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.
If there was one thing that helped one to keep on the tips of their toes, it was the threat of the cold. Nothing sharpened the mind like the encroaching possibility of succumbing a finger to the frost. As such a man who enjoyed keeping his pale fingers out in the open, in order to maintain a more expert grip with the pads of his fingers upon whatever blade he should chose, he knew now that he had to be careful. The soothing air that continued to billow from his bearded lips did just the trick at giving his digits a brief blessing of warmth. As did a quick rub of his hands against one another.
The Gondorian wandered through the quiet streets of Bree, as the candlelight of the street lamps did their task of illuminating his grey-frame in a pale, yellow complexion. There was very little activity out in the cobbles at this time of the morning. The morning twilight was, in fact, yet to arrive. The odd skitter of a cat misplacing its paws on a fence, or the breeze billowing a hanging sign just enough to knock against the stone walls of a building, all that accompanied him on his journey to the north of town. His blue eyes lit up as he passed the boar fountain, his head purposefully choosing to look away from the feature, for his own reasons, and instead point upwards. His gaze caressing the cliff-edge above the stables of the Pony. With a smile, he took a few gentle moments to reminisce on the times he had spent up in those ruins. Thankfully, more good than bad. Choosing not to focus on the eerily-still body of Francheska that was one of many images that refused to slip from his psyche, instead, focusing in on the eve he spent with his 'sister' with a bottle of whiskey and naught but the clouds for company.
Blinking suddenly, his eyes averted to the cobbles below his boots. 'By Eru', he thought, 'I really must be getting old'. All he seemed to do these days was flood his mind with nostalgic wist and pleasant memories. How many winters had he spent on this earth? Twenty-sev-... Nay, twenty-eight now. His life could certainly be described as an 'eventful' one, to say the least, though at this current point he didn't have much on the surface to show for it, save for the everlasting tremors in his right hand. Perhaps that's why in recent months he had hungered for something more, longing for some form of legacy that, should the worst occur, he could leave behind to last the test of time. That was, of course, if the war didn't spill out all the way to the serene fields of the Bree-lands. He had his children, wherever they might have ended up, though it was unlikely any of them knew of the trials their father had faced.
One six feet below the Southern Bree-fields; one likely fighting for their life in the war-torn fields of Rohan; one of Raven-spawn that was likely anywhere at this point, should the whispers be believed.
Likely more, too. He chose not to think of all the potential blue-eyed bastards out there that littered Middle-Earth. Each as cocky as the last, and all with a story to tell. So perhaps it wasn't an incessant need to spread his seed through the lands; he had done enough of that already, after all. His thoughts lingered on something different, the...'what comes next' dilemma. If the plans he had begun to lay out before him were to succeed, and he were to sit atop the mountain of coin he lusted after in his dreams, with an incredible amount of power to boot...what exactly would come after that? Of course, he had to get there first, but the journey did not phase him. Instead, it was the prospect that he would sit there alone that gave his bones chills. A feeling of inertia, vertigo, that the only path that followed was, indeed, down.
Once fancying himself a King in need of his Queen, perhaps that was more his libido that was doing the talking all these years. Any woman he allowed a piece of his soul tended to utilize it in their own selfish undertakings. Everyone loved the tales of the romantic. Happy endings wrapped up in a neat bow, and a fairytale peck of lips between two heroes of their own regard. Maybe a trumpet fanfare to conclude a happy-ever-after. Nay, that sort did not suit Dagramir's ambitious vision of the future. He might well find someone by his side to face the world with once more, someday, however that was less important to him than securing himself an immediate future. Though there were still plenty of words that had gone unsaid. Visions of those once close to him whom he longed to see, to feel, to experience again. However, he had reached the end of his tether when it came to chasing people down. A lifetime of chasing skirts had left him hardened against such fantasies. Perhaps, one day, she would return to his side. Ultimately, it mattered very little in that current moment; especially when even he could not determine who 'she' might end up being.
Reaching his intended destination, the stables just north of the Prancing Pony Inn, he paused by the stone wall, scanning his surroundings. Scattered hay, a few docile horses over yonder, but nothing particularly out of the ordinary. A shovel, a rake, a-ha! A bucket. 'That'll do nicely.' The cloaked figure ventured forwards, moving swiftly to retrieve the wooden apparatus, before inspecting it. It was shoddily made, the nails holding the handle to the frame had began to rust, but it was still in working order. It would do for the task at hand, at the very least.
His eyes scanned his surroundings once more, before drifting off towards the horizon. The tendrils of light had started to creep over the hills, threatening to douse the courtyard in a pleasant wash of orange, alerting all to his presence out in the gloaming. The boy was nowhere to be seen; expected, of course, as Dagramir had chosen to arrive earlier than they had agreed. Taking these few anticipated moments he had alone to enjoy the peace, albeit the odd lowering of his head should the one or two straggling passers-by choose to scrutinise his location and, eventually, determine the odd-looking shadow in the corner was indeed a man.
Dagramir found his newfound penchant for causing mayhem with the teenage boy in question quite surprising, to say the least. He didn't quite understand what was compelling him to enable the boy's need for practical jokes and thievery, but he allowed it to continue unopposed. In fact, he was actively promoting such new behaviour at dear Barliman Butterbur's expense. He saw a lot of himself in the young lad. The tussled hair, smooth complexion, and steadily-building confidence, to name a few. 'Twas as if he was staring into an uncannily queer mirror. It was merely a decade ago that he, himself, was in those very same shoes. Scrounging for each and every meal as the nights passed. Thieving what he could from unsuspecting travelers, or, better yet, drunk sellswords who had fallen into a stupor. He did what he had to in order to get by, before he had to learn to adapt to the harsh realities that the world threw his way.
The boy was too young to have known real pain, and perhaps it was this innocence that Dagramir found almost...therapeutic. Allowing himself to enjoy the mischief and mayhem before the hurricane of consequences came swirling back towards him for its dues. At the end of the day, it really did not matter. As in a few minutes or so, the pair of them would be sprinting off back into the shadows, as Barliman would be removing a bucket-load of manure from his clothes. A wake-up call that neither of them would ever forget.
'Speaking of which.' As he blinked himself back into a conscious state, his eyes refocused and soon found themselves fixed upon the red-clothed figure that stalked its way towards him. Failing to do so in a manner Dagramir found particularly sufficient - especially for a boy he had plans to take under his wing - but he would learn in due course. With a quick, sharp exhale, he looked off instead to the Pony, honing in on a particular window. A few silent moments passed, before a light flickered into being, yellow swathes of light dulling the glass. Like clockwork, his plans continued to tick, to which he managed a slight smile.
All the feats he had accomplished in the past few months had hardened him to the wonders of simply being. He had existed solely for a purpose, as of late, and he was beginning to realise that he felt more like the spoke of a wheel than a free man. It would all be worth it, at least, so he hoped. However it was certainly nice to unshackle himself of such demands for a few days. The boy would prove adequate entertainment in the mean time. He might even manage to teach him a thing or two. For now, he would allow the vertigo to resume control. Dagramir adjusted his hood, before stepping out from his obscured position to meet his companion with a grin, brandishing the bucket with a wicked look in his eye.
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"This is where the fun begins!"
