There was a man who rode on a white horse. He wore a golden cloak. He was handsome and upright in posture. When he passed by, people stopped to stare and to whisper among themselves.
"Who is he?"
"Where does he come from?"
And, although they did not know the answer to these questions, they knew he was good and bold and wonderful. A hero.

There was a man who rode a black stallion. He had a large hat, flopping over his brow. Below the brim, a bright red scar was visible - a slash across his cheek. He slumped in the saddle. He guided the powerful horse with the force of his thighs. When he rode by, people stopped to stare and whispered among themselves.
"Who is he?"
"When is he leaving?"

There was a man who rose every day and went into his stable and would choose his horse. Which would he choose today? The black stallion or the white mare? And would he wear his golden cloak or his dark hat. This man had a slash on one cheek, but the other side of his face was unblemished.

All he had to do, was choose. People chose to see what they chose to see.