High noon, over a broad-brimmed hat. A golden eye stares down out of a clear blue sky at the disc of kindred blue plodding along the road; sliding, it seems from above, along a flaxen thread running through the greenery. The heat is punishing, for the man under the hat, as that eye glares its enmity down on him. Every once in a while, a hot wind stirs the grass to either side and summons up a puff of dust; almost white in the noon light. There are no roads behind him, in the Great Wilds. Further back, in Nocturne, where the sun knows it isn't wanted, the roads never grow so dry. Yes, a man could never raise his gaze from the ground below his feet and still know he's in Encore again. This man, though, has his lone eye fixed on the Western horizon, far off ahead. A pale blue marble, looking as faded as the hat that shades his face, the cloak that hides his armor, and the aging leather gloves that protect sun-shy hands, its washed-out stare nonetheless catches every detail of the man's surroundings. It needs not shift, and requires no fellow. The man has long-since grown used to using the one eye alone, and seeing clearly in his peripheral vision. 
	"Hey, partner. Getting to regret turning down my offer to raise that dragon, yet?"
	A low, grating voice from his hip disturbs Vittorio Emmanuel's meditations. It's the blob of darkness in the bottle, the homunculus that calls himself Aramais, talking from his place on Vittorio's belt. He came, riding East, on a horse that had done him years of good service. It was eaten by a dragon Vittorio had gone out to face. He got the dragon; popped an eye first, then gouged at the brain and carved out its heart before taking it apart for trophies; but two dead beasts don't make a mount, and now Vittorio walks in his armor. Aramais could have brought the dragon back to serve, of course. He made the offer unprompted. Though it's not his exertion, Vittorio knows the homunculus resents the slow travel even more than he does; but Vittorio doesn't like to ride the undead. Beasts raised that way remind him too much of his family; the one that isn't named Coseltro, back in Nocturne; the one that wants him to come back and learn to lead, leave the killing to his 'inferiors'. At length, he pats the flask roughly, as though Aramais could feel the affectionate touch.
	"No, my friend, I am not," Vittorio declares. "It is good to walk from time to time, you know. Who knows, maybe I shall run into some intriguing encounter this way that I wouldn't have on your bone-drake? On the road I might meet a beautiful young heiress to some noble house, travelling without guards after a narrow escape from bandits, and in need of assistance from a wandering mercenary, eh? Did I ever tell you about the time my last horse; not the one we lost a week ago, the spotted mare; stumbled in a ferret burrow and broke a leg, and as a result I discovered-"
	"I was there!" Aramais' snappish voice is testament to the creature's lack of patience for this fantasizing. "Fine, it's well and good for you to fantasize about what you may encounter on the road. You feel the wind on your cheeks, experience the walk, actually do the damn travelling! For me it's just a continuous unchanging view of the roadside."
	"Feel the wind, eh?" A dry chuckle from Vittorio. "And precious little of that, there is; but I hear you. Perhaps you'd like me to hang you from my spear, so you can see farther?"
	"See more of the identical pastures, and perhaps be dropped, you mean? Forget it." Aramais' grumble has the sound of a desert rockslide, harsh and unforgiving, but Vittorio recognizes the creature coming around when he heres it. It's only good-natured curmudgeonliness now. "I'm sure there'll be plenty of sights when we get back to the guild hall in Xares. Why don't you let me give you a bit of a buff, at least, so you can make better time?"
	"I prefer a relaxed pace when I walk," comes the inevitable protest. "I've told you before, one can't rush everywhere; but, ah, well. For your sake, old friend, I can pick things up a bit. We'll make the city by sunset, then!"
	With a sigh and a surge of necromantic power, followed by a burst of more physical energy, Vittorio Emmanuel Coseltro is off. Rushing toward a barely decided-upon destination, the fighter's moment of peace on the road left behind in the eternal pressure of his life to seek after places and moments of interest. Then, as the dust settles, it's high noon over a broad-brimmed hat, left behind by its owner. Perhaps another will come by to pick it up, rescue it from the dust and the glare of the unforgiving sun. More likely it will remain here, to be trod into the dust and rot away, one more cast-off in the long life of a wanderer.