Existence [closed to Yvonne]

[Yvonne]

The caravaneer was a broad shouldered man, with a thick torso and well muscled arms, strong from many a year of nigh on back-breaking labour. His balding hair was neatly trimmed, nothing but grey hairs left to him now but he groomed it well all the same. His clothing had received similar primming - the man wore a long-sleeved white silk shirt furnished with a charcoal grey vest, proudly buckled belt and black breeches tucked into tall leather boots. He was a Salvaran human originally yet his aging face imparted a very long tale of all the places he had travelled to.

He was a quiet man - spoke mostly when it was needed - but quietly charismatic, a rare blend of qualities. He lead by example - he was showing a subordinate how to feed the horses without also having your fingernails chewed off in the delivery process. Palms up, fingers straight, feed on top.

"Never cup your hands unless you want to lose finger tips," he chuckled softly. He showed his subordinates how tasks were done with a mustache-endowed smile and an encouraging shoulder grip, explaining the ins and outs of his career like a man transitioning into retirement.

As though he was a man aching to pass on his legacy.

The world was his office and his office had an open door - welcoming his employees to ask questions and seek support directly from him - so they could support his caravan trade to the best of their abilities in return. A confused labourer carrying some heavy boxes asked him for directions - where the boxes should be stowed for the journey ahead - and instead of pointing and dismissing like so many taskmasters he took one of the boxes, shared the load and lead the way. The man exuded respect for those around him and it was returned to him two-fold.

With the packages tucked away neatly in their correct place he reminded the labourer to begin roping and tying the goods securely, urging him on as though his task was now the most significant of them all. The young one hurried away, eager to please. The master-caravaneer smiled after him, shaking his head but in a positive way, as though he couldn't believe how lucky he was.

The charismatic man's eyes noticed the approach of an exquisite woman, dressed with refinement and elegance. Her austere white skin and hailstorm hair held his attention for longer than was proper, and, realizing such, his gaze met her eyes - a brilliant pink. An uncommon colour to be certain, but stranger things had received his perusal.

With all the sophistication and tact of a gentleman from a long-forgotten age, he bowed low - right arm extended out for flair and balance, left arm held to his chest - and arose once more to reacquire the woman's eyes.

"Good morning madame. You appear to be a woman who knows precisely where she is going," he asserted, nodding to the bag draped over her shoulder. "I am Abel, trader and traveller extraordinaire. Where might I have the pleasure of taking you on this crisp dawning morn?" he inquired.