Through the winding roads of Hiccupboro and through rain, wind, and sleet driven countryside The Black Rider, (as he has come to be known) became legend throughout the outlying Iron Hill country. He came and went silently, parcels strapped to his riding cycle and was never quite seen, his presence realized by his deliveries made in the late of the night or wee hours of the mornings. Employed by the postal office in the territory of the Thousand Weed Marsh even his overseers began to think him inexplicable, his voice and face forgotten... solitary by nature and choosing a mysterious existence. He even directed his monthly pay to be placed in a paper bag on a mail hook outside the train depot. He comes and goes like a dream and he never has missed a delivery. And he rides ever on.
