Again the tavern door swung open, admitting another chilly breeze to sweep in unannounced. This time it smelled of the harvest, a distinctly autumnal air beckoning some few stray leaves past the threshold. Stepping closely behind, his boots making a distinctive [i]'thump'[/i] against the wooden floor, was the one who'd let them in.

[hider=A raven blown in with the wind.]
[img]https://static.zerochan.net/The.Hunter.%28Bloodborne%29.full.2869037.jpg[/img]
[/hider]

Standing a few inches over six feet, his lithe frame loomed a moment in the doorway, unnaturally scarlet eyes attentively tracking the barmaid as she rushed to the aid of some small bird. A white feather graced his somewhat worn cap, while two weapons hung in plain view from his belt. On the left hip, rested snugly in its scabbard, was a saber with a gently curving blade. Its swept hilt took a gracefully winding form, the metal polished to a silvery sheen. On the other hip, sitting in its holster along the wearer's thigh, was what could be recognized as a firearm to those who knew them - a pistol in particular. A flintlock design with an unusually long barrel, its frame was housed in all metal rather than wood. An intricate embossing of winding, thorny vines graced nearly the whole weapon, and it was polished similarly to the hilt of its owner's sword.

The tavern's newest visitor was already a bit on edge, even as he quietly shut the door behind him to deny the breeze further entry. It seemed to him as though he'd walked in on the aftermath of a brawl, or something worse. The distinctive smell of burnt flesh had reached his senses the moment he set foot in that strange establishment. There was an upturned table, a pile of ash on the ground... he could even make out a distinctive pattern of striking red haphazardly splattered across blast-charred floorboards.

Add to all that, a bird had somehow gotten in, and was now occupying the attention of what appeared to be the only barmaid. He'd never seen such a striking plumage before...

Well... it wasn't his business, the man had to remind himself. Whatever had happened, the rest of the tavern seemed remarkably untouched. No raging fire, no ruined furniture scattered about, no screaming patrons riddled with wooden shrapnel. The lack of collateral damage was almost unsettling.

Reasoning that this strange scene was mostly safe, probably, the black garbed visitor didn't hesitate too long before making up his mind. It didn't seem like the sort of situation that would interest a man like him anyways. He was no constable. Long strides carried him over to, then all the way down the length of the bar, passing by another man who was suspiciously close to that pile of ashes. The newcomer's piercing gaze focused on him for a long moment, a gloved hand instinctively going still near its holstered weapon.

There was something off about that man, and it wasn't the inexplicable smoke wafting from his hair.

The thought passed quickly, as did its thinker, and his arm resumed swinging normally in pace. Maybe it was just the demeanor that put him off. The man seemed an unruly, [i]wolfish[/i] type.

Reaching the very end of the bar, claiming the very furthest bar stool as his seat, the slender man in his off-black coat sat such that his body faced out towards the rest of the room. It gave him peace to have a clear line of sight on the other patrons... and a solid wall to his back. Sitting sideways to the counter he rested an arm on its surface, turning his head to patiently peruse what drinks were on display across the other side.