Narys

Deep within the usual content bustle of the Prancing Pony, Dagramir stood with his back to a barrel. Nestling comfortably back into his old, well-worn spot upon the framework of oak, he stood with a fair look of complexion upon his smooth features. In fact, the only real tell-tale sign of his confusion lay upon the orbs of his soul, the blinking dots of blue encased within his eyes, and the slight wrinkles that had began to crease beneath them.

"Damn bloody rain," she hissed under her breath, tugging the edges of her heavy, woolen cloak closer about her chest. The sky brooded its low, soot-colored clouds just above the trees, bathing the land in both shadow and drenching moisture. It would make for a glorious display of blooming wildflowers and budding trees in a few weeks, but for now, it was just plain miserable. 

Taraborn had never been happier, for he was home.

Not Minas Tirith, where he had spent his childhood with his father, or the Southern reaches of Rohan where he had spent the next few years of his life, learning the way of the soldier. Not even Bree, the town where he had settled down for a few years now. It was the longest he’d stayed in one place since childhood, but no, it wasn’t home.

A song recently heard in a tavern in Dale, accompanied by a simple, a slow but upbeat tune played on a lute by a foreigner.

The lass I love lives far away,

O'er mountains, through the wood,

How many miles I cannot say,

I’d be there now if I could.

Her skin is pale her hair is red,

Like fire in the evening light, 

I only wish to be in bed,

Beside her on this very night.

Her eyes they glisten pale and blue,

Each a bright and dazzling star,

A cool autumn sun was hanging low in the sky, a deep orange orb on a backdrop of purples and dark blues. Taraborn sat looking out at the red and pink clouds near the horizon, admiring them for a moment before his gaze returned to the road. Nothing moved, this road was barren for the most part. Occasional merchants traversed the land, but they were not many and it was possible to travel for weeks without seeing anyone else.

Taraborn sat atop his horse, Thunder, looking along the East-West road, the sun rising in the distance. A gentle breeze ruffled through his thick, black hair and he sighs with content. He was heading off on a new journey, not knowing where it might end. The road was enticing, and he itched to get moving once again.

"-...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.