Wine Kisses

His name is Archer, the most crude, rugged, harshest man in all of Rowand. His behavior was always washed away in amber liquid, that sloshed about in a clear glass in the evening of the quieting city.

The people of Rowand had known that the man wouldn’t turn out like any other. Able to tame horses with his bare hands, and slice down bulls with just a dagger, he even had twin scars over his eyes like an animal.

Archer was the most revered, and the most feared mixed into a tall, muscular build, and clean-shaven skin.

The only part of him that he’d ever bared was his scar-marred forearms and his clean-shaven and unblemished face, bar the scars over his eyes. His long black hair was often pulled into a bun at the nape of his neck held in by a metallic pin in the shape of a dragon.

It was a silent afternoon in the local bar. The owners had just started serving the town’s favorite, Black Rose wine. A harsh sandy wind was trailing through the darkening town, along with black leather boots, and the smell of blood.

The patrons of Haven’s Tankard wince in the presence of the looming man in the doorway. His boots are deftly silent on the polished hardwood floors, despite their size.

His face sports the blankest glare he’s ever worn. A slice of his mouth just slightly turned upward. The smell of blood lingers on his fur coat, and the large great sword on his back.

It was the first time the people had ever seen him carry a weapon befitting his terrifying exterior. He ambled to the back of the bar where the last booth was open.

The owners kept others from that seat as they knew what could occur had they let someone take the man’s favorite booth.

His large, rough hands, slung the blade on the table, and he sunk into his seat. Long strands of his silky, black hair, slipped from his bun. His gaze raised, meeting the eyes of those who dared to look.

They never returned their gaze again.

“Would you like your usual, Sir Archer?” The waitress asked. After joining the bar’s exclusive weekend staff, she got very used to approaching the man. Though, he would use harsh, rough, and perverse words with the patrons he had never treated her any lesser than human.

“Yes.” He grunted eyes fastened at the man at the bar who’d been eyeing him when he walked in, but who now sat trembling on his stool glancing at the man's reflection of his sweating glass.

“That’s the mayor’s son,” Lucy said leaning in. She’d been trying to keep Archer from picking a bone with town figures, hoping that would improve the morale of the people. But, her subtle hints could only do bits for his decision-making.

He turns his eyes, the color of jet-black gems, on her. “I know,” He says with a smirk.

She takes his eerie gaze with a grain of salt and makes her way to the bar where she pours him his dark liquor. She presses it into the unpolished table by the mid of his sword and smiles, before leaving him to his quiet evening.

The night moves swiftly as the moon illuminates the tops of the buildings in soft white light, and the sandy streets turn the whisper of the wind to a slumber.

Archer sinks deep into his booth well into his eighth glass of liquor. The effects of the strong alcohol started to root itself in his relaxed gaze.

Just as the last few patrons start picking up to go, and the live band started on the last few songs of the night. The door to the bar swings open and lets in the most beautiful woman, Rowand has ever seen.

The lantern light first graces her black flats, and the smooth golden skin of her ankle. Then a sweeping red gown, which hugs to her every curve, and her long coily brown hair, and wispy, brown lashes.

But it’s not just her startling form which is packed with hard muscle, and inky tattoos. Or her full lips painted a sweet peachy, rose color. It is her eyes that cause murmurs in the heavily drunken crowd.

Her tall, frame of womanly repose, drags along even the eyes of women, whether covered with lust, or jealousy. The woman’s stature is enough to make the men balk but her eyes, the color of amethysts captured even the weakest of hearts.

She took a spot away from others at the bar. She pressed her elbows into the bar top and leaned in. Her skin trailed the scent of sand, water, woman, and lust. It caught heavily in the throats of the unmarried, and even those tethered.

“Hello, welcome to Haven Tankard, traveler. What can I get you?” The bartender asks. He refrains from dropping his eyes to her chest which wasn’t much on display, but their size was enough to see without looking.

“What would you recommend?” the traveler asks in her soft, baritone befitting a singer.

“The town's favorite, and our specialty, is our Black Rose Wine.” He says risking a glance towards her chest. His eyes widen a fraction at the draconian language written under one of her collarbones. Then at the diamond necklace on a braided gold chain, swinging between her breasts.

“Then I will have that.” She says. Her eyes wander about the bar, curiosity sparking in their glowing purple. The shadows cast over her face did nothing to stop the ethereal look that graced her features. Her scent lingered everywhere she had walked especially at the bar. Not overbearing yet, unmistakable in the haze of the night’s cool breeze, and the muddled warmth of alcohol.

