“That really all you got-?”
A cheeky tone would fall from Dagramir’s lips, contrasting to the current affairs in which he found himself meddled within. His lips parted, baring his teeth for a momentary smile that would find itself disrupted all too quickly as a clenched fist swung around to collide flush against his left cheekbone. The Gondorian’s head snapped to the side, the force behind the punch enough to knock him off balance. Feet stumbling backwards in an attempt to reconvene and reassess the situation at large. A fresh metallic taste suddenly ringing across his tastebuds.
There were two men left standing in front of him, their three companions having already been dispatched by the keen attention of his basket-hilted broadsword. Their bodies writhing in agony a few metres away, slashes across the breadth of their chests and backs having been enough to remove them from the equation - due to their lack of adequate armour. The snake managing a red-lined smirk as a result of such a sight. There were still two other problems with which he had to deal, however, the largest of which had already begun to lumber towards him once more; claymore gripped tightly by both hands. The other flanking to his side in a supportive formation. A sadistic expression twisted through the bandit’s features, darkened eyes hinting at the external forces of corruption that may well have taken hold of his shattered mind. He could sense something different about these men, something strange and unfamiliar. A darkness he hadn’t felt since he last wandered the wastes to the north. One that worried him then and worried him now.
Whatever mental notes he may or may not have been taking soon flushed out of his thoughts as the larger brigand roared, raising his blade upwards to strike a blow. Dagramir winced a little, before making his next move. He ducked down and to the right, the massive iron blade slicing through the air which he had occupied only a moment prior, as he coiled for his next strike. His digits flexing adeptly against the leather-wrapped hilt of his own weapon. As the brigand’s blade collided with the ground, the snake struck forwards past him, using the opportunity to unleash a flurry of slashes in the other cad’s direction. Having already used such a trick twice before, the lesson being learned through the loss of other members of their band, his opponents were more than prepared to respond in kind. Metal clashed repeatedly as the men fought, Dagramir slashing and stabbing with all his might in the hopes that he may find some form of opportunity. A few trickles of blood working their way out of the pocket in the corner of his lips, dribbling a gentle trail down the length of his chin and nestling neatly within the confines of his unkempt beard.
The odds were certainly no longer in his favour now that the element of surprise had been removed from the situation. His opponents now fully aware that they were dealing with a more than competent foe. He was constantly on the back foot amidst the spar, rather clumsily ambling this way and that as his mind raced to find a moment of reprieve. His gaze danced across the ground at every moment they were able, eyes widening slightly as he noticed a spare axe lying in the grass. With a few more attempted blows to knock his opponents backwards, allowing him a second of freedom to move, he made a dash for the fallen tool. His free hand grasping for its handle desperately as he ran, until the wooden frame sat taut to his palm. Taking a moment to ready himself, he shifted his feet evenly beneath the line of his shoulders, before he thrust the axe forwards; unleashing it from his grip to arc through the air until its head cleaved into the chest of his smaller foe. The man bawling out an agonized scream as he collapsed backwards into a heap. Dagramir smirked once more, although his amusement was certainly short-lived.
In the time he had taken to set himself and throw the axe, his final adversary had charged him - knocking him flat on his back and his sword out of his grasp. His ribs contorted to the sudden force applied to them, his muscles aching as they tensed in reactionary response. Realising he was now unarmed, he lurched to try to find his sword, only to be met with a swift leather boot crunching into his abdomen. Letting out a pained gasp for air, Dagramir doubled over on the ground, his body proving to be rather uncooperative in his attempts to retreat. Desperate to recover and provide some measure of offence. Unfortunately for the rogue he would find no peace as the brigand stood over him. An ugly laugh barking from his throat. The man dropped his two-handed weapon to the ground, almost in boast, as he trudged forwards.
“No’ so tough now, are ye?!” The bandit barked, clearly enjoying having the upper hand in the situation. The Gondorian’s groans of pain only providing him further entertainment. “Ah’ll give ye credit, Stone-man, ye put up a hell o’ a figh’! Proved t’me tha’ ah need t’ teach me brothers how t’ figh’ better.”
As the man continued to speak, Dagramir’s pulse raced in his chest. His throat clenching at the bitter flavour building in his mouth. Grasping his fingers into the dirt, almost as if to crawl even a tad closer to his fallen weapon, frantic in his motions. His stomach rippled with pain as he moved, knowing full well that the way was lost if he could not make it to his blade. Each grasp of mud beneath his fingernails only appeared to please his enemy further, who knelt to his side. Watching him struggle for a few moments more before burying the point of his knee into the snake’s abdomen. Shooting searing pain across his entire front as he writhed in agony.
“No, no… Ah’m no’ finished with ye yet.”
