Ashaia

Between the gentle patter of raindrops dancing against the cloth canopy above him, and the sharpened chill to the air that flowed around him, Dagramir sat unusually attentive one bright afternoon. Winter’s chilly grip upon the land had begun to wane, its attentions diverting elsewhere. A new season was dawning, one of fresh flowers and offspring alike. And, just so, his very own child sat on the ground to his front; knees bent, and attention taken.

‘Crack’.

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.

There was an eerie silence that had befallen the fair village of Towerglan. Nothing out of the ordinary, as the sun followed its usual path, coursing gently below the mountainous horizon as it always did. Lights flickered into being among the occupied houses, gleaming yellow candlelight painting misted windows into beautiful canvases, while their occupants slowly wound down for the evening.

As the sun nestled gently below the western horizon, splaying an obtuse array of luminous orange and purple across the sky, a dark figure slipped out from behind the stables of the Prancing Pony. Adjusting his ragged mustard hood with calloused hands, the man stayed a steady path to the south. There was nothing too inconspicuous about the cloaked figure, in fact, he was quite ordinary, aside from an incessant need to keep the identifiably rugged outlines of his features smothered in darkness.

The sun continued to beat down across the vast swathes of green blanketing the countryside. Spring had come, and swiftly moved along. Marigold and tickseed had began to liven up the soft shades of fern, sprouting delightfully through the brush, and the times of summer were beginning to take their gentle hold of the Bree-lands. While the light flourished across the land, a few beads of sweat dripped down a pale forehead, masked only by the straggles of ruffled raven hair that floated gently before it.

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.

There she was...

How long had it been?

Dagramir, himself, had lost count of the days he had spent in a self-imposed confinement within his own home. Or was it weeks? The windows purposefully blackened with charcoal so they may not distinguish any life that may have reeked from inside. Or was it months? The door jammed shut, despite any passers-by, potential scoundrels, or perhaps even concerned neighbours and kin clattering on the door to rouse some form of response. Or was it...years?