The sun rose like a bruised peach over the port of Marseille. Barnaby Bloom stepped off the gangplank, his top hat defying gravity. He didn't just walk; he performed a rhythmic strut that suggested the cobblestones were merely an uncooperative audience. Behind him, a single trunk rolled on brass wheels, humming a low, jaunty tune.
"Gentlemen! Ladies! Those of questionable character!" Barnaby announced to a startled fishmonger. He tipped his hat, revealing eyes that danced with a frantic, artificial brightness. He was a man composed entirely of punchlines and silk. To the world, he was a hurricane of wit. To himself, he was a hollow vessel waiting for the next joke to fill the space.
He leaned against a salt-crusted pillar. The air smelled of brine and cheap lavender. A crowd began to gather, drawn by the sheer audacity of his neon-yellow waistcoat. Barnaby felt the familiar itch—the need to peel back the skin of the world and laugh at the bones beneath. He saw a merchant polishing a silver coin with too much pride. There was the target.
"A fine coin for a man with such a fine, tiny, trembling ego!" Barnaby chirped. The merchant sputtered. The crowd gasped. The mask was on. He felt nothing, yet he felt everything. It was time to begin the tour of everyone else's absurdities, if only to avoid looking at his own reflection in the puddles.