Black Viper

A crackling fire would be the sound to awaken Dagramir from his latest bout of unconsciousness; a soothing, homely sound that would no doubt swell his chest with warmth had it not been accompanied by a banging pain across his forehead. Pinpricks of light appeared to haze across his blurring vision, the Gondorian’s eyes struggling to adjust to the sheer darkness that would encapsulate his form.

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.

An almost beautiful fog of breath blew out in front of Dagramir's shadowed features. A plume of misty smoke that denoted the season of winter was very much upon the fair town of Bree, if it had not already arrived. He was not one to keep up with the calender, however, he welcomed the new nip to his fingers like an old friend.

"You killed them, Dagramir. They're dead because of you. Look back at all the rotting corpses you left in your wake. You deserve to die for the things you have done. Yet you failed to even kill yourself. Do you hear their screams, 'Black Viper'? Do you?!"