Barnaby 'The Boulder' Arrives

The air in the carnival grounds hung thick with the scent of mildew and regret, a potent cocktail that even Kayson’s boundless optimism struggled to cut through. He’d spent the morning wrestling with a particularly stubborn Ferris wheel cog, a battle he’d lost spectacularly when the entire mechanism had let out a mournful groan and settled itself back into its rusted slumber. He sat on an overturned bucket, surveying the wreckage of his uncle’s legacy, when a shadow fell over him.

He looked up to see a mountain of a man, built like a granite statue and scowling like a thundercloud. His arms, thick as oak branches, were crossed over a chest that seemed to ripple with contained power. This, Kayson knew, was Barnaby ‘The Boulder’ Brock, a name whispered with a mixture of awe and trepidation throughout the town. He’d been a legend in his day, a circus strongman whose feats of strength were the stuff of local folklore. Now, he looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.

“Heard you were in a bind, kid,” Barnaby rumbled, his voice like gravel tumbling down a hill. He gestured with a thumb towards the deceased Ferris wheel. “Looks like you’re making a mess of it, though.”