It had been quite a peaceful little morning in the town of Towerglan. Home to the mercenary company known as 'The Bloody Dawn', and many of its forces. All was quiet, and serene. Birds happily floated their way across the valley, shifting from branch to branch in their usual daily routine. Lovely chirps being heard, as the sun rose over the nearby hills, beating down upon a picturesque village. And then, accompanying the gentle rush of water from the nearby waterfall, was a bang. Followed by another. Steady beats of metal ringing out through the valley. What quickly could be attributed to the topless young man sitting atop the roof of a little cottage just down the road from the imposing Dawnhall. The raven-haired figure had a hammer in hand, his other steadying a plank of wood, and he would've been driving the head of the tool against individual nails. Fixing the roof of a little abode that had sat derelict, and in disrepair, for sometime. In fact, the house had never looked so good.
Finishing the final nail into the wooden plank, Dagramir lets out a content sigh. Relief. Perhaps he would be finished on time. As the darkened circles beneath his eyes of azure suggested, he was worn out. Spent the entire night awake, and working his magic upon this one property. From planting the sigil of the Bloody Dawn proudly on a pole in the grass outside; to the lumbering of benches, and bookcases, and a bed, all by solitary hand to position within those stone walls. He had taken care, and damn near exhausted himself, in making this once shoddy looking house into a home. All the way down to the painting of the walls, and fluffing of cushions. Grunting, he swung a leather-trousered leg over the central beam of the roof that he had straddled, and he shifted along to carefully clamber down the side. Landing, with a further grunt, he dropped the hammer into the tardy toolbox that sat on the grass. Lifting his shirt, and the aforementioned box, he wiped the beads of sweat off of his forehead, and wandered around to the front of the property. Looking over the structure, he looked awfully proud. Mirth splayed clearly over his features. Worth all of the effort, it would seem. Finally, after his previous endeavours with his estate to the West, he had a home. A home that didn't remind him of past failures, and people he would never see again. No, this little stone building was empty of nostalgia, just waiting to be filled. And fill it, he most certainly intended to do.
Satisfied. He made that short walk forwards, up the steps, and opened the door into his home. 'Home.' The mere thought of such brought a guilty joy to his mind. So long had he spent frequenting the back-rooms of taverns, and awaking in various beds with various women whose names' he had most certainly forgotten, that he hadn't felt such a feeling in a long time. Not since the days of his marriage, truly. But the less he thought about that, the better. Especially due to his ulterior motives towards the fixing of the cottage, and whom he had worked on this for. Slipping his shirt back on, he spied the empty whiskey bottle sat upon his table. Taunting him. Not only with his affliction, but with a now regretful memory. 'Silver.' Oh, how terrible that had made him feel, that night be damned. He had obligations now, obligations he intended to stick to; and yet he was so eager to play a fantastical game of strip die that in the heat of drink, and nude erotica, he very nearly forgot them. No more. No more would he allow that to happen. He was attracted to the woman, there was little he could do to convincingly deny that claim. She held everything he found alluring in a woman. The mystery, the intrigue, audacious flirts that even rivaled his own. So, of course, when he had her, he thought initially that that would be the end of it all. A goal accomplished. But, nay. A letter, he had been left. And a journey he had undertaken to stop this woman from throwing her life away. Why did he care? Shades of his 'sister', for one. She reminded him so much of Annsuel, another dear soul he lost to the ravages of life. He couldn't allow another woman to throw her life away. So he was thankful, in a way, for being able to save her life. It seemed her past had eventually caught up to her, too, and it was sheer luck that he had been around to save her from peril. Heroic, in a way. Affectionate, in another. He would see that woman to safety from her personal demons, even if it took him to Rohan, to her family. But why did it stab at him so much when he found her in bed, with a bumbling local? After they had agreed they should leave each other be, in an erotic sense? Distaste, for one, for the local in question was no sexual deity by any means, nor was he particularly well-read, per say. He knew little else about whatever else lay beneath the superficial. So, he resigned himself to his work. Going back to the one thing he was sure of. His affections for Ashaia.
