Audun

It had been quite a peaceful little morning in the town of Towerglan. Home to the mercenary company known as 'The Bloody Dawn', and many of its forces. All was quiet, and serene. Birds happily floated their way across the valley, shifting from branch to branch in their usual daily routine. Lovely chirps being heard, as the sun rose over the nearby hills, beating down upon a picturesque village. And then, accompanying the gentle rush of water from the nearby waterfall, was a bang. Followed by another. Steady beats of metal ringing out through the valley.

Blood. Dagramir had seen plenty of it, but there was something melancholy about the way this particular taboo liquid spurted out of the neck he had just drove his dagger through. Not his own, oh no, he had seen quite enough of his own blood in recent times to warrant at least a break from blood expulsion. No, the blood that now dripped down the ancient wall of stone before him belonged to the middle-aged local whom he held clamped in his grasp.

I don't think I've ever felt like this. Not truly. Not even with Tailia. My own fucking wife could not evoke such disdain, such hate. Yet this woman did. This fucking woman. Who the fuck is she? Was anything ever real? I doubt it. She made her decision. After everything we shared, after everything that I did, and gave up, for her...

Sunlight finally breaks through the cloud of mist that inhabited the small hide-away's main window, and rays of light flood into the room. A mess, by all accounts. Scraps of text, and books, lay scattered across a desk. A pot spilling its inky contents onto a parchment which may have held information one could deem important, but now was  blotched with black. Words lost to the will of the void. As the light works its way steadily into the room, caution thrown to the wind as the room's contents are revealed to the world, a scarred body lay still upon the bed.

Nothing quite like the kick of whiskey, eh? Nothing quite comes as close anymore, ‘less I have a blade in my hands. Perhaps the kick of life, but, recently I've found myself less 'kicked' and more stampeded upon by horde of, let's say less than pleased, oliphaunts. But, I digress, I can't say things haven't been interesting lately.

Full moon. Midnight. A few ragged breaths shake their way out into the crisp air of Bree. Spring was in full bloom. There was a lightness to the usually turbulent town. Talk of the upcoming festivities had lightened those whose moods had been soured by the recent civil unrest. But, between the peaceful windows, deserted stalls, and the usual drunkards stumbling their way out of the Prancing Pony, walked a figure. A figure marred with death itself.

Wandering through the markets of Bree-town, Dagramir perused the wares with keen eyes. Scoffing at the brazen proclamations of "The best swords in all of Eriador!", and stifling back laughs at the weird and wonderful items on display of the stalls of Bree. He took in the fresh air, hands clasping comfortably behind his back as his mind would drift to memories of old.

"Can't I at least get a kiss?"

Dagramir would protest as he was persuaded, half-naked, towards the ajar window of a Bree-town house. First floor. Bedroom. As to be expected. The bare, young woman whose name he had forgotten amidst the heat of passion would have only giggled, before continuing her efforts to remove him from the premises, handing him his boots and shirt that had been rapidly discarded the previous night. Rays of the dawning sun beating against the glass, illuminating the scars of his back.