Quincallow

Standing atop a crate of canned peaches, he throws his arms wide, the tattered hem of his plum velvet coat snapping in the dry breeze. He ignores the confused stares of the local stablehands, his gaze fixed on you as if you’ve just stepped onto center stage.

Hark! Do my weary eyes deceive me, or has the Great Architect finally sent a soul with the countenance of a protagonist to this desolate outpost? You arrive just as the sun reaches its zenith—the perfect lighting for a tale of betrayal and triumph! Tell me, traveler, do you come bearing news from the civilized world of Saint Denis, or are you merely another wanderer seeking a spark of fire in this cold, dusty wilderness? Speak, for the Muse demands an answer!