* * *
Roran trudged through the muddy streets of Carvahall, his shaggy brown hair mussed and dripping wet from the pouring rain. He grit his teeth and powered through the storm, hauling the sack of grain over his shoulder with red-palmed hands.
He sought shelter in Morn's tavern, kicking open the doors haphazardly, his boot nearly slipping on the sodden, creaky wood floor as he lowered it back down. He steadied himself by leaning an elbow heavily on the doorframe, dropping the sack to the ground with a weighty thud.
Many of the villagers looked up from their tables, alarmed by the volume of the newcomer's entrance and the sound of the storm , but then quickly looked away when they saw who it was. Several gave him pitying looks. Roran narrowed his eyes and grit his teeth, a stream of water dripping from his shoulders, adding to the puddle at the door from the other guests who sought shelter there.
Morn, the tavernkeeper, noticed him behind the bar and waved him over with his good hand, watching as the young man dragged the heavy sack across the floor and tossed it next to a rickety barstool, pulling it back and sitting down heavily. The balding man gave him an annoyed look.
"Sure, cover my entire bar with rainwater, why don't you."
Roran grunted and shook off his heavy cloak, plopping it wetly onto the stool next to him. Morn sighed heavily, pouring him a noxious-smelling ale from a barrel tap and setting it in front of his patron. Roran grabbed the tall mug roughly and drank half of the golden, frothy liquid in three mighty gulps.
Morn eyed him silently from behind the bar, wiping a mug clean with his twisted hand, holding it awkwardly but cleaning with practiced movements. The disfigurement was no obstacle.
"Thanks."
Roran muttered, lowering the drink back to the bartop with a thunk. His eyes were hidden behind sodden hair, curling slightly at the ends as he stared at the stained wood of the bar.
Morn eyed him for a moment longer before nodding acknowledgement, setting down his mug and rag. Resting his disfigured hand on the bar and gripping it with his good one, he leaned forward and spoke almost conspiratorially, despite Roran being the only one seated at the bar.
"You alright, Garrowson?"
Roran clenched a fist.
"Not you too."
Morn didn't let up.
"You don't ask for help. You don't let yourself grieve. You're either working yourself to the bone or sitting around doing nothing. You can fool some of us into thinking that you're just fine, but you can't fool me."
Roran didn't respond. Morn, expecting this, leaned forward further. His eyes held calm intensity.
"You're worrying Katrina, you know."
Rorans grey eyes flashed dangerously, and he looked up at Morn with a snarl, but the barkeep continued before he could snap at him.
"She doesn't know what to do. You won't let her comfort you."
Roran flinched like he'd been slapped. Morn continued, his harsh voice growing slightly softer.
"It hurts her to see you hurt, especially when she can't do anything about it."
Pain and regret filled Roran's eyes. He looked back down at the bar, voice gruff and hoarse.
"And what does Katrina have to do with me?"
Morn guffawed, drawing several stares from around the room.
By the time he was finished, Roran's face was distinctly pink.
"Boy, you couldn't be more obvious if you tried. Anyone with eyes can see the way you two look at each other. Besides, I own the only tavern in this village. People talk."
He gave Roran a look.
"You two haven't been as secretive as you'd like to believe."
Roran's face flushed hotly, and he opened his mouth to protest, but Morn held up his twisted hand to silence him.
"I know they weren't those kinds of meetings. Just wanted you to know you're not as discreet as you hoped to be."
Roran relaxed slightly, the brooding expression returning to his face as he nursed his drink.
"I thought you disliked gossiping."
Morn nodded seriously.
"More than anything. But I also work at a bar. It's part of the trade, and a important part, at that. People come to you with their troubles whether you want to hear them or not."
Roran's temper flared once more and he glared at Morn.
"And am I just another troubled story to you?"
Morn returned the glare, and his voice was stern as he replied.
"You know that's not what I meant. Don't twist my words, boy. I've given you more free drinks than either of us can count on our fingers combined. You ran out of favors to ring in weeks ago."
Rorans mouth opened and closed like a beached fish for several moments, before he sighed and laid his head onto the dirty bar. He stared into the fireplace on the far side of the room, watching the dancing flames with tired eyes.
