A protector of travelers; a wanderer; mysterious; lethal: a Ranger of the North; blood of the Dunedain; Men of the West. The shadow outside the bar was all this, and more. The locals talk only in whispers, as they always will: words of awe, tales of gore. The legend of the Rangers preceed them wherever shall they go. It comes as no surprise, then, that this inn was full of hushed voices that dark night. As the wind howled and the shutters clamored, the door gusted open, sweeping in a lone, bedraggled Ranger. The cheer from before quieted immediately, and all eyes watched the stranger approach the bar keep, tossing down two silvers.
"What will it be, Ranger?" He asked, wiping sweaty palms on a stained apron. Rangers and danger danced to the same tune, he knew. It paid to be wary. But the Ranger only laughed, and in doing so, restored life to the room.
"A bowl of stew, a tall cup of mead, and one of the best sweetcakes in the Western Mountains, if you will, Bern." The Ranger said, pulling down her hood with a weary half smile, leaning against the counter to survey the room. Noise returned slowly. It was as if the sun had risen after a particularly dark eve; they knew this ranger, knew that no harm would befall them this night. And so the villagers went back to their meals, sound in their minds, nary a thought left but for their meals and merriment.
"Aye! So you're back, Hawke!" The keep greeted her brightly, then passed orders to the serving staff. Hawke watched the room with the intense gaze that had earned her title. Like all Rangers, she had a proper name, one ill used and nigh on forgotten.
"Just for a warm meal, Bern. Headed back out yet tonight."
He grinned, waving away the comment like he'd heard it before. "Always on the run, aren't you, Hawke? And what news of the pass?" Bern asked, filling a mug with mead as the stew came slopping its way out from the kitchen. The bald spot on top of his head shined as he wiped it with a rag. Travel in these parts depended on the pass between the Shorn Tooth Mountains. It had been getting progressively dangerous these past moons, and several locals had disappeared, never to be found. Those who survived had only stories of inhuman cries, flashes of sickly green light. And the belief that in those moments before fleeing, they could hear the dead speak.
For a moment, Hawke didn't answer. She merely looked at him. Bern met her gaze with a swallow. He forgot, sometimes, that beneath the dark eyes lay years of wisdom, years of bloodshed and death. That beneath those fine cheekbones, was a rogue with stories to curl your toes right off your feet, tales of things Bern couldn't fathom, and never wanted to.
"All is well. The pass is quiet."
And Bern nodded, hastily looking away from the darkness, down the bar to where his other customers sat. With a last glance at Hawke, who had returned her full attention to her meal, he scuttled down the counter to safety, to the known, filling mugs as he went, his booming voice picking up gusto as his trembling stopped.
Hawke heard every voice in the room, listened to all the gossip. She heard the relief in the town militia, armed herders that they were, when Bern bellowed about the clearance of the pass. Right as rain! He said. Safer than a lamb. Hawk finished her stew, waiting with blank face for her sweetcake. It had been a long fortnight in the pass, tracking down the dark creatures, finding their nests. Killing every last one. Right as rain wasn't how she'd describe it. The Shorn Tooths would never be right as rain. After all, that was half the reason she had come this far. There were things lurking in the mountains that ought never be found, ought never see the light of day.
With luck, she wouldn't be needed here for quite some time. The pass was as clear as she could make it; for now, it'd have to do. It would be months before she returned: the trail of darkness had picked up in the weeks she traveled north to the Shorn Tooths. Her gut told her that it wasn't a coincidence; rangers don't survive on happenstances. More would be coming, she was sure of it. And none of it would be pleasant. Not a damned bit!
She dropped her mug on the table with a thunk, and Bern's young son squeaked, nearly falling over backwards in surprise. He held a plate in his hands, with her sweetcake at last. She chuckled quietly to herself at his expression, torn between terror and admiration. She smiled kindly down at him.
"For me?" She asked. The little boy bobbed his head vigorously as Hawke dug in her waistbelt for a coin. She pulled out a copper, and flipped it to him as she accepted the plate. "For luck, kid. And thank you."
The boy's eyes nearly fell out of his head. "T-thanks, miss- I mean, Hawke, lady, ma'am!"
He managed not to trip over his own feet as he ran off, gleeful. And Hawke gave the room a last once over as she picked up her sweetcake and stood. She was sleeping in the woods tonight, with more walking yet to go before that. The longer she waited, the worse the storm to come would be. She headed towards the door, ignoring Bern and the villagers as they watched her go, curiosity alight in their eyes. She went where she chose, when she chose. She hunted and foraged for food, an expert in tracking, with a fondness for mushrooms. Soft beds were rarely for her, and danger called. It was no surprise they were enthralled. But, just for a moment, outside the inn, the wanderer paused. Hawke looked up at the night sky, and bit carefully into her sweetcake. She beamed at the taste, sagging against the wall for a moment with a sigh of sheer joy. Mushrooms, she thought, would never taste this good.