The Black Viper

He was somewhere else.

Through the mud and the twigs, Dagramir would crawl. A meandering black-clad frame worked its way quietly through the underbrush, clay and muck spattering across his leather gambeson as he slithered through the moss – arcs of rainfall lighting up the blackened world around him in a beautiful chorus.

Stalks of grass and flowers alike would have bristled pleasantly to the guiding hand of the early morning breeze. The wind carving its way over the collection of dirt and stone that surrounded Nenuial; where picturesque landscapes had been butchered by the unstoppable ingenuity of man. The river which flowed below an undeterminable King’s feet seemed rather gentle this morn, to Dagramir’s keen eye. The Gondorian stood calm upon the edge of the withering bridge, feet spread evenly to the tune of his shoulders.

Blink.

Wooden beams stretched across a floral white expanse of painted framework that lay above Dagramir’s prone body. The contours of the roof hazed its way into his immediate attention as he did his best to return to his mind some form of conscious ability.

Blink.

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.

It was a misty, winter morning in the fair village of Towerglan. The sun shone brightly across the pale blue expanse stretching above the hills, gentle sparkles of reflection shining in turn from grass and cobble as frosted dew had begun to melt. Amidst the quiet air surrounding the settlement stood Dagramir, his dark-clothed frame sticking out sorely in the light of day as he settled outside the front door of his little cottage.

“That really all you got-?”