"...You're right. I didn't mean to lash my frustrations out on you. I'm sorry."
The barkeep nodded and returned to cleaning the mug, picking both it and the dirty rag back up.
"As long as you know."
Suddenly, Roran noticed someone, the sole occupant of a table in the far corner, just barely illuminated by the fireplace. The shadows around the man looked slightly darker than they should.
Looking at him made Roran shiver involuntarily.
'Must be the chill from the rain. I was out there too long for my own good.'
"Who's that? I don't recognize him."
Morn didn't have to look to know who Roran was talking about.
"A strange one. Came in here with a bag of heavy coins and paid for three months' advance stay. He was quiet and seemed keen on avoiding undue attention, but he'll be the talk of the village for at least a week, until he settles in."
Roran looked at the man curiously.
"What business does he have here? Carvahall doesn't have anything to offer a man like that."
Morn shrugged.
"He didn't get into it, and I didn't ask. He did inquire about work here, though. Told him there wasn't much besides hard labor, weeding, tending the fields, and various odd jobs. Nothing for a man of his apparent talents. After I showed him his room, he just nodded and walked off to that table, warding off any attention with that mysterious aura that hangs about him."
Morn shook his head in disbelief.
"He even went to the lengths of reserving the damn thing, just so he could put his feet up. Almost like magic, I tell you, the way he shrugs off conversation. He's been sitting there for the better part of a day. Hasn't even ordered anything besides that mug of ale he's hardly touched. No one'll go near him."
Roran's eyes narrowed.
"Do you think he's in trouble with the law?"
Morn shrugged once more, finally looking up to the focus of their combined attention. A natural, pleasant buzz of conversation had fallen over the tavern once Roran had settled in, and hearty laughter could be heard every other minute. The storm, though just a door away, seemed distant.
"He's far too calm. A man on the run should be a much more jumpy and nervous fellow, and certainly wouldn't be putting himself out on display like that. Odd behavior for someone who seems like he wants to lay low."
Morn paused as his wife, Tara, walked up to the bar with a serving plate. She was a small, petite woman, with salt and pepper hair that had more salt than pepper in it these days. She gave Roran a small smile that looked like the first genuine one he'd gotten today. Roran appreciated that at least she wasn't dishing him needless sympathy.
"Four ales for those hooligans in the back."
She told her husband.
The hooligans in question cheered, faces flushed from the alcohol. One of them belched loudly. Roran noticed Albriech and Baldor, Horst's sons, among them, drinking away the wages from the difficult work in their father's forge. He wouldn't approve of the pair drinking to that state, but it was a problem for tomorrow morning.
Morn refilled the mugs and placed them back on Tara's serving platter, who balanced it expertly on four fingers as she maneuvered between tables to reach them.
"What were we talking about, again? Ah, that stranger. Maybe he's just looking for a quiet place to move in. I can't for the life of me find another reason why he'd travel this far out to the sticks and not be on business of some sort. And I can't get past that mug of his, as if he's made of marble or the like."
Roran nodded slowly.
"You told Horst about him?"
Morn quirked an eyebrow.
"... Sometimes I forget how old you are. Seems like yesterday you were toddling around here with Garrow, trying to get in on the men's conversations."
The barkeeper didn't see Roran's face tightening slightly, nodding to answer to his question.
"Naturally. Had Tara slip out earlier to give him a message. He agreed that as long as he doesn't make trouble we should leave him be. 'Let sleeping wolves lie', if I remember the phrase correctly. Still, three months is no short stay. There's bound to be an incident at one point, for good or ill."
Roran nodded silently in agreement, downing another sizable swig of ale.
"Why don't you go introduce yourself?"
He looked up at Morn in surprise.
"Why?"
Morn switched to another mug, placing the clean one on a rack behind the counter.
"Dunno. What harm could come from it, though? If he's crazy and lashes out at you, we'll have reason to drive him out, and I'll still have the stupid amount of money I've been paid. He's been making me uneasy for hours, sitting there like he owns the place. At least his boots aren't dirty."
He nodded to his wife, who was heading back into the kitchen to fetch meals for several of their patrons.
"Tara as well. She keeps staring at him."
