The Snow Foul

It was near midnight when a man walked into The Ice Dam, a flurry of wind and snow giving chase as he hastily slammed the door, eager to keep more of the storm from catching him. He was dressed well enough for the weather, from his fur lined boots to woolen cap, but still looked as though he might shake apart as he brushed the snow from his short, dark beard. The place was nearly empty save for a few regulars seated around the bar, the low murmur of quiet conversations hovering over the air. The man trudged purposefully toward the bar removing his hat, gloves, and jacket which he placed carefully on the back of a barstool before sitting down.

“You Ian?”, the man asked gesturing at the barkeep.

“Sure am, what can I do ya for?”

“Got anything back there might warm a man up?”

“Coffee for the body, whiskey for the soul.”

“Coffee sounds good thanks.”

“Comin' up.”

The man looked at the barkeep; he was older, maybe sixty or so and his years had worn on him heavily. He wore his hair in a great mane and a beard, neither of which were tame.

“Coffee's up!”, the barkeep said as he placed a large mug before the man, the strong smell and warm air wafting into his nose, red from the cold.

“Thank you.”

“Sure thing, though I imagine that's not all you've come. Who gave you my name?”

“John Darby.”

“Darby eh... So you're a hunter then?”
“Not exactly, at least not that kind hunter.”

 “What kind then?”