Dagramir

‘Dag…’

“Who goes there?!”

‘Crack’.

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.

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.