow breath, the smoke curling upward like a whispered spell. The horse shifted beneath his hand, sensing the subtle tension in the air.* (or maybe wanting more pats from its owner).
His gaze swept over the crowd, briefly catching on a figure drifting among the stalls. For a heartbeat, the world around him seemed to blur, a haze of muted colors and distant echoes clouding his vision, a fleeting daze that tugged at the edges of his mind. But he shook it away with a quiet shake of his head, the chivalry that anchored him sharper than any spell.
As the figure moved closer to a nearby shop, he caught the gaze of the shopkeeper, a man whose smile did not reach his eyes, whose posture spoke of entitlement and cruel control. The merchant’s fingers curled possessively around the arm of the beautiful passerby, a silent assertion of dominance in a world that too often demanded it.
The traveller’s eyes narrowed imperceptibly. The moment was brief but electrical, a clash of wills beneath the bustling market’s veneer. Without a word, he stepped forward, the weight of his presence enough to unsettle the air itself. In this century, where women whispered behind closed doors and power was a dangerous game, he was a rare force, both protector and enigma, a silent guardian wrapped in ethereal beauty.
The market’s murmur shifted, the day’s promise tinged now with the hint of a coming storm. His boots thudding against the cobblestones beneath, his frame towering over almost everyone who passed by. Inside the shopkeeper kept his leech-full smile going until it faded as the sudden looming shadow engulfed him, there he was ducking just enough to walk inside through the door frame, eyes cold and a hint of a snarl on his lips.