* * *
Sunny was proud of his latest masterpiece.
A mysterious, dangerous-looking figure with an even more mysterious past.
This man didn't make friends. He was the kind that paid what was required and kept to himself.
He didn't drink with company, and he didn't make small talk unless it was for a job.
Reaper was a character that made everyone else in the room feel a little bit uneasy, just with his presence. He made their smiles a little too tight, mirth a bit too forced, caused stray beads of sweat to slip down their faces from time to time.
But as long as you left him alone, he'd do the same.
It was an alias perfect for getting people to stay out of his way.
'So why on earth is this kid going out of his way to talk to him like this, regardless of what the tavern owner said?! He hardly argued with him to get out of it!'
Couldn't he see that Reaper was the kind of individual who liked to be left alone? Did he not feel fear, the terrifying aura that screamed 'don't mess with me or else' that Sunny was currently exuding?
'Is this kid stupid?'
He groaned inwardly.
That fool barkeep was going to mess everything up!
Sunny listened to Roran talk, trying to look as disinterested and standoffish as possible as he leaned back casually in his lacquered wooden chair.
"I'm, uh, a resident here."
The kid's voice was gruff, and a little hoarse. Close up, he somehow looked even worse than when Sunny had first watched him enter.
His hair was wet from the pouring storm, and was plastered to his forehead by a mix of rain and sweat. Every ten-or-so seconds a drop escaped the dark curls.
Dark bags hung under his eyes, which were bloodshot, and his clothes looked like they hadn't seen a wash in far too long.
Sunny also noted the red of his hands rubbed raw from hard labor. An entire layer of skin had been shredded haphazardly, almost to the point of revealing red flesh.
'Must be from hauling those absurdly large sacks around. He's probably been doing it all day.'
Reaper's tone was cold and uncaring as he replied.
"And?"
A trickle of rainwater slipped from the youth's curls.
"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."
Sunny stared.
'... he cannot be serious.'
He stared some more.
'By the dead gods. He really is. Does the idea of Reaper mean NOTHING to him?! Of course he doesn't! Reaper keeps to himself! I'm only using this small town to hide out because it's quiet. That's the whole reason I made him! To blend in and be avoided!'
"... I suppose."
The youth looked relieved that Sunny had given him an answer that was at least somewhat positive. He waited, awkwardly, for Reaper to continue, but did so himself when he gave no indication he would be doing so.
"... And how may I address you?"
At least Sunny had prepared for this much.
He looked past Roran to the doorway, his eyes glimmering darkly as he said with chilling tone:
"Reaper. You may call me Reaper."
The young man stared.
"That's an... interesting name."
Reaper chuckled coldly.
"Well, I'm only borrowing it. I hope they won't mind too much..."
Sunny could tell that the youth had been confused by his mystic declaration, but he'd already decided that he didn't want to give him any more chance to ask more questions.
He swung his heavy boots to the ground with a whump, startling the young man and causing him to jump back, gripping his drink reflexively. Roran cursed at the sharp, raw burst of pain from his fingers and dropped the tall mug.
They both watched, Roran wide-eyed and Reaper silently, as the perfectly good ale fell to the wooden floor in slow motion.
Then Reaper stuck out a foot and caught it effortlessly.
The escaping liquor sloshed back into the mug, and Reaper tilted his boot slightly to catch a stray, golden drop.
The tavern had fallen so silent you could hear the soft thump of Morn's filthy cleaning rag as it hit the floor.
Reaper's eyes were expressionless as they turned to his small audience.
The entire bar was staring, slack jawed or uncomprehending, at the scene, heads turned by Roran's loud curse. One of them hiccuped.
Then, faster than anyone else could react, Sunny raised his foot quickly, tossing it up and nabbing it out of the air with one hand, slipping the quiver of bone arrows over his shoulder with the other. He proffered the drink to Roran, who gawked dumbly. After a moment, Reaper firmly pressed it into his chest, and the young man's hands grabbed at it halfheartedly. He winced as it met his fingers, and Reaper paused before pulling back and setting it softly onto the table.
