Full moon. Midnight. A few ragged breaths shake their way out into the crisp air of Bree. Spring was in full bloom. There was a lightness to the usually turbulent town. Talk of the upcoming festivities had lightened those whose moods had been soured by the recent civil unrest. But, between the peaceful windows, deserted stalls, and the usual drunkards stumbling their way out of the Prancing Pony, walked a figure. A figure marred with death itself.
Dagramir Audun stalked his way down the cobble streets of the town. Leaving the jovial shouts of bar patrons behind him, lantern-light flashing across a disheveled face. Something had infuriated the man of Gondor. Though, peculiarly, even he himself wasn't quite sure what it was that had set alight that oh so familiar burning desire in his lungs, in his head, in his heart. Perhaps it may have been the usual flirtations with the enigmatic copper-haired woman whom he knew as Narys, something that his antipathy towards was slipping with each encounter. Or, perhaps it was the steadily declining rush of alcohol within his system, urges for the bottle lacing burning tendrils through him, like fingertips on his mind. There was an absence of something in his psyche, and it was natural for him to run. To find solace in something else. Something painfully taboo for his new civility within society.
Leaving behind the safety of the hedge walls of Bree, those damned walls that never seemed to keep the undesirables of the world out, he walked the road north. Leaving the flickering candles of civilization behind him. Thoughts coursing a violent path across his mentality. Though beyond the flaming walls of a broken man's consciousness, the lands around him were ever still. A gentle breeze giving the leaves their gentle sway. Naught but the fluttering of fauna to accompany the soft collisions between boot and dirt. A flared look set within his piercing stare. Gaze firing daggers towards the dim lights ahead of him. For once in his life, his destination was abundantly clear.
A brief flash of recognition played its way through his thoughts. Premonitions of scouting ventures to the camp he was now approaching, as his body descended to a crouch. A group of brigands had set up camp in the area, fairly recently. Terrorizing travelers who dared take the north road that stretched in the direction of Trestlebridge. Uncouth folks, by all means. Immoral fools who craved after the social status that came with a ridiculous amount of coin, by any means necessary. A gang mentality. A life of plundering, and intimidation. But for their own reasons, their own ambitions. Local men and women discontented with their life, and how those in-charge looked disparagingly down to them. Rather simply: they were human. Crimes they had committed, yes, but perhaps death was not the punishment that should be delivered to them. However, it was the punishment that the young Gondorian had chosen for them. He had a desire for blood, one bound by no morals, and it needed to be satiated.
As Dagramir crept over the grass, lurching slowly upon a young local brigand who was sitting on watch, the fireworks of the festival flashed up into the twinkling sky to his side. The Bree-lander's gaze lit up with delight. Wonder. At that moment, he remembered the innocence he had left with his childhood. Perhaps even longing for a life back within Bree, a peaceful life. But no sooner had these thoughts flashed across his mind, than did an Elvish-make sword extend from the shadows, and pierce through his stomach. Steel ripping a path into the internal walls of the man's body, slicing effortlessly through his intestines. Normally, as experienced as the Gondorian is, he would have clamped a hand over the man's mouth, to muffle the screams and keep his level of incognito for the time being. But he didn't want to creep in the shadows. He wanted blood, no, he craved it.
A loud roar of agony ripped its way through the peaceful air of the northern Bree-fields. A scream so violent in its protests of death, that it leaves the air hanging with a dripping sense of dread. Disgruntled brigands stumble to their wake, and exit their tents and sleeping areas with weapons brandished high. Shouts of confusion. Of anger. Of fear, as they see their compatriot left staining the grass red with the blood that Dagramir had so kindly released from its fleshy confines. One man, the most brazen of the bandits, charges the Gondorian, an axe swinging wildly in his attempts to hack and slash at their aggressor. And, sure enough, his run is cut short, as the foreigner's blade slices a clean arc across the man's neck, cutting deep, below his Adam's apple. Crimson liquid spurts out pleasantly, almost glad to be released into the night air, and spatters out to cover all in its wake. Which would include the grey-clad aggressor who stood before the brigands. Blade held loosely in one hand. A maddened grin shining out from the cover of darkness.
