Several houses down from The Red Rose on my way to the stream, I heard a few whispers of two men who were standing by the fountain in the center of the village. One was the metal smith I had seen the day before making horseshoes. He was dressed in a black leather apron with the scorches of fire upon it. His neck was covered in smoke and dirt. He was big and muscular, no doubt attributed to his profession as a metal worker.
The second man was another I recognized and had me brimming with anger. He was slightly thinner than the metal smith. Sly eyes wanted me to define him more like a snake of a creature than human. He was dressed in a long black trench coat that made him look like an undertaker. The only thing missing was a shovel in his hand. He was the driver of the carriage that brough
