Audun

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?

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.