[hr][hr][center][color=slategray][h1]Damon Tardif[/h1][/color][/center][hr][hr]
Glares bored into the back of his skull, Damon could feel them sharp as any dagger. In his earlier years, it was an agonizing sensation, the feeling of ostracizing from one's own tribe, community. Old friends, neighbors, even family members saw him as a disgrace, a traitor. But now, after years of enduring such looks whenever he returned, Damon only saw it with spite. A glare stung a hell of a lot less than a knife in the gut, and he had weathered both without complaint. 

Taking a seat at one of the few empty tables left in the tavern, Damon made no sound other than the ominous creak of the old wooden stool. It was usually a comforting sound, the sound of one's dwelling in the tavern. For Myrna, it meant coins in her coffer; for travelers, it usually meant another wayward hero to entertain them with tall tales and stories. But with Damon, it signified presence, the weight of his armor and weapons denoting the danger of his profession. 

With a hand half-raised, Damon spoke only one word: [color=slategray]"Agnes."[/color] Through the tense, quieter atmosphere of the tavern, he didn't have to raise his voice, yet it still carried deliberation, intent, as though prompting others to stop and listen. The individual in question was a young woman, slender and stringy-haired, frozen-in-place as if she'd been caught where she wasn't supposed to be. 

He'd been sweet on her once - half the men in town were at one point or another. They'd known each other as teens, when Damon reserved his blade for the denizens of the forests. The traits that he found so attractive in her then; her sweet demeanor and doe-eyed expression, now filled him with nothing but resentment now. Those were the attributes of prey, existing to chew on plants until something smarter, stronger brought it down. Born to die so the hunter could live. 

Slowly, she approached, wavering with every step, like moving towards a viper waiting to strike at exposed flesh. Turning his head to meet her gaze, Damon pulled down the covering that masked the lower half of his face, revealing features hard as bone, blanketed with a layer of scruff. [color=slategray]"Been awhile. I'll have mead. Fresh, if you will."[/color] With meek answer of "Yes, m'ilord" the girl turned tail and scampered off towards the kitchen, eager to leave his imposing stature, even while seated. 

Returning the cloth to once more cover his face, Damon sat quietly, adjusting the fit of his gauntlet with fist clenched, or examining his dagger for any stains of blood or chips in the metal.  

Looking up caught the same woman from earlier, now approaching his table. That was new. She had the look of a traveler, albeit a tired one, one who likely hadn't had a restful night's sleep in weeks. Her gait and stature was like that of a man, trained for battle. A mercenary, maybe? Soldier of fortune? Damon supposed he'd figure out soon enough, assuming the woman was looking for conversation. 

Sheathing his dagger with one deft motion, Damon tilted his head slightly to the side as he engaged the woman, looking up at her. [color=slategray]"Is there something I can do for you?"[/color] His tone was blunt, but not rude, like a tradesman wanting to get straight to business, avoiding the niceties and ceremony that a more enterprising businessman would perform.