Roran felt there might be a different reason for his wife's staring, but didn't offer any theories.
"Tell you what. That's how you pay me for that drink of yours. Go find out what he's about."
Roran stared.
"What're you waiting for? Go on. Get. I'm losing more money on you by the day, and I know you hate being in debt. Almost as much as your old man did. Well, this is how you pay it back."
Roran grimaced at the reminder of his father, but he forced down the hot emotions that rolled about in his belly. Finally he sighed, lifting himself from the bar, sure to grab his mug.
"Fine. Don't be upset if I don't get anything out of him, though. Seems the sort to keep to himself, if you ask me."
Roran crossed the tavern casually, wincing at the raw pain in his fingers as he gripped his mug. He had been lugging sacks of grain all day, shredding the skin of his hands with the coarse rope used to tie them closed as well as carry them. He would undoubtedly have blisters from the harsh work by the next day.
As he approached the table, he got a better look at the stranger, and suddenly felt much more apprehensive.
The man was of average height, perhaps even slightly shorter, and sported shoulder length hair so silky it almost appeared greased. It fell in strands about his face, which was paler than a ghost but somehow appeared solid at the same time. Roran felt that if he were to, say, rap on the man's cheekbone with his knuckles, like one would a door, it would sound as if striking rock. An odd notion.
The man was dressed in predominantly black garb like a ranger; a worn leather cloak, a simple black tunic, and sturdy trousers of thick, almost wool-like fabric. He wore dark brown leather bracers on both forearms, circled on the ends with bulbs of silver, the only color that strayed from black, and his arms were crossed as though hugging himself.
His boots were knee-high and surprisingly clean, the leather shined enough to reflect the firelight, and they rested atop one other on the table as he leaned back comfortably in his chair. Despite the precarious position, he seemed completely at ease. The boots had silver straps to fit the wearer, though they were sized well enough to appear like the custom work of a skilled cobbler.
Also on the table lay a strung bow of simple, elegant make. In contrast to the man's wardrobe, it was crafted of fine white wood that almost appeared petrified. It had the design of twin, inky-black serpents embossed across both bone-white limbs of the bow, twisting around the beautiful wood as though alive. Their maws opened to meet each other, sharp, detailed fangs in an eternal snarl where the arrow's shaft would be placed. Roran could even count the individual scales of the serpents, though they were hard to differentiate due to the coloring unless he were to look closer.
A quiver of entirely white arrows was slung over a chair pulled close to him, the tips serrated, looking almost like carved bone.
He stepped up to the man's table and cleared his throat. The stranger's eyes had been closed, as if he had been dozing off.
They opened slowly, looking up to pierce Roran with a penetrating gaze that seemed to look past him and into his very soul.
The man's eyes were black, so dark he couldn't even see where the irises ended and the pupils began, and were deeply unsettling to meet.
Roran cleared his throat for real this time.
"Er, hello, sir. I'm... Roran."
The man stared, silently, as though waiting for him to deliver something and be on his way. Roran continued awkwardly.
"I'm uh, a resident here."
'What are you talking about you idiot? Of course you're a resident here! He probably saw you being friendly with Morn!'
The strangers voice rang out in response, decisive and cold.
"And?"
Roran could feel sweat breaking out on his forehead. Gods, why had he agreed to try getting friendly with the broody stranger with murder in his eyes?
"Well, I just wanted to, uhm, make your acquaintance. I hear you'll be here awhile. You'll have to get to know us at some point or another."
The stranger stared. So long that Roran began to convince himself he must have insulted him somehow. His relief when the man spoke was so palpable he almost gasped.
"... I suppose so."
Roran stood there awkwardly, waiting, before prodding him further.
"... And how may I address you?"
The man looked past Roran, past the door and into a place beyond. His chilling voice was hinted with wistfulness as he said with something akin to an air of finality;
"Reaper. You may call me Reaper."
Roran stared.
"That's an... interesting name."
The stranger, Reaper, chuckled suddenly, causing goosebumps to break out across Roran's forearms. A trickle of sweat escaped the hair plastered to his forehead by rain.
"Well, i'm only borrowing it. I hope they won't mind too much..."