As the winter had set about sweeping its final throes of icy winds across the barren landscape of the Lone-Lands, the withered hills seemed even more desolate than they did usually. Merchants traveling to and fro had allowed their journeys to become more irregular, and, as such, the bandits that would haunt them had returned to their encampments. Those that hadn't were subjected to the cold reality of the passing yuletide. While festivities would meander onwards for those that were still content in living in the past for as long as they were able, the inclement weather would juxtapose any merriment that could feasibly take place.
It was times like these that made the Forsaken Inn such an invaluable part of one's journey along the far reaches of the Great East Road. What was once a proud kingdom of those forgotten to the pages of dusty books had now become an inhospitable waste of goblins and ne'er-do-wells. Yet, in between such devastation, the Inn stood tall against the testament of time's ravages. At nights the crooked building lit up in warming glows of yellow, raucous laughter echoed from the shattered window panes, and any who would find their refuge would be undoubtedly subjected to questionable alcoholic beverages. The threat of any immanent skirmishes from disgruntled bandits, or the roaming packs of half-breeds, seemed to dissipate from people's minds.
On one such turbulent night, among the hustle and bustle of the Inn's usual clientele, sat Dagramir. Garbed in grey, as per usual, with his features unsettled by the cascading shadows provided from an adjacent wooden beam overhead. His blue eyes appeared to flicker at each movement in the room, though his body lay unusually serene. Aside from the impatient drumming of pale fingers on the tankard afore him. While the other patrons cackled, gulping down ale by the gallon and drowning their miseries away for what they hoped would be the last time, the Gondorian didn't appear in the mood for such entertainment. At least, for the time being. While the awry lodge certainly wasn't his usual choice for a quiet drink, it would serve its purpose; albeit, with the occasional disgusted snarl quipping from his upper lip.
You see, it wasn't quite the people that managed to stir his ire. Nay, he quite enjoyed the disengaged company. Too many a night had been spent brooding alone, tucked away on the rooftops and guzzling down whatever bottles had been left by otherwise engaged Prancing Pony patrons. At least, this way, he wasn't drinking alone anymore. The odd snarl or two was unbeknownst to him, in fact. A subconscious reflex activating like clockwork every time a drunken couple roamed past his eyes. Lips parted in merry tune, ‘clanking’ their tankards together and grabbing at each other’s unmentionables from time to time. A little voice chiming in with its own informed commentary within the base of his skull, to boot.
‘That could be you, you know.’
Another snarl; could be? The Gondorian had had quite his fill of drunken mischief already this year. At least under the pretenses of what he engaged in it for. Passing distractions with momentary lovers offered little to soothe a soul of the damned; and damned he was, cursed with visions of the Raven ‘til he awoke the next morn from a drunken stupor. Thumping headache, and all. The memories had stopped fading away as of late. No amount of foreign liquor could surpass a beset feeling of loneliness that had assumed a permanent residence within him. No amount of skin, or breast, could ever replace the feelings of what ‘could be’. A man akin to surviving alone, relying only on his wit and his ever sharp tongue to explore the world, suddenly found himself at a desperate loss. Swinging across a chasm with a rope that had already begun to shred, and below this plane, of course, lay the void. An abyss that only she had brought him back from, stopping him from becoming a beast of his own creation. Yet even she was gone now; the sweeter memories naught more than another relic of his past to blindly worship. Yet another stranger to adorn the pages of his history. No different to the rest of them. No different to the Huntress-…
His ears pricked. His quipped lip settled. The unmistakable sound of a door closing shut rang a few bells through his mind, enough to relinquish him of self-pity for the time being. While the merriment continued, in walked the very sellsword he was after: a hulking man, garbed in brown, with the pelt of what appeared to be a wolf around his shoulders. Greying fair hair caressed the top of defined brows, below which a rather keen set of cerulean eyes stabbed around the room. That was until they locked with Dagramir’s own. What appeared to be a grunt left the other’s agape lips, before he made a beeline for the Gondorian’s table, offering a nod as he took a seat opposite. A smile reflexively formed on Dagramir’s lips as his character was brought back into the light: “Took you long enough…”
The older Rohir offered a half-smirk and an audible grunt as an initial response, before turning to more pressing matters. He grabbed at his leather gloves, unsheathing his reddened skin from the confines. With his hands now free, he turned to the satchel strapped to his side, unbuckling it to produce a crudely cut roll of parchment. With a deftly callous motion, he tossed the roll onto the table, before reaching over and snatching the younger man’s tankard and taking a hearty swig from within.