She paused her gaze in the back of the bar and returned it to the bartender.

“Make that two.” She says softly running a hand through her coils. The bartender wonders which lucky man had caught her eye enough for her to ask for another cup. He places both sultry wide-mouthed glasses in front of her.

“It’s on the house, may you be at ease tonight.” He says smiling.

A sweet, smile, graces her face briefly before she stands nodded and turns her attention straight to the back of the bar. The bartender’s smile drops as he realizes her straight, seductive gait was going to the most irritable man on the planet.

The traveler places the glass down brushing the man’s fingertips. He opens his eyes, his previous rest disturbed. His gaze flickers between their brushed hands, the two glasses of wine, and the sparkling eyes of the woman before him. The band starts on another song, the last of the night.

In the soft thump of drunks, thirsty pluck of the guitar, and the quiet, nippy wind blowing in through the bar front. “May we share a drink?” the woman asks him.

Archer takes the flute of the wine glasses and twirls the crimson liquid.

“Sit.” He answers.

The woman takes a seat across from him wrapping her lips around the tip of her glass. Their eyes lock and for a moment, no one breathes.

The woman places her glass on the table and fiddles with the skirt, of her tight gown.

“Speak, if you have to,” Archer grumbles. His harsh nature had been softened with drink, and his normal glare was replaced with a sleep glower.

“I've nothing to say.” She said softly and leaned into her hand.

Her jeweled necklace danced teasingly between perky breasts. Yet, Archer had done little to look its way. Instead, the man grunts and tries the wine for the first time.

The sweet wine is masked in a smoky, almost spicy taste, that is still on his tongue and slips down his throat in a refreshing manner. He regards the glass with utmost interest.

“Is it good?” She asks with a gentle chuckle; the husk of her voice also catches his interest.

“You sit with my sword and I, offering sweet wine. I think it’s enough to make any drink pleasant.” He says.

Stunned, the woman hides her blush behind her wine glass. She wonders idly if alcohol makes men like him talk with the sweet words of a poet.

“Why thank you. Drinks always go down well when there's a beautiful view in front of you.” The woman says. She takes it back quickly. “I’m not saying I am beautiful…sorry, I’m not used to this.” She waves her hand around the air around them. Archer follows her hand movement and drags his eyes back to hers.

A thrill races through her body at his lowered gaze. He leans in, the scent of wine clinging to a more intriguing aroma, honey. “Take your time,” is all he says, but his throaty response has the traveler pulling a hand fan from her small clutch and gently fanning below her eyes.

Was it always this hot at night? Surely not, even in this sandy town of wood, and men.

“What is your name warrior?” She asks gazing at his sleeves. The gentle cloth clung well to his toned, and muscular arms. Specks of blood littered up to his elbow in random spots. His hands were large and scared, but to her, they looked soft and cozy.

Archer grunts without answering swallowing a large gulp of the smokey liquid in his cup. The wine worked wonders into the tensity of his shoulders, or maybe it was because this was his ninth glass that he was finally relaxing.

Maybe it was because of the light scent of soap that trailed from across the table. It was stirring feelings in him long squashed by harsh battles and harsher terrain.

“My name is Sonnet.” She purrs leaning in further. She places her fan next to his sword. The fan, of a traveling woman, and the sword, of a lone warrior. Archer lifts his gaze back to her and answers her previous question.

“They call me Archer.” He says. He’s drained most of his glass and his body is warm with thoughts, and alcohol.

“Archer…” she repeats gently. A smile forms on her lips. “A warrior even in name.”

“Mhm, and you are much like this music.”

Sonnet tunes back in with the light piano accompanying the simple drumline and riffing guitar. “In what way," she asks.

“You are simple but breathtaking.” He says.

He only realizes the colorful words after they’ve left his mouth. He swears then never to follow his liquor with wine. She makes a soft sound akin to a moan in the back of her throat.

“And you are silver-tongued and handsome. I appreciate, your presence on this cold night.”

“I am not a handsome man,” Archer says not refuting the silver tongue. He stands and slings his sword over his shoulder. He pauses looking down into her big, purple eyes.

Archer presses his hand into the table and leans all the way down, his face inches from hers. In his gruff, throaty voice he whispers, “Would you like a place to stay tonight?”

Sonnet gasps, which is followed by a giggle. “I’d love that.” She says abandoning her last few sips of wine to take his offered hands. As they leave the doors of the bar, the last song of the night sounds them off, along with the stunned faces of those left in the morning’s hazy hours.

A traveler’s fan, and a warrior’s sword, sinking into the cold, sandy wind.