Narys

Fuck 'em. Fuck 'em all.

Seems I've spent too often, in recent months, shedding tears and willingly letting my mind shatter, for what was never anything else other than a dead end. Oh, how could I be so foolish. I was better than this. I am better than this. So why am I crying right now? Where is there still tears lining my bruised cheeks.

It had been quite a peaceful little morning in the town of Towerglan. Home to the mercenary company known as 'The Bloody Dawn', and many of its forces. All was quiet, and serene. Birds happily floated their way across the valley, shifting from branch to branch in their usual daily routine. Lovely chirps being heard, as the sun rose over the nearby hills, beating down upon a picturesque village. And then, accompanying the gentle rush of water from the nearby waterfall, was a bang. Followed by another. Steady beats of metal ringing out through the valley.

Light marks on the fabric rolled across the table outlined the future cuts that were to be made. With the size of the pieces she would need, she considered using the long table in the main room, but this one in the shop would suffice for one at a time. After all, if there was one thing about Aeonid, he was large. Though she considered herself a little above average when it came to women’s heights, he was still nearly a foot taller than her and was no thin birch tree.

Blood. Dagramir had seen plenty of it, but there was something melancholy about the way this particular taboo liquid spurted out of the neck he had just drove his dagger through. Not his own, oh no, he had seen quite enough of his own blood in recent times to warrant at least a break from blood expulsion. No, the blood that now dripped down the ancient wall of stone before him belonged to the middle-aged local whom he held clamped in his grasp.

I don't think I've ever felt like this. Not truly. Not even with Tailia. My own fucking wife could not evoke such disdain, such hate. Yet this woman did. This fucking woman. Who the fuck is she? Was anything ever real? I doubt it. She made her decision. After everything we shared, after everything that I did, and gave up, for her...

Found:

Resolve.

He stole my bedroll. He stole my bedroll! I laughed until tears leaked from the corners of my eyes when I realised that.

Lacking anything warm or comfortable to protect my flesh from the rocks of the roads, I decided to go into town and see if I could find him to ask what he'd done with it. Of course he was nowhere to be found. I did, however, find a flyer documenting an inn just outside of town. Perhaps the rooms would be cheaper there?

Nothing quite like the kick of whiskey, eh? Nothing quite comes as close anymore, ‘less I have a blade in my hands. Perhaps the kick of life, but, recently I've found myself less 'kicked' and more stampeded upon by horde of, let's say less than pleased, oliphaunts. But, I digress, I can't say things haven't been interesting lately.

Full moon. Midnight. A few ragged breaths shake their way out into the crisp air of Bree. Spring was in full bloom. There was a lightness to the usually turbulent town. Talk of the upcoming festivities had lightened those whose moods had been soured by the recent civil unrest. But, between the peaceful windows, deserted stalls, and the usual drunkards stumbling their way out of the Prancing Pony, walked a figure. A figure marred with death itself.

Deep in the night, in one of the rooms at the Pony, Taraborn lay awake in the dark. A warm, soft body is curled up against him, her coppery hair splayed across his chest and her breath light and faint. Narys’ presence would normally be enough to help him sleep almost instantly, especially after the rigorous fun they had had not long ago. But not tonight. Tonight, he lay awake, his mind contemplating life and what he wanted from it.

Wandering through the markets of Bree-town, Dagramir perused the wares with keen eyes. Scoffing at the brazen proclamations of "The best swords in all of Eriador!", and stifling back laughs at the weird and wonderful items on display of the stalls of Bree. He took in the fresh air, hands clasping comfortably behind his back as his mind would drift to memories of old.