Of Lovers, Loners & Those Born To Die

III. The Blood Red Stone & The Rogue Ranger

III. THE BLOOD RED STONE & THE ROGUE RANGER

James Everard sat in the far corner of the crowded pub with his hood covering half his face and booted feet imposingly placed on the table, a glass of ale in his hand. Darkness shrouded his presence from the orange fire glow and the pub's drunken boisterous atmosphere just as it did the entwined lovers rocking away on the other side of the room. Keen eyes followed their jerking motions with mild interest and amusement. 

For the dozenth time that night, the howling wind and rain rushed in with a roar for a second as the pub's door swung open and closed, permitting entrance to another rain soaked passerby. The man seemed young this time, tall and thin but with a slightly crouched walk that was more thief than farmer. 

As he turned to remove his cloak and hat, a young woman approached him, her dress several layers too thin like most other women in the pub, including the shadowed lover. Momentarily distracted by the attention and soft warm body so close and teasing to him, the young man allowed himself a few flirting words before shaking his head to remind him of the job at hand. Leaning down to make himself heard not too loudly, he placed a question in her ear. Giggling, the woman pointed to wear the firelight faintly etched out a silhouette sitting in the dark. More giggles and promises were exchanged before the man finally made his way to the table in the corner. 

"Evening, milord," he greeted, casually plopping down onto a chair. A steely stare was the response he was met with. The easy smile instantly wiped itself off his face. "Don't call you that. Right. My apologies. Hello, James."

Satisfied, the ranger finally pulled back his hood and lifted his feet from the table. 

"Glenn. What have you got for me?"

"Not in a very sociable mood, are we?" joked the man. When returned with more staring, he threw his hands in the air in exaggeration and finally reached for his sack of goodies. "Are we ever?" He mumbled under his breath. 

Looking around to make sure they weren't being watched. Glenn pulled out his first item and laid it on the table.

"One silver dagger, forged by one of the finest blacksmiths of Esari." Picking it up, James felt the weight of it in his hand, his eyes travelled its carved length, "Light, but not too light. That's gold filigree laced into the handle as well as engraved on the scabbard." With one hand, James unsheathed the dagger and watched as the smooth blade gleamed orange under the firelight. Glenn's eyes followed his every move. "New and shiny. The guy told me it is so sharp you can slide it straight through a man's heart while he's asleep then pull it back out and he'd never notice a thing."

James cocked an eyebrow.

"Finest blacksmiths of Esari, you say?"

"The best." The young man sat back with a confident smirk.

"Whom?"

The question shot like a surprise arrow to his smug face and his eyes widened in exasperation.

"Well fuck if I know. There are like a hundred and two of those metal-banging fellas down there! I just know it's from the best one."

James almost laughed as he returned the dagger to its sheath. 

"Hanssard. This is a Hanssard dagger.  The man always carves a small cursive 'H' at the butt of the handle."

"And he's the best one, right?" He pushed even after James had dropped the weapon into a designated holder on his belt. 

"Yes. Yes, he is."

With a shrug, the dealer reached back inside his sack, pulling out a small vase.