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Very early morning; a false dawn blushes the sky, perhaps, but stars twinkle brightly yet. The door of the baronial manor opens and a figure steps out, trotting down the sweeping staircase to the long driveway and lands beyond.
His trot becomes a jog, a pace that will be easy to keep up for a lengthy distance. He's dressed for a run; sneakers, shorts, a tee-shirt; his long dark hair is bound back.
He runs through the manicured lawn, his sneakers dampening in the dew and leaving silver footprints behind him. The air is already muggy in the middle of summer, and sweat soon dampens his shirt. He runs past topiaries, outbuildings, bustling rabbit warrens, until he runs out of grass and into the light forest surrounding the property.
There is a slight trail, and he follows it, easily leaping the occasional log and dodging the few low-hanging branches. He works hard, increasing his speed, his breath coming harder. A few birds begin to call and respond in the early grey light. Nearby, a squirrel scolds the runner.
He breaks out of the tree line, puts his head down, and drives himself into a dead run, sprinting ahead mercilessly. A family of deer startle and bolt, and he runs with them; a trampled path through the grass and dew.
Since he relies strictly on his physical abilities, the deer do, eventually, outpace him. He slows to a jog, then a walk, then staggers to a stop and puts his hands on his knees, doubled over. He's drenched. His breath comes in great gulps.
Eventually, he's able to walk. He crosses his arms over his head, turning a wide circle in the meadow, breathing deeply... in.... and out... over.... and over.
Then he turns, and begins to trot back in the direction of the house... then a faster jog.....
He returns when the sun is fully above the horizon; appealingly damp with sweat, disheveled, spent. Slowly, he climbs the steps, each movement an effort of coordination and determination. He slips inside the mansion, closing the door quietly behind him as the sun chases the last of the night from the sky.
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