"I'd reckon it's time for me to take my leave for the night. Getting to know you will have to wait till morn."
The corners of his mouth tugged downwards in a slight frown.
"No, sometime in the afternoon. I'll be busy in the morning."
Then he turned, casually clapping Roran on the shoulder as he walked past him, heading to the rickety stairs that led to the second floor rooms.
He threw a small wave over his shoulder.
"Until then, Roran Garrowson. Farewell."
His foot was a millimeter from the first stair before Roran found his voice.
"W-wait! You forgot your bow."
Reaper froze.
Then he turned back, offering the bewildered youth a hint of a twisted smile.
"Why don't you hold on to it, for me?"
He rose the rest of the stairs casually, if somewhat quickly.
"I expect it back tomorrow, good as new. Don't scratch it, or it'll be what I use to bring about your end."
He tossed the words behind his back as he rounded the top of the curved stairs, reaching the second floor.
The room waited in silence as the muffled sounds of creaking floorboards sounded overhead, followed by a dull click as a door was shut.
Then they erupted into conversation.
"Did you see the way he caught it? With a shined boot?"
"I don't believe it! Almost like magic, I say!"
"Never in all my days..."
"I don't think I've seen a party trick like that before. I wonder if he'll teach it too me."
"Who was that stranger? I don't recognize him."
Several turned to Roran and began to crowd him.
"Why'd he leave that bow of his to you?"
"Was that really your first time meeting with him?"
"Is he going to be training you?"
Roran's escape was blessedly offered by Morn, who shoved his way through the villagers with differing stages of intoxication, grabbing his arm firmly with his good hand and pulling him back to behind the bar.
"Leave the man be! Come now, leave him be, you saw just as well as he did. You got eyes of your own, don'tcha?"
The area behind the bar was surprisingly roomy, and Morn pulled out a stool of much nicer make than those he sat his patrons on, pushing Roran onto it.
"Wild animals, the lot of them."
The barkeep growled, glaring at the grumbling villagers who were slowly traveling back to their seats.
He looked up at Roran, expectingly.
"So?"
Roran blinked.
"Huh?"
Morn crossed his arms and his eyes tightened with annoyance.
"Don't 'huh' me, boy. What did you find out? You at least got him to leave. So what'd you get out of him?"
Roran shrugged slowly, raising a hand and dragging his fingers through his hair, pushing it away from his forehead.
"Well, I got a name."
He said honestly. Morn nudged him further.
"And?"
Roran looked up at Morn, meeting the barkeep's eyes hesitatingly.
"... Reaper. He said to call him Reaper."
Morn continued to glare, as though certain Roran was messing with him.
Then he sighed heavily, unfolding his arms and dragging his good hand down his face, past the silver stubble, looking exhausted.
"Reaper."
He repeated the name dully.
"Of course. Why wouldn't it be? Of course that's his name. Obviously."
He stepped out from the bar, muttering to himself darkly as he approached the tavern's door. He swung it open with a heavy push and stepped out, bringing in a burst of screaming wind from the raging storm. Roran saw his vague silhouette for a moment, framed by the heavy rain, before a gust of wind slammed it back shut, blocking out the sound.
Tara, Morn's wife, stepped behind the counter to refill another round of drinks, greeting Roran with another small smile.
"Will uh… he be okay?"
Roran asked, gesturing to the door.
Tara waved off his concerns with a swish of her thin hand.
"Don't you worry about him, Roran. He'll be just fine. Does that sometimes, no need for alarm."
She set down the serving tray on the bar, holding two mugs with each hand with spry fingers, filling them with more frothy ale from the barrel tap.
"Just clearing his head, I'm sure."
Roran wasn't exactly placated, but he shrugged regardless. He wasn't the one who'd been married to the man for several decades, after all.
After Tara had filled the rest of the mugs and set them on the tray, she slid him a simple key from the pocket of her apron, giving him a small wink.
"Room seven, dear. You'll want to be out before sunrise, lest that grump of a husband of mine gets suspicious."
Roran's face tinged with pink.
