The coachman Vor.

Vor was like a coachman; who adored everything about the role besides the actual holding of the reins. To the dismay and confusion of the few customers who’d climb into the cabin of his coach, prior to discovering his aversion to grasping the reins, they’d alight upon the realisation he was not a advocate of arrival- only of constant departure.

He grew thin and was often depressed, he’d entered his thirties. Some of his passengers considered him mad. Others looked at him, seemed to regard him as if from the safety of a shore, with sad eyes, judging his doggy paddle ill-equipped, foreseeing the inevitable moment his flimsy vessel sank into the shallows. Others thought he lacked application and a attention span, but thought him able still. Out of a charitable nature, they used his service. With patience through tangent after tangent finally they’d leap from coach and landed, rather late and befuddled at their destination.

His career as a coachman came a cropper, the day his two nags (post-departure he would have admitted- at his encouragement) veered off upon separate paths. Much like those charitable customers, whom knew, given enough time their sought for destination would inevitable come, Vor remained sat upon his coach throne, in a ditch someplace or other, and starved.