Fixing the ties that held his white shirt tight over his toned body, he proceeded to find his burgundy waistcoat, and would slip it onto his person. But, the more he stood motionless, trained fingers toying with buttons that held with them decency, the more he noticed items out of place. Imperfections that any home would happily feature. But not this one. This one needed to be perfect. He rushed over, leaving the door forgetfully ajar, and fluffed the pillows of the bench. Stepping over to the bookcase, he sorted the assortment of novels, and texts, that it held. All upright, nice and neat. Taking a moment to briefly dust the table where his writing equipment sat. Sheets of parchment, pots of ink, and numerous quills all scattered across the varnished wood. The way he liked it. And so, his eyes of azure continued to scan across each object in the front room. A slightly crooked painting; re-adjusted. The unlit candles; soon enough, flickering strong. The handle to his keg of whiskey, imported specially by sea from the south; positioned at a neat right-angle. The dimly lit hearth; a few logs were soon grabbed from the holder nearby. The night well-spent, apparently. It was clear he cared an awful lot about the presentation of the home. Even if it was only intended for a minute few. It meant a lot to him. As did the woman who gracefully was making her way through the village, a folded scrap of parchment in her hand, with eloquent writing that read the address of that very building. But, as time went on, such feelings of guilt began to return, and this time for a much different reason: Narys.
Oh, why was fate so horribly cruel? At least they had found some measure of peace after being so tense recently. Queer that it took him to bloody the nose of the latest man apparently attempting to vie for her affections. That made him laugh somewhat. 'Latest man indeed.' For it seemed anytime he managed to see her, there was always another. Whether it was the 'Bain' in his ass he threatened to beat senseless one evening in the Pony for audaciously flirting with a woman Dagramir dared consider his. The exquisite-dressed man patronizingly obsessed with 'eloquence', whose pleasant jaw he had already rattled with his fist. And, now, the tall Rohirrim with the ridiculous goatee, who in return for a bloody nose, left his ribs bruised, and the imprint of a chair upon his pale, scarred back. All of which, he assumed all chased after the copper-haired enigma, and it was likely, in his mind, that there were more on the horizon. But none of them had succeeded in more than the erotic touches of lips, at best, to his knowledge of assumption. Nay, it was he, and he alone, who had been the proprietor of infidelity. The man able to break past her barriers of honour, and tempt her to the sheets. A man she claimed to love, more so than anything in the world, for what good it was worth. A man bridled with jealousy, and angst, that at her departure from his side, he worsened his alcoholic condition, and looked for solace from the storm elsewhere. Love. How it had seared him so. There was regrets, for sure. He had planned to face down her lover, and stake his claim for her affections, as he had done so often in the past with the other men who floated around her alluring presence. Perhaps that confrontation may still come. But now? Now his duties lay elsewhere. Not out of guilt at all, but out of circumstance. There was another woman whom he had began to touch his entire blackened soul against, and in return, she was bearing her's in full.
Dagramir carelessly reached his tattooed, and crudely scarred, arm forwards, settling a fresh log upon the blazing hearth in the back-room of his home, only for an ember to leap forwards and sear his skin. Clutching onto him like a lost lover. "Agh! Bugger!" was his cry of pain, and he darted backwards, finding the safety of the center of the room. Clamping his finger between his lips, and letting his tongue of silver slather coolant across the burn. She would be here soon. She could be here any moment. A realization that made the young man disregard his injury into the events of yore, and turn to smooth the vague creases out of the bed's covers. All that effort, for one woman. Well, that may have been a half-falsity. For one woman, and her young daughter. Gods, how his heart was beginning to soften, for both of them. It didn't help that the young girl, Ava, looked just like his own. 'Abriana.' A beautiful young creation of uncertain Gondorian descent. And her mother, who adored his capabilities to appease the girl, who was in no lack of attractive quality herself. Had he began to become too attached? Perhaps so. He couldn't quite tell at this point. But it may have been more than honour that allowed him to see off the temptations of his former lover, for now. Oh, what a rabbit hole such a thought was. Leading off to a vast world of hesitant uncertainty, and bewildered joy. But he didn't have time to peruse his way into such psyche trains.
"Hello?"
Ashaia was here.
