Ashaia

It certainly hadn't been the best few weeks of Dagramir's life, by any measure.

Not that he was one to have great weeks as a man of a certain repertoire, where he was used to being within inches of certain death by sword, or the hands of a scorned lover. Or even a scorned lover's lover. But he was beginning to feel the world turn against him one moment at a time, and the hole he usually slipped back down into when things turned sour was looking so awfully tempting.

"-...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. 

Chirp! Chirp!

As I sit here beneath this tree, staring out at this desolate place above the Trestlepan, I can only wonder on the nature of fate itself once more.

What a turbulent few days, these past moments have been.

Found:

A new plan!

Today has been interesting.

Neyaa. Dear, darling, delectable Neyaa! Oohhh, that woman!

A rolled length of neat parchment, clearly expensive paper, denoting some form of wealth. Sealed only by a tied ribbon of crimson, the knot held down by a stamp of black wax. A coiled snake contained within the void-like circular impregnation. Upon unfurling the document, it would read:
 

Dearest Ashaia,

There was something almost melancholy about the scene that lay before Dagramir’s sleepless eyes. Ashaia lay, as she always did, half of her body splayed out on top of him. Her leg draped over his, almost possessive in her sub-conscious. Her arm lay over his abdomen, and his arm lay over her own. Bare of clothes, naught but their bodies and souls left for each other to gaze upon.

Found:

The floor! Hah!

I've begun to walk! It's not fast and it's not far - perhaps a few steps at most - but I can carry my own weight, unsupported, briefly before I fall flat on my face. It's not much, but it is progress! It's proof positive that I can come out of this entire ordeal intact, that I can get on with my life in spite of them.

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.