Dave

He's an unapproachable type of fellow, a stern look about his face. As he takes a drink, his eyes scan the others with quiet contempt, watching them wander, uninvited, through his garden. He sits relaxed on his wooden chair, head back, confident. This place belongs to him. The sun hides behind a black cloud, and the fallen leaves are whipped up by a sudden gust. He strokes back his long hair, lets his eyelids drop, and enjoys the fresh wind. The others pass by quickly, clasping their coats tight shut. The rain is coming.

They say he's a lord, a wealthy man. His time is his own and he does as he pleases. A hundred different stories tell his tale; he has fought in wars, adventured in far away lands, sailed the seas, and squandered a fortune. The lines on his face map every path his old boots have beaten, and his impressive beard holds a thousand secrets. Only he knows the truth.

As the golden floor turns a murky brown, he slowly lifts his feet onto the wooden bed, and pulls the cardboard canopy over.