"Weapon"

"Let me see it."  The harsh whisper pierced the shadows dancing in the corner of the tavern.  Instinctively, Dameon stopped and moved to strike the grasping hand, but another voice stilled his actions.

"Just a beggar," Syl said, "harmless to us, especially you." A patron bumped past Dameon, ale soaked through his clothes and stomach. The drunkard began to issue an insult, but stopped when bright red eyes met his challenge. The scratched voice continued from the growing darkness as the sun danced behind the mountains in the distance while the tavern guest stumbled onward.


"Your weapon," a coughing fit embroiled the man, and Syl made out small blood droplets coming from his mouth.  The Red Spot.  Surely fatal within a few days.  Syl made a mental note to burn the sheets in blue fire before sleeping on the floor tonight.  "It was made before you, before your mother and your father saw the light of birth."  Dameon's eyes never met the silhouette in the darkness, and as he was constantly scanning the room, his response was curt and skeptical.

"You can tell all of this from the handle of a weapon?"  A stiff laugh was interrupted by a second coughing fit, and the doubled-over man emerged briefly from the shadows.  Dameon already had a good sense of the vagabond as his eyes were accustomed to low light.

"A family heirloom does not rest on the hilt of a weapon bought from The Black Pony's apprentice." Dameon moved forward, walking swiftly into the main hall of the tavern to rent a room.  Syl smiled and shook his head at the miserable man in the shadows.  Something did not sit well with the mage as he followed his companion into the hall.  Some time passed, and the two travelers became lost in the shadows when the smell of ale washed over the beggar.

"Anything?" The haggard man asked his fellow theif.  A frustrated sigh was not the response he was hoping for.

"A few coins and a scrap of paper, what a waste of a," the man was cut off as a fist appeared from the shadows and slammed squarely into his gut, sending the drunk theif sprawling against the wall.  Before the beggar could react, he felt the unforgiving chill of steel against his throat.  Looking down, he noticed the ring dangling from the red leather bound hilt by a silken thread.

"Directions to the blacksmith?" Came the low growl from Dameon's throat.

Dameon pushed past the travelers as they made their way into the Inn.  He hurried past their cries and shouts of incovnience.  Syl bent down briefly and picked up the small piece of paper.  On it was a crude drawing of a horse, colored entirely in black, with a gold saddle strapped to its back.  Another small smile came to his lips as he once again walked the path of his friend.