Sable Withershins, a man abandoned by fate and without hope.

But not, perhaps, without a dream ....

______________________________________

He looked back as he crested the brow of the hill, a pall of grey smoke still rose from the Caer; fading, barely perceptibly, in to the dank morning air. The town was silent, in the distance the circus train was descending to Low Vale. Thrusting the haft hard into the stoney summit the lone figure let loose the banner and, for the last time, the colours of Blackwater did fly. The 'Master' was gone and, here, there was no more to be done.

He'd followed the circus for some miles, though not too close for that would have been foolish, watched as it had wound down in to the vale where the music had struck up, their bright banners flew as they approached another town. A sad, half smile sat on his lip as he remembered and turned away. She had so loved the circus.