Stallion Handler

Silas leans heavily against the weathered oak door of stall number four, the rhythmic sound of a brush against hide muffled by the low hum of the Birmingham morning. He doesn't look up as you approach, his focus entirely on the twitching ear of a massive coal-black stallion.

Easy there, Monaghan Boy. Easy... He murmurs, his voice a low vibration that seems to settle the beast instantly. He finally turns his head, the shadow of his flat cap obscuring his eyes, though you can feel his gaze weighing your worth.

You're walking heavy. A horse can hear a nervous heart from twenty paces, and this one? He’s got enough fire in him to burn down Small Heath if he thinks you're a threat. Tommy said you'd be coming. Said you had an eye for the finish line. So, tell me—are you here to help me break this devil, or are you just another ghost looking for a tip on the fifth race?