A storm sweeps over the lands that night. The raging wind pushes the rain forth with all its might, transforming the drops into pelting projectiles. Deafening thunder echoes between the ruins of the old cemetery, lightning briefly illuminating the gravestones. Amidst this mayhem, a lone wanderer fights the elements. He drags himself inside what is left of an old chapel and collapses against one of the remaining walls. Breathing heavily, his shaking hands reach for the flask at his hip. Only after swallowing the last drop did his muscles begin to relax and the firm grip around his longbow eases. Tucking the empty flask into his bag, his hand briefly brushes past a piece of paper. He doesn’t need to make a light and see, to know what it was. The face of the man on that wanted poster was so familiar to him now, that he could draw it with his eyes closed. The bounty hunter sighs. He had followed the infamous tomb raider’s trail all the way up here, it should not be long now before he finds his prey. And the gods know I can use the hefty sum that’s on the bastard’s head. The hunter rubs his hands together, breathing into them in hopes to get some life back into his fingertips. He does not even attempt to make a campfire. Any fire would immediately be blown out or doused by the pouring rain. He glances upward. What is left of the roof offers little cover, but the bowman and his baggage can sit dry underneath it. The storm rages on.

The rhythmic clattering of rain on stone is mesmerizing. He was almost lulled asleep, when he sees a figure flitting past from the corner of his eye. Immediately, his senses sharpen and his grip around the bow tightens. With the keen eyes of a hunter he scans his surroundings, the other hand hovering over his quiver. There it is again, near the altar in the centre of the ruin. The bowman nocks an arrow and aims, ready to release, when the figure suddenly appears not an inch from his face.

“Evening!”

“What…?! Who are you? Identify yourself or I’ll shoot!”

The newcomer bursts out in laughter. His full-bodied voice rumbles deeper than the thunder overhead. It takes him some time to regain his breath.

“Easy, fella, easy. Name’s Finch, but who cares about me, I want t’know ‘bout you! Couldn’t see yer face but I bet y’looked like you’d seen a livin’ fizribble!” Another laugh bubbles over his lips. “I don’t meet many a people in this line o’ work, y’see. We’re sittin’ outta storm together, might as well jus’ tell me a little ‘bout yerself.”

The bowman reluctantly tucks his arrow back in the quiver. “How can you be so light-hearted…I almost shot you! And don’t you try anything funny; I’ll make sure to hit home.”

“Take off the tight pants, friend! Surely life can’t treat ya that bad.”

“Funny you should mention that.” The bowman’s voice deepens, as if he is reminded of some painful truth. “My life… I live to kill others. I live to bring dead. Isn’t that ironic?”

“Who d’ya kill, then?” The young man’s voice sounds clear, not the faintest trace of fear or suspicion. Taken aback by this reaction, the bowman continues hesitantly.

“Well… you know, outlaws, criminals and all sorts of scum. You’d be surprised how many there are out there with a price on their heads. I kill, I collect the money. I’m not always ahead of the competition, but I can manage with what I can get.” Finch erupts with another of his hearty laughs.

“Y’sound like you’re confessin’ this or something! Why’s that? If ya kill outlaws and criminals, you’re doin’ the world a favour, right? Nothing wrong with that.”

The two fall silent. The thunder sounds more distant now and the rain is starting to calm down from its rage.

“What about you, Finch? What do you do for a living?”

Finch yawns and stretches his limbs. It is too dark to see, but the bounty hunter can tell that he makes himself comfortable against his luggage. He opens his mouth, about to reprise the man, but then closes it to let the silence remain. Something about the stranger puts a smile on his face. He’ll let him be for now.

“I don’t really do much,” says Finch. “I mean, ya’actually do somethin’ for ye money, I jus’ take the money directly.”

“So, you’re a thief?” The bounty hunter pulls a brow in disbelief. He really didn’t seem like a stealer to him. Finch barks a laugh.

“Ha! No, that wou’be bad. I’m not a bad guy. No, I take money others left behind or don’t need no more. Y’know, cleanin’ up after others, in a way.”

“That sounds like a good thing to do, then,” the bowman returns, hoping he doesn’t sound too relieved at this. “You find many riches out there?”

“Oh, y’wouldn’t believe! People jus’ leave the most dazzlin’ treasures to jus’ waste away. Others, like me, can make good use of ‘em still. Actually found a nice piece justa minute ago, ‘fore I ran inta you.” Finch hands the bounty hunter a heavy object. It has to be an expensive bracelet by the feel of it. Each of the expertly cut gemstones surely are worth a small fortune in themselves.

“Damn Finch, I can’t believe you just find things like this.” He hands the trinket back.

“Ha, you jus’ gotta know where t’look!”

Hours pass by in a much more comfortable and enjoyable manner than the bounty hunter had expected. While the two strangers talk and joke, the storm gradually dies down. The bounty hunter takes a deep breath and smells the scents of nature as it only does after a cleansing torrent. The occasional gust of wind is cool and gently rustles the leaves. Nothing gives away that a devastating storm had just swept over the peaceful cemetery.

“Well, ‘tis safe t’move out again, me thinks.” Finch gets up from his spot against the bowman’s bag and takes his time to fully stretch his stiff limbs. “Good fares on ya’ journeys! I hope t’run into ya’again some time, but easy on the arrows when we do, right? Haha!”

The bounty hunter can just make out Finch’s silhouette against the rosy morning sky, whistling a merry tune as he disappears behind the distant hills. A smile breaks on his lips. He never met a more cheerful and carefree person in all his years in the business. A welcome change to an otherwise grim and bloody occupation.

I guess the bounty hunter’s life is a lonesome one.

The man slowly gets up and plucks the wrinkled wanted poster from his bag. Its caption reads Wanted: tomb raider, name unknown. Reward: 1,000 S. The face beneath it is not new to him, but somehow this time it seems to smile, a carefree and youthful smile. He shakes his head and tucks the poster away.

Shrewd raiders do not smile like that.

The bounty hunter swings his bag over his shoulder and watches in the direction he had seen Finch disappear. The suns’ first rays now peek over the horizon, dressing the hills in gold.

He shrugs, turns around and starts walking.