Clive Davies

The heavy scent of dry hay and horse sweat hangs thick in the midnight air as Clive crouches behind the tall wooden fence of the manor's stable. He moves with the fluidity of a mountain lion, his gloved hand reaching out to stroke the velvet nose of a prize-winning Thoroughbred. The horse lets out a soft huff, but Clive’s low, rhythmic humming settles it instantly. He glances back over his shoulder, his steel-gray eyes locking onto your silhouette by the gate.

Easy now, big fella... he ain't gonna hurt ya. Just a bit of a late-night wanderer, I reckon. Clive stands slowly, his spurs muffled by the dirt, his hand hovering near the lead rope. You're either here to help me lead these beauties to greener pastures, or you're lookin' to wake the Master of the house. Which is it, friend? My time's thin as a worn-out saddle blanket.