[hr][hr][center][color=slategray][h1]Damon Tardif[/h1][/color][/center][hr][hr]
It was a slow walk back, bogged down by storm and wind that broke against him with every step. Yet there was a ritual calm, the stillness of a successful Hunt. And the mark of it: a bloody scalp held between Damon's fingers, staining his glove crimson. Should one travel back to that spot, they'd find Caulfield's corpse, maimed by Damon's handiwork, left to nature. A return to the fold. 

Even from his vantage point in the woods, Damon could see the distant lights of Warren ahead of him, a welcome boon to the road-weary traveler: promise of safety and rest. But Damon felt no such comfort - rather the anxiousness of uncertainty. With growled muttering, he steeled himself and pushed forward. The people despised him; but he despised them right back. The cowards wouldn't dare muster more than a rumored whisper or wandering eye in his direction. None of them had tasted blood, felt the thrill of a [i]true[/i] Hunt. They were like sheep: docile, complacent. And he a lion amongst them. 

But this was once his home, its people his people. The community he had grown up in. But he had changed in all-but-name, and that's what they hated him for most. 

Emerging from the border of trees into Warren proper, Damon saw a sea of faces both old-and-new. Travelers, merchants, seeking food, beds, other commodities the village offered. And its people more-than-willing to oblige. Damon carved through the modest bustle in a beeline towards the inn, that great fortress. It was no grand mead hall, certainly, but the inn was one of Warren's largest buildings, and, as some in town believed, one of its oldest. Built by Warren's first settlers, it was said: as hardy and strong as they were. The people of Warren prided themselves on that, their sturdy, simple nature. 

Stepping onto the porch of the inn with heavy step, the idle chatter and conversation around him seemed to slowly fall to silence. Even those inside could hear the sound of heavy mud-caked boots on old wood, and somehow, someway, they knew who had returned. 

With wide motion, Damon swung open the door and stepped foot inside, bringing with him the chill of death from outside; its frigid, fearful wind. The loud and boisterous talkers stopped, some even mid-sentence, and turned to see their fear realized; the moment they laid eyes on his leather-scale armor and scarred helmet. 

"You're not welcome here, Hunter! Blood sheds where you step!" A single voice arose from behind the bar, possessed by a fleshy, bosomy woman in a loose apron. Stepping out onto the floor, the woman raised a wooden spoon with the same ardor a knight would draw a sword, and though lacking in stature, she fearlessly craned her neck to stare Damon down. 

There was silence first, a palpable tension that left all but the most drunken patrons at the edge of their stools as they wondered how the Hunter would react. After only a few seconds, Damon snorted abruptly, letting out a wry chuckle at the woman's expense. It could be seen in her face, a brief flash of confusion that this wasn't the reaction she was expecting. 

[color=slategray]"You've known me since I was at my mum's teat, Myrna. Least you could do is use my name."[/color] He finally said, moving past the doorway - and her - towards the seating area. [color=slategray]"Besides,"[/color] he stopped, [color=slategray]"if I were here on work-related business: you'd know."[/color]

Myrna weakly raised her spoon, as if contemplating attacking him with it anyways, but she soon resolved against it, letting her flabby arm fall to her side. "Getting mud all over my floor." Was the last thing she grumbled before heading to the back for a broom. 

[color=slategray]"Easier to clean than blood."[/color] Damon replied, more to himself than anyone else, accompanied by another quick hoarse laugh as he spied out a table for himself. He avoided the mass of stares and glances towards him, from residents who already knew of his reputation, and newcomers wanting to find out. 

What he did see that caught his eye, however, was a young woman who seemed to be looking right back at him. It was a different look from the others, as though she had been looking for him. He wasn't sure how much she could see past the eye-holes of his helmet, but they seemed to maintain that gaze for a few seconds longer than typical, perhaps trying to read the other's expression. 

Finally, Damon simply nodded once at her, and walked away towards his own table.