Taala

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.

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.

Bored. That’s what he was. Bored. Mind numbing and endless boredom.

Confined to his bed in the most uncomfortable position, Taraborn lay recovering from his wounds. Narys had stitched up his back, tended to him and so on, keeping him fed and warm. But he was more or less confined to his bed unless he needed the toilet. Avoiding putting too much pressure on his back, and trying to not lay on his still tender rib cage, Taraborn was left laying awkwardly on his side the entire time.

"Can't I at least get a kiss?"

Dagramir would protest as he was persuaded, half-naked, towards the ajar window of a Bree-town house. First floor. Bedroom. As to be expected. The bare, young woman whose name he had forgotten amidst the heat of passion would have only giggled, before continuing her efforts to remove him from the premises, handing him his boots and shirt that had been rapidly discarded the previous night. Rays of the dawning sun beating against the glass, illuminating the scars of his back.

The shop was silent, empty, and dark when she stepped inside. This was of no concern to her for the hour was late and she was, at heart, a creature of the darkness. Tonight however, it was really rather comforting. After the bright bustle and the hectic merriment of the evening, she needed some peace in which to process all that she had seen and learned.

The days go by, the celebration of the Captain's daughter and her Dalesman draws closer. I am certain this occasion will fill my coffers just nicely if it goes as planned.