"-...ye have two days. If ye come back t' Ost Forod withou' a cart, ye're no' leavin' these lands wi' a head.", the gruff trader grumbled, one of his calloused hands having a rummage with the back of his reddened hair, "If ah find out tha' ye're no' worth the extra coin..."
Dagramir laughed, a foreign accent chiming out mirthfully through the ruins. Local men nearby turning their heads in annoyance to the clearly unwanted visitor.
"You won't.", was the young Gondorian's simple response, followed by a characteristic wink. And, just like that, he turned on his heels and swaggered for the south-bound road. 'Finally, some action', Dagramir mused to himself. The past week of his life had been spent on the road, and in the brush, stalking his way northwards to complete this contract. Now, all that stood between him and a couple bags of silver, was a missing cart. The trade caravan could've been anywhere: the hired sellswords could've made off with the goods for their own merit, or the group could've been set upon by a gang of ravenous wolves, or randy bears mistaking the large wooden frame for a suitable fur-warmer. None of these outcomes really mattered to him, in the end. It was a simple task, in any case. Find the cart, stick anything that tried to stop him with the pointy end of his sword, and be on his merry way. A mercenary's dream! Sure, there was easier work to be found, and further south than his current location, but he'd protected enough caravans those past few months to know he would go postal at the next contract. Aye, there had been other offerings of work too, like protecting that young, and devilishly attractive woman's homestead. Certainly never one to pass down the opportunity to gape at a pretty face, even he surprised himself when he decided to refute such contracts in favour of a venture to the north. Even more surprising that the opportunity to get right underneath the skin of that so-called brooding cunt was also passed up. Perhaps a decision he'd rectify at a later date. After all, irritating other curiously handsome men was undoubtedly one of his favourite ways to pass the time.
But nay, he needed to get away from it all for a while. And the fair lands surrounding the lake of Nenuial was as fine a destination as any. Of course, the local ruins were inhabited by all sorts of seedy men and women, itching to get their next fix of treasure, and anything else that could stimulate their dulled senses, but at least they were open about it. Honest in their ability to raid passing caravans, and attack people in broad daylight, something that couldn't have been said about the town of Bree. Where the inhabitants preferred to gossip behind closed doors, bargain and gamble with knives and backs, and double-cross at the hint of personal gain, and subsequent success. If there was one thing that Dagramir upheld to the highest of standards in his blackened heart, it was loyalty. Pure, blood-driven loyalty. He himself was loyal to the coin, aye, but he wasn't afraid to make it known, when it suited. These men he had began to bargain with, and now paraded his way through fields of grass, and down dangerous ditches, were also honest in their only interest of currency. Such a similar courtesy had never been afforded to him before, albeit in the ranks of the ragtag group of sellswords known as The Bloody Dawn, a group he was now beginning to truly work in the interests of, against his own better, more crooked, judgement. At the very least, if he was going to be sacrificing pieces of his own freedom for the good of his kin, he could be afforded come commendation. Perhaps it was-...
"At last!", Dagramir breathed out in a slightly more jovial tone. The cart was finally in sight. Or, at least, a cart. Turned on its side, with boxes that had been clearly looted, scattered around the dyke it had ended up contained within. Upon closer inspection, there were evident signs of a struggle. A few dried blood stains now woven into the fabric covering of the caravan. One of the wheels broken off, and tattered on the grass below, as if a man had been thrown straight into the craftsmanship. Around the other side was the two bodies he had certainly expected to find. A young boy, probably having seen no more than seventeen winters, sprawled out on the grass, a large splinter of wood embedded in the side of his neck. A clearly misshapen wound of red imprinted onto the fauna around his body. Trousers ripped and torn, with fairly fresh teeth marks imprinted into his calf, indicating his body had been subjected to a nearby pack of wolves. A thought that left Dagramir with his muscles tense. Better to get out of there before the pack decided to return to have another crack at dragging off the body. A quick turn on his heels then showed him exactly what he had came for. An older cadaver, resting upright against the cart, with a look of pure horror and anguish on his face, skin greying with the elements. Arm outstretched in the general direction of his deathly compatriot, a mute sign of familial affection. Stab wounds to his stomach, and shoulder. Throat slit. 'Sloppy', the only thought that the Gondorian could consider, as he then made note of what, more clearly, wasn't there. The two contracted mercenaries. Enough evidence for him to conclude that he was initially right in his suspicions. As he stepped over to the upright body, in order to retrieve a particularly notable scarf that was bloodied around the older man's neck, there was something that struck at Dagramir's heart. He didn't know whether it was the positioning of the man's body as if to reach out and help his presumable son, or the dead eyes that stared at him, but he felt compelled to close them. And, that he did, with an expert motion of his index finger and thumb.
