A crackling fire would be the sound to awaken Dagramir from his latest bout of unconsciousness; a soothing, homely sound that would no doubt swell his chest with warmth had it not been accompanied by a banging pain across his forehead. Pinpricks of light appeared to haze across his blurring vision, the Gondorian’s eyes struggling to adjust to the sheer darkness that would encapsulate his form. A strange sense of floating would accompany these new sensations – his body being propelled forwards into the glazed unknown. Was this another dream? He pondered such questions in his stupor, until the rough dragging of his legs spurred on his memory. The Snake had been captured after all. Rough hands wrestled with his biceps, pulling at his limp body closer and closer to the source of the light, a view he could scarcely make out through the black cloth that had been so rudely adorned over his confused features. A few choice expletives would fumble from his lips as he and his shrouded companions would reach their destination, the creak of a door and the blazing light that would spill forth, offering him a better glimpse at where he had found himself. They would enter a small cottage, dimmed in visibility save for the small hearth that had been lit and a few other smaller flames he could only presume were candles. With a less-than-smooth twist, he would find himself placed onto a chair, his arms roughed to his rear as he would feel his wrists adorn the latest in captive fashion. A few mutters could be heard as his captors deliberated amongst themselves, Dagramir held his head low – continuing to feign at least some form of incapacity.
“Why haven’t we just gotten rid of him, boss? We caught him red-handed! Gimme that knife and let me finish this-…”
“No! Steady yourself, son. Do you not know who this is?”
Even before the men stepped forth, he could feel their eyes prickling against his body. The hairs on his arms stood on their ends as he heard the creaking of floorboards, his eyes wincing as another dour hand would grab at the black hood on his head and yank it from his vision. Light stabbed its way across his retinas, cerulean blue orbs retreating as he did his best to adjust to his regained visibility. As the white haze would subside, he would peer up at the two men standing over him, scanning their faces to confirm his suspicions to their identities. These, indeed, were the men he had been tasked to chase down. The cottage was small and cramped, the usual Bree-land affair, though there was not much furniture to discern save for a table, another chair, and a peculiar chest sat right by the hearth; its contents spilling beyond the confines of a loosely fastened metal latch.How simple the contract had seemed when he had plucked it from the town noticeboard – “Retrieve stolen ring; BIG REWARD!”
Usually such a menial task would go unnoticed by a man more adept with his blades than panning for gold amidst the streets of Bree; however, there was something about this contract that stuck out to him. An engagement ring, the red-haired tavern maid had explained to him, and a special one at that – forged from the hands of her very own betrothed and containing enough value to have paid for their whole wedding, never mind sparkling on a woman’s finger. He, too, had been there not so long ago, experiencing the joys of a betrothal and all the delicate emotions that would come with. Excitement and anticipation. An intimate wedding held quietly amidst close friends; a rejuvenation of love for his children where he would, for once, play an active role as the father he never had. A sign, no doubt, of the cad’s softening ego that he would surely have to do something about. ‘The places we’ll go in our everlasting pursuits of true happiness,’ he would muse to himself. No matter. Little was he to know that such a job would take him into the hands of a few rogue Blackwolds that had been lingering in the area, their knives and grins sharp as they adorned him with childlike glee. Dagramir would muster a weak smirk, beading his eyes up at the tallest of the two (whom was usually the leader in these types of situations, he had found).
“You must know who I am, surely? Have none of your brigand-y friends told you tales of the infamous Black Vip-…”
The Gondorian’s boast would be cut to an untimely end thanks to the uppercut fist the tallest of his captors would swing into his gut. Even through the leather armour encasing his frame he felt the man’s knuckles dig against his skin, his abdomen rumbling against the blow, and he would bluster a few coughs as the wind in his lungs escaped him.
“Shut it, Snake! We know fine well who you are. And we also know fine well how much the Captain would like some time alone with you.”
“…time alone? He could have at least sent some roses to my door before going to all this troubl-…”
Another punch rippled through his sternum, the speed of which not even allowing him the time to brace himself. Nor did the second which would follow immediately afterwards, pain coursing across his abdomen as he spluttered for air. His head lurched forwards, his lips parting to allow a few strands of bloodied saliva to spatter onto the wood below him.
“I said shut it! We’re not playing any more of your games, Viper. We caught you red-handed, and now you’re gonna pay the consequences.”
