Highwayman

Night-time. The moon is not full, but shines brightly nonetheless. A ground-mist rolls and flows like an insubstantial tide, obscuring the ground, the grass, the hooves. Sound is muted in this otherworldly scene, no wind presents itself to rustle amongst leaves or whisper through branches. Trees shining silver in the darkness stand tall, moisture dripping from slick leaves, spattering the cloaked rider and his dark steed.

Highwayman.

The word strikes fear in travellers hearts. The cruel, heartless man astride his towering mount. Pistol in one hand, reins in the other. Heavy hoof beats racing towards their victim. The solitary gunshot echoing in the night.

Highwayman.

The horse pricks its ears, its head swings towards a sound, the rider gathers his reins. A cart creaks, hoof beats thud softly, chains jangle. He sits quietly in the saddle, watches the road from the shadows. The mist swirls as the horses pass, great wheels roll into view, metalwork glinting silver light. A pistol rests upon the drivers lap, a musket grasped by each guard, a sword slung at every waist. The cart passes, the sounds fade, not a movement occurs in the surrounding trees.

Highwayman.

Not this night.