“Yes, please…go right ahead,” Dagramir mocked openly, his dry wit offering little to hide his bemusement. Naturally, he leaned forwards, retrieving the parchment and unfurling it before his eyes. Sparkles of blue danced around his iris as he slowly took in the information contained within. What appeared was a shoddily drawn map of the local lands, however black trails of ink plotted a course through the hills to the north, driving upwards to lands unknown. Brows furrowing at the lack of a complete trail, his eyes darted back upwards to take the Rohir back into full view. “...and where are they headed?”
The larger man paused mid-sip, stress lines creasing into place around the edges of his eyes. Clearly not entertained at the interruption to the quenching of his thirst. Slowly, the tankard stooped away from his lips, with a free hand lifting to wipe the back across his beard. Smoothing away the drips of whiskey that hung from the unkempt curls. “It’s Dataak,” the gruff voice reminded, “and ye’ll get tha’ information when ah’get me coin.”
Azure eyes narrowed towards the Rohir with some amount of distaste, though the time for lament would come later. Dagramir’s pale hand slipped off the table, reaching towards his belt. It was gone not a few moments, as soon it returned with a leathery-brown coin purse in tow. A quick toss and the pouch rolled its way across the table towards his brusque companion. “I won’t lie, Dataak, I expected better from the likes of you. ‘Ye olde keeper of the sacred oath’. Oh, the tales I’ve heard of the things you’ve been through…of what you have done…yet here you are still moping around this desolate place. Helping me t-“
“Let’s set this straigh’, ya wee ‘roach. The only reason ah’m ‘helping’ ye is because of wha’ should be on there,” Dataak impatiently jabbed a thumb towards the Gondorian’s breast, where the sigil of the Bloody Dawn still lay absent, “nothin’ more t’ae it. Ah’ve heard o’the likes of ye too, ‘Viper’, and ah’don’t like wha’ ah’m hearin’. But this is business. Consider i’ a favour for yer service t’the Dawn, but leave these lands in peace, eh?”
Dataak would have one last gulp of the final dregs of whiskey that was left, smirking, before slamming the tankard down onto the table. He would mutter the word "Kingsfell" before rising back to his feet and stepping away from the bench. With a turn of his back, he would have walked straight back for the door...however the smug, foreign tones of Dagramir would chip in, not to be beaten, a callous smile almost dripping from his pale features: “You know, the Dawn could use you still, Oath-keeper. Someone to remove the rot from within, rebuild the company in an image of grandeur. I bet you’d be doing dear Maydawn quite proud…”
A noticeable chill ran up the spine of the towering Rohirrim, requiring every muscle in his body to not answer the call of what would come after. His neck twitched a little, before he turned slowly, looking back towards the table where the delectable Viper sat. A snarl of his own gathered pace, fueled by an eagerly enamoured vitriol. “Be careful wha’ ye wish for, ye silver-tongued scut. Th’only rot I see is sat before me…an’ if ye ever dare to mention her name again ah’ll rip off yer cock and feed ye it…”
A few noticeable moments of seething silence followed between them, as the joyous chants of the other patrons had dampened in order to see what all the commotion was about. It was not until Dataak withdrew his glaring gaze to briskly stomp out of the Inn that Dagramir’s chest sagged with relief. The hand below the table that instinctively had begun caressing the hilt of his dagger released itself, and he waited ‘til the man had disappeared out into the wilderness before releasing a sigh. The other patrons shrugged with their usual truculence, returning to their banter. With no fight to observe, the night continued unopposed as the Viper continued to muse over the map he had been given. Quietly reminded of the pleasanter times he had spent north of the hedge-walls, he returned back to his clouding thoughts, musing over his next move.
The call of the siren had dimmed in its veracity. Urgency waning from his thoughts. At least, for now. Those questions could remain unanswered for the time being; something far stranger was beckoning his name...