Dagramir’s head would lull backwards, his eyes squinting as he stared at the thatch of the roof and the beams which would sprawl above him. His mouth would open as he would rasp for air, before a red-tinged smile would beam from beneath his lips. He had, indeed, been captured but, to the lack of his captor’s knowledge, this was entirely to his design. Knowing full well the men wouldn’t keep such valuables as ornate or feminine as a wedding ring on their person at all times, he had to find a way to locate their base of operations. Much to his delight, he had been taken straight to their small cottage on the outskirts of civilization, the darkness creeping through the windows and the lack of any real moonlight telling him they were somewhere closer to Far Chetwood than the hustle and bustle of Bree. As it turned out, it was all rather straight-forwards once his usually slight hands had been caught attempting to steal one of their horses from its hitching post and, further to his entertainment, there lay a bounty of loot waiting for his pale fingers to delve into within this very room. Now, of course, the only thing separating himself from success was the darned rope tied taut against his wrists and his two newfound companions who would glare down at him; the smallest of which appearing to have a bit of a confused glint in his hazel eyes as he perused him.
“That’s right, my friends, you did it! You bested me. Oh, how the mighty fall, truly. You should’ve seen me back in the day; I truly was a sight to behold once!”
The smallest would turn his eyes to his superior, who still could not believe his luck at attaining such a bounty and was busy coiling another fist to cut the Gondorian’s sarcasm short – confusion seeming rife within his higher-pitched voice as Dagramir’s hands would fumble against the ropes; the edge of his ring catching deftly against the edge of the knot.
“Boss! Why was he stealing our horses again?”
The larger brigand would pause before he would be able to make his swing, annoyance at the lack of meaningful physical connection and the intruding questions from his colleague.
“What does it matter, Burt? We’ve captured the damned Black Viper! Me ‘n you! Think of the gold we’re gonna get once we hand him over to the Captain, think of the glory! Just two little boys from Combe, we’re gonna be rich! Think of all the land we can buy, mate, think of the women-…”
They would both turn their eyes back to their captive, the glee on their faces all but evident until they were met with the pale man’s beaming smile. His hands would be held high, hovering either side of his head as his blood-soaked teeth and the gold of his wedding ring would glint against the flames of the hearth.
“Oh, don’t worry about those women, friend. I’ll take care of them.”
A few moments would pass, time would have appeared to come to a halt as the two men before him would realise their mistakes far too late for them to do anything about it. ‘Such a pity.’ Utilising this confusion to his immediate advantage, the Viper would coil into action, balling a fist and roaring forwards to collide a savage swipe against the smaller man’s nose; the crack of bone and the yell of pained surprise tingeing pleasantly in his ears. His first opponent would whimper, collapsing to the floor and holding onto the crimson which would stream from his face, crying out “My nose!” repeatedly, to no medical avail. His second, however, would have finally sprang into action, lurching towards him and taking a rough grab of his leather gambeson as they wrestled to the floor. It would take a further couple of angst-driven minutes, coloured to the sound of wounded Bree-lander, for Dagramir to finally slide his forearm beneath the crook of the man’s neck and press his other palm in the back of his head. Spluttering. Choking. A crude swipe of a hand at the pale man's eyes. Before long, his foe would find himself in a similar position to Dagramir only an hour prior – drool seeping from his agape mouth as the Gondorian would roll the man onto the floor beside him, before taking to his feet in triumphantly concussed fashion. He attempted to shake off the pain and the dizziness as quick as he could, eyes desperately scanning to spy the smaller man. Much to his dismay, however, all the was left was a small pool of crimson, the door to the outside world ajar as the brigand would make his escape.
“Bugger.”
Dagramir would not have a lot of time before the smaller Blackwold would be back, and this time with a lot more friends, so he had little choice but to coil into action. Retrieving what equipment he could from his fallen foe, he raced to ready himself before coming to a stop by the chest. Kicking the lid open, his prize sat glinting on top of a pile of mixed goods, cloth and silver lining the treasure before him. He smirked, before retrieving the item and as much else as the pouches on his belt could carry. His thoughts wandered to that of the young tavern maid and her betrothed who would be delighted to see the ring returned – a lingering thought upon that damned red hair. The actions of his pondered looting broken only by the sound of shouting in the distance, his eyes and ears prickling and his head shooting upright almost immediately.
“Bugger!”
With either his senses dulled from the concussion he had sustained, or his theories on the readiness of this band of brigands clearly mistaken, he had run out of time. As the unconscious brigand stirred and jolted into the land of the living once more, he would see only the back of Dagramir’s black scarpering frame as he darted out the cottage and into the open. The torches in the distance drew closer through the darkness. Four? Five? He couldn’t quite make out their number in the haze, and he did not want to stay long enough to figure out. His mind was ablaze with pain and confusion as it was, no doubt in need of a drink to soothe his ails as he so often was. With a wince and a triumphant holler, the Black Viper sprinted as fast as he could into the forest – a trail of angry brigands well in tow.
