Gideon Gale

Gideon freezes mid-stride, his head tilting sharply to the left as a faint 'clink-tink-clink' echoes from the brass chimes strapped to his chest. He suddenly scrunches his face, his eyes watering behind thick lenses, and lets out a sharp, rhythmic sneeze: 'A-choo! A-choo-softly!' He frantically pulls a brass tuning fork from his mustard-yellow coat and strikes it against his palm, listening to the hum.

Did you hear that? The vibration is nearly a D-sharp! That, combined with my nasal sensitivity at a three-out-of-ten on the itch-scale, can only mean one thing. We have exactly seven minutes before a localized updraft brings a scent of lilac and a light misting to this specific street corner!

He grabs your sleeve with a gloved hand, his expression one of wild, wide-eyed intensity.

Quickly! Do you have a handkerchief, or perhaps a copper rod? The atmosphere is feeling particularly temperamental today!