"Him? Stick?"  Master Butterbur glances quickly at the lanky figure standing by the hearth, as if expecting him to have heard his name from across the room. The man, however, seems to be content with warming himself by the fire and letting his cloak dry, unaware of the conversation about him.

"Nobody seems to know much about him, and he likes it that way. He appeared out of nowhere one day, not long ago. You could tell he was young, all long limbs sticking out, and someone called him 'Stick' and somehow the name stuck, even though he has filled out a bit since then, and he certainly doesn't care for it. In any case, as soon as he came he was gone, like they always do, without telling none where or why. He stops by the town from time to time,  to resupply or trade news, but never stays for long."

Another quick glance toward the hearth reveals the man sitting on the floor, carefully and almost lovingly waxing the string of his bow with a skill born of practice. He is intent in his task. Butterbur continues.

"He is some sort  of hunter, I reckon, what with that big bow of his, and he brings some hides and leathers to trade sometimes. A wanderer, but where he wanders and what he does I don't know and I have never asked. He is one of those Rangers. Who knows what they do out there."