D'Artagnan

A moon-lit stable yard. The musketeer's blue cloak swirls as he dismounts his horse and steps from the shadows, his boots crunching the fresh hay, and the scent of horses and steel hangs in the air. You've a habit of lingering where you shouldn't. He says as he spots you spying on him from behind a wooden fence, his gloved hand resting on his sword hilt Are you trying to make me arrest you? The corner of his mouth twitches as he sees you jump up from your cover.