Sure enough, with bellows of outrage, the group of questionable men all try their luck against the swordsman. One by one. Two by two. It did not matter. As sure as the sun would rise in the morning to lay light upon the acts of savagery that were soon left strewn upon the camp, did they all fall to the exquisite blade. Blood lay upon everything, in various degrees of coverage. Pools of red. Hacked limbs. Faces frozen in their looks of horror for eternity to come. An uncertain amount of time passed, as horror after horror was committed indiscriminately, with men and women alike left motionless in his wake. Suddenly, Dagramir found himself wrestling a much larger man than his own stature. A man he presumed to be their leader, due to the boldness in the man's eyes. He found himself pinned, beneath the larger figure, with hands squeezing effortlessly around his pale throat. Chokes of discomfort cracking out from his throat, his white complexion growing ever more maroon in his opposition's efforts to squeeze the life out of him. Trained hands scramble desperately, looking for something, anything.. And, his luck holding up strong, they soon meet the hilt of his discarded dagger. Fingertips brushing it close enough for him to grab, as his vision turns ever more blurry, and the blood rushes to his head. Soon enough, he makes full contact, and drives the blade into the man's side. A look of surprise shoots from the brigand captain's face, as with a roar of truculence, Dagramir slices the man's bowels open with a harsh, fluid motion. Blood releases from his stomach, as if he had just opened the floodgates of hell. But he was not satisfied just yet.. Roaring ever still, he drives the blade into the figure's chest, as the unfortunate brigand attempts to sit up and clutch onto the organs that threaten to flow steadily out from their imprisonment. With a motion so callous, he slices a clean cut down his chest and stomach, dousing himself in a concoction of organs and fluids that even Orcs would find most foul indeed.
As he collapses backwards, exhaustion setting in to his muscles, he finds himself lying on the grass. A body eerily still sprawled atop him. With a grunt of effort, he frees himself from his pinned position, and slowly scrambles to his feet. Dagger raised quickly, should any more challengers step forth. But alas, there was none. The previously dark-clad figure now stood, dripping in blood that was indeed not of his own creation. Wild eyed, and furiously fuming with adrenaline. That is, until his eyes finally lay claim to the small figure that would shuffle out from the shadows, into the light of the innocently revealing campfire. Conflicting thoughts firing like explosions that shook him to his soul. It was a young boy. One who surely had only seen nine winters in his time. The boy's eyes were welled up, and he showed very little emotion, save for the tears that glistened over the dirt on his cheeks. He must have seen it all. Seen the feral animal that the Gondorian had become. And all for what? Confusion over a growing connection he shared with a woman? The fact he couldn't have her in his bed? Or the fact that she was threatening to become more than just a way to spend his time.
He had considered ending the boy's pain right there and then. Of sparing him a life of agony, and emotion, that lay dauntingly ahead of him. But, funnily enough, he didn't have the heart to do so. Any attempts to grip his dagger that much tighter, were left with a strong, overwhelming pulse of his heart in protest. So, he walked. Left the scene of chaos behind him, and soon returned to the peace of the wilds. His bloodlust was satisfied. But at a heavy cost. Blood still dripped from his attire, from his hair, from his sword. Leaving an ever so incriminating trail back towards Bree.
Did he feel remorse? Barely. Something that was overwhelmingly frightening.
And lo, a dark figure tracked their way back down towards the safe guiding hand of the road, and made back for Bree. Though, the air was no longer as quiet. The atmosphere not quite as serene. As now, alongside the afore chorus of swaying plants, played a horrible alto accompaniment.
A young boy's bawls of confusion.
And Dagramir had never felt more alive in his life.
