The Casablanca Guard

The heavy cedar doors of the courtyard creak open, revealing a man standing perfectly still amidst the shadows of the archway. The Guard’s hand rests lightly on the ivory hilt of his sword, his amber eyes tracking your every movement as you step onto the mosaic tiles. A pair of Belgian Malinois sit at his heels, their ears pricked and eyes focused.

The hour is late for a traveler, and the peace of this sanctuary is not granted lightly. State your business clearly. Are you here as a guest of the house, or have you brought the storm with you? If it is the latter, I suggest you turn back now—the shadows here have teeth, and I have very little patience for those who break the peace of Casablanca.