[Calaethis Dragonsbane]

The wagon rolled. A simple observation, for a simple wagon. This wagon was not grand, nor vast, but rather, it was small and intricate. Intricate was a good word. Painted black, with exotic designs of silver knots covering it, every so often studded with a circle with a cross through it, it was somewhat unremarkable compared to the highly decorated gypsy wagon behind it. And it was small. It really was more of a trap than a wagon, truth be told, for it had a covering of wood. Wood with holes in. Lots of holes. Four screens made up its walls, with a roof covering it. Of course, these holes were tiny; having been delicately carved by some master craftsman or other. Fine wood. Sturdy wood. Wood, covered by curtains from the inside. Curtains of black silk.

Of course, who knew what lay inside the wagon? It seemed big enough to hold a man, with a bit of wiggle room. Perhaps two ladies at most, if the ladies were petite. On the outside of the wagon, the driver's seat, sat a nondescript man. He was decked out in black; rather smartly, as one might see if one was to pay attention. Shiny boots, polished enough to reflect one's face upon inspect; tidy breeches and a doublet-cum-jerkin as a jacket. His brown hair was cropped, and he wore a sharp beard, trimmed to a neat point. This was accompanied by a moustache, and a sardonic smile. Not quite oily, but almost greasy; the sort you might see on a used-cart merchant, except for that sparkle in his eye at some sort of jest no one but he knew of. At his belt, he wore a dagger and purse, and in his gloved hands - leather, naturally - he causally held the reins to the horse in front. A rather large black horse. As he lounged in the seat, while managing to keep his back straight and adorn a rather bored expression, the hero of our tale rode past.

Mounted on an almost identical, but somewhat larger steed of his own, our dashing young man cut a rather striking image. Rapier at his side; long dagger at the other, he held the reins of his horse almost in disdain; it was more for show as he used his knees to guide the beast. His black sable cloak swept dramatically behind him as a gust of wind picked it up and carried it along with his mane of raven hair. His eyes were grey and as piercing as a hawk's; his finely chiselled face fair with just the right trim of triangular moustache and beard - much like his driver's - and his white silk shirt fell open at the neck. Cuffs and collar alike were adorned with swirls, and his breeches were black with just the right amount of snugness - to show off that wiry, toned acrobatic-fencer's body of his. And his wide rimmed riding boots, of course, were good proper leather, cut right to the knee. He cast that slight knowing smile that had broken more than five hundred girls' hearts as he swept his glance around, those deep, deep eyes taking in everything at once. In his right hand, he twirled a white rose, and took a deep sniff of its illustrious scent. On his finger dangled his signet ring; the crested basilisk upon the crossed sabres. Studded with diamonds, it dazzled like fresh dewdrops in the sunlight. Oh, the romance! What young, susceptible farmer's daughter/tavern wench/young noblewoman/bored (or married) middle-aged woman could resist?

His driver gave a silent chuckle-snort. They would soon be on their way, as soon as they got from behind the flower cart and the gipsy wagon.

The rider exchanged a sardonic look of his own with him. How many would buy his image this time?