The Viper’s pale face managed to shift ever so slightly underneath the sudden weight, blue eyes blinking against the sunlight as he strained to look up at his aggressor. And the blows began to land. Fists bawled in fury rained down onto him, with Dagramir only able to lift his right arm weakly in defence. His stomach, his chest, his face. Burning with each savoured blow to his body. A feeling worse than pain quickly stabbed its way into his thoughts, however, as his body squirmed under the sustained pressure. Failure. He had been in worse situations than this, for sure, though something felt different this time. Weakness. For once, his luck had run its course. One name rang through his mind with each further contact made to his armour, his skin. He couldn’t die yet. He had to live. For her.
“Oi!” came a sudden cry, like a local angel falling from the heavens to rescue him from such a tired, hopeless situation. The woodsman had seen enough, barging through the previously barricaded door to the shrill sounds of his horribly dismayed wife and child. Dagramir’s neck strained backwards as the blows came to a halt, fresh bruising leaving his cerulean eyes in a permanent wince. From his upside-down view, his gaze latched on to the wooden object in the man’s grip. The crossbow which he had spied previously. Before the bandit could get a word out, whether in protest or further boast, the pleasant thwack of the string shot the chambered bolt forwards; a moment passed, and the missile inserted into the man’s chest, lodging just below his clavicle. At the shock of the situation, the Viper bore a blood-stained smile. This was his moment.
A grimace adorned his face, and he mustered the strength in his free arm to swing a sharp punch at the brigand’s groin. His foe snarling in pain and surprise at the sudden sickly feeling building in his belly. Having unbalanced his opponent, he sprung upwards at him, rolling their bodies over to take the top position. Pinning him down with an adept forearm to his neck, using the weight of his weakened body to assist. A newfound surge of energy and adrenaline pulsed through his veins, shaking through his very core as ghostly whispers treated his ears once final time.
‘Dagramir…’
There was no alternative. No other opportunity. He had to see her face again.
Dagramir roared aloud, a visceral call of anger, as he jammed his open palm against the adorned feather of the protruding bolt. Burying the object deeper into the man’s chest with a few painful wriggles to keep him rocked. His fists clenched; his blood boiled. No more. Crimson flowed in strings from his bloodied nose, spattering down onto the brigand’s confused and anguished face, before the Gondorian’s fists returned in kind. First, a singular blow. The metal studs fashioned to the knuckles of his gloves imprinting deep red crevices into the side of the man’s head. Followed by another. And another. Blow after blow, the snake ensured the incapacity of his rival, bones crunching in both their bodies as a result of the forces being applied. He couldn’t remember how long he spent laying waste to the brigand’s features by the end of his angry tirade. Exhausting all the power he could muster to deliver these final blows, ensuring his work would be finished. As his fists came to a sticky halt, jittering with anticipation and tension, he sat for a moment. Breathing quietly, before slumping down to the side. The world around him draining of colour ‘til all he could see was the brigand’s contorted face of agony…and then darkness.
The next few hours passed by blissfully for the snake. The woodsman who had come to his aide took up arms, seeing off the remaining brigands from his land. The brutal nature of Dagramir’s final actions ensuring that they wouldn’t dare to return any time soon. A job well done, as his limp body was dragged away from the stiff corpse of his final foe, loading him onto the back of a soon outbound cart. The woodsman seeing fit to remove the foreigner from his land, as to avoid any further questions from his ever curious and dumbstruck family. Eventually, he was awoken by the erratic jolts of wheels upon cobble, eyes fluttering open weakly to find a pleasant view above him. The sky passing across his gaze with melding tones of powder and periwinkle. A few fluffily arranged clouds grazing upon the open fields above. His body ached, and not for the first time in such a manner. Drained physically and mentally. As he had grown older, repeated injuries began to take longer increments of time to heal. He could feel the swelling mounting a case against the leather carcass of his armour, his hands locked open as they puffed beneath cloth and metal.
It wouldn’t have taken much longer, to his recollections, to have arrived just shy of the western gates of Bree. As the forester departed his horse, helping the injured man up to his feet and onto the road, there really were no further words to be spoken on the matters prior. He could see the quiet terror hidden behind his brown eyes. Not all men were beings of conflict. Not all brought up among the flames of tragedy and loss. He felt pangs of sorrowful shame that he had been the one to remove that bandage of innocence. But there was no other way. Peace was an illusion he had little time for anymore. His way was one of deceit and violence. A way that provided plentiful bounty. He managed a small smile as the man produced his payment, a healthily bulging leather pocket of coin. A solemn nod shared between them. There was no need to check, he knew it would be there. Knowing now that their shared endeavour had reached its end, he watched as the woodsman silently turned to make his way back to his horse, only to pause timidly as the foreigner spoke up for one last time. A new adventure awaited him.
“Hey, agh-… Before you go, I’d be a fool not to ask. You wouldn’t happen to have heard of a Madame Lafaye in your travels, would you?”
