((Just to fill some time then...))
Though he lasts longer than some of the other members, Dreadstone eventually succumbs to cabin fever in the slow moving wagon and hops out to stretch his legs. Gnaw, spying some small furry creature in the underbrush, tears off after it in a fury of barking and gnashing teeth.
"I'll be back in a bit," he informs Uqualek. "I don't reckon you'll be goin' anywhere without me anyway."
Boots crunching on gravel, Dreadstone moves upstream against the flood of refugees fleeing the situation in Rosewood. No one spares him a second glance as he passes between the stalled wagons, everyone entirely too occupied with their self preservation to spend any effort on tending to their prejudices against tieflings.
Dreadstone pauses to roll himself a cigarette, leaning up against a tree to savor its flavor as he stares out into the woods. Ever watchful. Ever ready.
"You like to work drab, don't you?" asks a baritone voice from behind him. Turning to look over his shoulder, Dreadstone finds the speaker sitting in the driver's seat of an expensive-looking enclosed wagon. A huge man, bigger than Tiberius, though more than twice the age if the silver hair is anything to go by. In his youth, he could have been quite formidable.
Hells, he was still formidable.
"Pardon?" Dreadstone asks, at a loss for any other response.
"I was referring to your attire, sir," the driver says, waving his hand at Dreadstone. "Black on black on black. A tad bit much, wouldn't you say?"
"My eyes are silver," Dreadstone grunts in response.
"Be that as it may, I cannot in good conscious let you carry on like that. I would be remiss in my duties to not lend you my aid."
Dreadstone doesn't quite put his hand to his weapon, but this entire conversation seems... Odd. "An' what duties might that be?" he inquires.
Grinning, the man stands to his full height -- gods damn, he really is massive -- and bows. "Lance Valmer, tailor of some renown."
Dreadstone grunts once more. "Never heard of you."
"Of course not," Lance says as he climbs down to the ground. "If you were aware of my talents, you would not be wearing that dreadful thing that you are."
Lance circles to the back of his wagon and opens the door. "Well, come on then. I haven't got all day."
Dreadstone slowly rounds to the back of the wagon. From all appearances, it is exactly what he would have expected of a tailor, packed with clothes, fabric, and dressing dolls. Lance hops in and starts rummaging through his wares. Snapping his fingers at Dreadstone , he commands, "Your cloak. Off with it."
Dreadstone complies, removing his cloak and handing it to the giant tailor, who falls upon it with needle, thread, and fabric. "I know who you are," he says softly.
"Lots of people do," Dreadstone responds. "I'm kinda distinctive."
Lance nods knowingly as his fingers fly over Dreadstone's cloak. "You're the lad who brought in the Rune Killer," he continues. "I imagine that must have been difficult for you."
Dreadstone stiffens at the mention. The Rune Killer case had was nearly 20 years ago, and had left an impact far beyond simply being the case that had allowed Dreadstone to make his name for himself after leaving the force. But most of those details were not widely known.
"You might say that," the ranger says evenly.
Lance nods again. "That was a nasty piece of work," he comments. "Me and my own may not have always had our interests aligned with the Ruby Guard, but there isn't a person alive out of the Narrows who didn't let out a sigh of relief when you hauled that bastard in to the constabulary. Bringing him in alive took real sand."
Dreadstone scoffs. "Friend, you're entirely too soft to be worryin' about the goin' ons of the Narrows."
A look flashes over the tailor's face, one that speaks of a life far more dangerous than sewing clothes. But it passes, just as quickly. "We all come from somewhere, Darren. Some of us just put more distance between us and our origin. Now here, try this on again."
Lance hands Dreadstone back his cloak. It's little changed, except for a hemming of red fabric that crosses his chest just below his collarbone. "Not much difference," he notes.
"Yes, well I am a tailor, not a worker of miracles. Still, it is a marked improvement, as would be noted by anyone with any degree of refinement. Now off with you, and be sure to tell your friends to ask for Lance!"
Dreadstone departs the strange man's wagon and returns to Uqualek. It's only later at the inn that he realizes that the man had called him Darren.
