Oh, let the sun beat down upon my face, stars to fill my dream... {Open)

[Cinnamon]

In the middle of a nameless meadow somewhere outside of Paradisia, under the gentle warmth of a late-morning sun, he lay comfortably against his ursine friend and traveling companion, Ame, watching the gradual, scudding progress of fluffy, shapeless clouds across the sky. His staff lay on the ground beside him, well-laden--as always--with whatever snack food he’d fastened to it. Today, it was raspberries, and they went perfectly with the champagne he was currently sipping--just one example of the many perks that came with being a both a maker and a merchant of wine.

He was on his way to some city or another, having just ended yet another visit home to replenish his supplies. Like always, his father--that crotchety old goat--was only interested in when he intended to get over his “wandering phase,” while his mother constantly bleated about how much she missed him. He was twenty-seven, they both reminded him as if he was constantly forgetful of the fact, and still not even one wife! Did he want to make his mother ill with worry? she would ask. And what about the farm? his father would interject. Expanding the family market was one thing, but it was high time he settled down to tend to his REAL responsibilities.

Ugh. All their nattering EVER did was give him increasingly painful headaches; and that, in turn, just made him want to drink...

Thus reminded, he took another sip of his champagne, retroactively bolstering himself against his parents’ well-intentioned nagging.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like upholding the Wildbacher legacy--far from it! He just didn’t want to stay in one place to do so. Drys save him, but he was afflicted with an unceasing restlessness that just wouldn’t let him have any peace. He needed to let his hooves roam, to let his eyes see and learn anything and everything that was foreign to him. Therein lay the only, real happiness that he could ever claim to possess. A challenging life, maybe, but he was suited for it.

With a leisurely stretch, he decided to include Ame in his train of thought, “You get it, don’t you, love?”

Get what, came the deadpan response.

“Why I’m so restless. Why going home has become so difficult--”

Why you do all that posturing about how important your family business is to you, just to drink your own wares in a field.

Her grumpy response only made the errant faun throw back his head and laugh, while Ame snorted at him derisively.

“Fine, fine,” he gasped a moment later, recovering himself, “This will be the day’s only transgression.” Then, putting the truth to his words, he quaffed the rest of his champagne and clambered back onto his hooves.

Now that he was standing, the cinnamon-colored fur that was his namesake gleamed rosily in the sunlight, contrasting nicely with his tan skin and (dyed) blonde hair. Flicking his long tail, he adjusted the scarlet, toga-like fabric he’d tied about his torso, making sure it sat just right, before exercising the same care for his the matching headwrap. Thankfully, the equally scarlet coin-scarf wound around his right bicep and the wrapped leather on his forearms needed no readjustment. He wasn’t a vain creature, but he did like what little clothes he wore to be just so. After all, he was a merchant. He sold his appearance to his customers, just as much as he sold his wine--that was what his father always told him, anyway, and he’d done enough business of his own to see for himself how true the statement was.

When he was satisfied with his looks, he crouched to reclaim his staff as Ame roused herself to return to the cart. Following her, he reaffirmed that his rucksack was therein, along with his ancestral horn, and--of course--the newly topped-off barrels of wine.

Having positioned herself between the shafts, Ame waited patiently while Cinnamon attached her harnesses. He’d done it so often that the process was done almost as soon as it began, and the two made their way back onto the road in companionable silence.