"Thank you, Tara, but I really can't-"
She cut him off with a tut and a point of her finger.
"I've known you since your birth, child. We're practically family. All of Carvahall might as well be, and family takes care of each other when they need it.You're staying with Horst and Elain at the moment, isn't that right? They wouldn't want you walking all that way to their house, not in this weather."
Roran lowered his gaze, his voice growing slightly bitter.
"...They've generously offered me free lodging. The only things they let me do are chores and helping with Horst's work. There's always things to be done in the forge, of course, but he's already got his sons to do much of it for him. Loring was kind enough to give me some paying work, making deliveries by moving grain from his shed to a couple of the villager's houses, but that's it. I can't seem to be busy enough."
A hint of something flashed in the old woman's eyes, but Roran missed it, staring at the stained floor behind the bar that no amount of mopping would clean.
"Well, regardless, if you ever need someplace else to stay, you come here. But don't go thinking it'll be for free; I'll put you on dish washing duty."
Roran's faint smile was hidden by his tilted head.
"Thank you, Tara."
She nodded.
"I snuck that stranger's bow and a tub of ointment cream in there as well. Near had to wrestle the bow away from Baldor, the drunken loon, but his brother got him under wraps. Something tells me you'd be in a spot of trouble if you were to lose it."
She gave him a look.
Roran's face flushed with embarrassment.
"I believe I would be as well. Thank you very much. I don't know how I forgot."
She nodded, heading out to the sea of tables, once more balancing the tray with her spry fingers and bony shoulder.
"Go see Gertrude in the morning. I don't like the look of those hands. The ointment will help, but it's simple stuff."
Roran watched her disappear, before rising from his stool, slipping out from behind the bar and into the hallway that led to the first floor's rooms. The floorboards creaked as he reached the door, sliding in the key and jiggling the knob to open it.
Room seven swung open with a rasp, scraping the floor along the engraved line where it touched the wood on its right side, forming a quarter moon. A single candle illuminated the room, sitting atop an unsteady table, next to a neat bed with clean linen sheets. Roran closed the door with more rasping and a click, surveying the room for a moment, and his eyes landed on the blankets. On it, true to Tara's word, rested the stranger's bow and a small tub of cream.
He walked over to the bed, standing over the ominous weapon.
After a moment, he reached out tentatively, biting his lip anxiously and closing his eyes as his hand closed around the grip.
He waited.
When it seemed evident that the thing wasn't going to explode, or the snakes come to life and fill his arteries with poison, he slowly opened his eyes. The grip was cool, so much so that it soothed his aching palm. He blinked in surprise.
'Huh.'
He picked it up and sat down on the firm mattress, laying it across his lap, going over its design once more.
Looking at the snakes brought about a strange feeling inside him. They were eerie and unsettling, but somehow beautiful at the same time.
They were even more detailed than he could have imagined.
Forgetting his earlier apprehension, he leaned forward to study them. The scales were so black they didn't even seem to reflect light, as though forged of darkness or shadows. They had minuscule tongues and eyes, and the scales grew smaller around the eyes and maw. They simply looked... alive. As though they could wake up at any moment, slither off of the white wood and onto his bed.
The limbs of the bow were cold and solid like rock or marble, but had the faint, natural grain of wood as well. The bow was much heavier than Roran would have guessed; it had taken him a great deal of effort just to lift it.
By the time Roran was done studying the bow, the candle had grown even shorter. He set the masterful crafting on the table, tiredly removing his boots and tossing them near the door. He pulled open the small drawer of the table, taking the small towel and ruffling his hair with it to dry it off somewhat. The best he could get was damp.
After leaning over to blow out the candle, he remembered the ointment and opened the small can, slathering a thin layer on his palms and fingers. It soothed the raw pain to a dull burn.
He clumsily placed the lid back on the can and set it next to the bow, before finally relaxing, resting his head on the lumpy pillow.
Just as he was drifting into the sweet embrace of sleep, a tired thought crossed Roran's mind.
'I don't remember ever telling him my last name... I wonder how he knew it.'
Soft snores rose from the bed of the darkened room before he could think further on it.