"Eru, guide you.", the only words that he could think to say in respect to the unfortunate duo. Such a phrase had, in his mind, seen him through the most difficult situations he had ever experienced. He secretly found solace in his mute beliefs of a greater power. Perhaps there was a chance their souls could be redeemed. Then again, perhaps not. What a curious thing his intermittent sense of morality was. Nevertheless, scarf in hand, he left the carcasses to whatever fate they held, and made his way back up the hill. Doing his best to put their faces of anguish out of his mind. Curious. He had seen scores of men laying lifeless on the ground, and he had certainly murdered a good share of them, whether it had been in combat, or due to simple circumstance.
'What are you doing to me, my Raven?'
Life was certainly simpler when he could care less about anything else other than himself. Vanity was in no short supply with the man, and his ego inflated with every speck of attention he could muster, there was no one in Arda that could refute that, not even he, himself. But, since women had entered his life, his entire world had been turned, rather simply, upside down. Whether it had been with his wife, and his daughter; to even his experiences with the young and ample teenager; and now, with the woman he dared to bare his soul to. Every which way he found his freedoms slipping through his fingertips like sand. Not that he seemed to mind, especially not with his current endeavour into the forêt of love, but his freedoms were being revoked irregardless. Can a man not be allowed to live out his days happily? Bouncing along to an upbeat tune in his mind, cocking an enthusiastic wink at any particularly fair maidens that caught his eye, and flaunting his natural bravado and alluring mystique to the world. Nay, these were different times. Times where women now ruled the streets with iron fists, turning into tyrants of liberty and justice. Deeming the natural rowdy nature of men, and the game of chance that is flirtation, too uncouth for the modern, empowered women to handle. 'Empowerment', the thought of it almost made him want to laugh, which helped him to ease the bodies of yore into the back of his mind. His father might well have been right in one of the few words of wisdom he had offered his abusee, between drink after drink of fine wine:
'Women are a fickle beast, Dagramir. They take time, and effort, but every woman is winnable. Much like the mare, if you devote to your prey, break her in steady, she may very well devote to you, and give you the ride of your life. Or, you may very well regret laying eyes upon her. But, such is the mystery of the game. No two mares are the same, so why devote to just one? That was my mantra, aye. That was until I met your mother... And then you took her away from me... You little cunt, you took my love away from me. Does that make you feel good? Eh?! Answer me, you bastard scut! Answer me!'
~
It took a significantly less time to reach the outer ruins of Ost Forod, whether that had been down to an increased physical effort, or a mind blockage due to unforeseen mental imagery, soon enough he was wandering back down the road that ran through the small encampment. The stares soon enough returned. Eyes all laid upon the wanderer, and the curious item he held within his grasp. Some hopeful for news of their lost companions. Others truculent, eager to pounce upon the Gondorian and attain his head. Dagramir strode past them all, having made a bee-line straight for the trader. The middle-aged man's head creased, almost confused to see him.
"Eh? Th'fuck? It's only been a few 'ours? D'ye have a death wish, son?"
"Aye.", Dagramir smiled, "But, that's besides the point. I found your missing cart, and its inhabitants." He tossed the bloodied scarf to the trader, who snapped it out of the air, and immediately frowned. "Your men are dead, and your cart has been ransacked. It appears the sellswords you hired to protect the caravan decided its value was worth more than honest work."
"Bugger...", was the muttered response from the tradesman, "Jim w'is a good man, and William w'is his only son. Agh! Fuck you, and all yer sellsword type!" His face turned to that of pure anguish, and disgust, and the red-haired man grogged, before spitting at the Gondorian. Phlegm spattering across his boiled-leather armour, and slowly tracing down within the contours of his equipment.
Dagramir initially winced, before, with a rather callous wipe of his right hand, freed his armour of the disgusting saliva. "I agree with you there, mate. Men capitalizing on the goodwill of traders like yourselves, and taking every opportunity to further our own short-lived existence. But-...", his hand drops back to his side, while his left lifts, almost as if to emphasize his own point, "...-a deal's a deal. Honour among men bound by ale and coin may be scarce, but I lived up my end of the bargain, and did it sooner than the timeframe requested. Hell, I'll even lead you, and any of your lovely friends, down to the dunny it rests within."
"Hmpf...", the only noise to emit from the trader's mouth in response, as he mulled over his options in that scenario. Gripping onto the rag slightly tighter, he nods his head. "Aye, ye're right... Show us where th' cart is, an' ah'll hand you ye're silver, 'n you can be on yer way, 'less ye wanna gut th' bastards tha' did this t'ae us too fer more coin?"
"I'm afraid business calls me further north after I see this contract through, but send a raven back to my employer. Let him know of the events that have transpired here, and, if the price is right, we'll see to it that you find your justice."
The trader winced at his response: "Ye really are a heartless bastard, ain't ye? Is there nothin' in this world tha' ye are able t' love more than silver?"
Dagramir laughed aloud at that, and once more his musical rhythms bounced around the ruins. With a smile, and a wink, he responded rather intuitively: "Aye! Gold."
