Deep within the usual content bustle of the Prancing Pony, Dagramir stood with his back to a barrel. Nestling comfortably back into his old, well-worn spot upon the framework of oak, he stood with a fair look of complexion upon his smooth features. In fact, the only real tell-tale sign of his confusion lay upon the orbs of his soul, the blinking dots of blue encased within his eyes, and the slight wrinkles that had began to crease beneath them.
If one were to have happened upon the man, they might well have passed off the sight as something entirely within the ordinary. His stance was relaxed, one leg hooked forwards around the other. A mug sat to his side upon an adjacent barrel, its half-drunk contents fermenting within the warmth and chatter of the dainty inn. One of his white forearms lay gently across his ribs, almost coddling his body in a manner similar to that of an infant, however the other pointed forwards. Outstretched, with the palm agape, and a silver sigil held gently within the dexterous grasp of the pads of his fingers. Against the mellow gleam of a nearby hearth, glinted his weathered badge, the crimson emblem denoting him a mercenary of The Bloody Dawn, the silver broach further proclaiming of his status within the company.
'Sergeant'.
At least, so he was at his last recollection. In his honest truth, it had been so long since he had even spoken to any of his compatriots. he wouldn't have been surprised if upon his return there wouldn't be a position for him any longer. Gone were his previous ambitions of grandeur and power, replaced only by a nagging lack of purpose. Once upon a time, there stood a dark-clad man with ambition to rise through, and subsequently take over, a well-established clan of hired swords. Previously, his plan had been working ever so well. Lining himself up as a prospective second to his Captain, and who knows where his journey might have taken him then. Or, well, at that point, it was them, of course. A duo that had thought they could stand the test of time, and the onslaught of history itself. The Raven knew of his plans, of course, which he could only presume had led to his downfall. Tangles with the red-haired Huntress of yore, with allies soon revealing their sharp devil-forked tongues, the Gondorian's grasps for power were ill-met. Gone were the days where the keen vigour of a dagger could solve his problems for him. A fateful meeting upon a cliff by the river Trestle made sure of that.
Following that day, his heart lay with something else, something he, and his father, had very well thought impossible.
Duty? No. His only duty was to the protection of his Raven, and their child-...
Respect? No. The tales of his moniker's adventures were common-tongue, there was no longer any room for respect, in either direction of the lane.
Honour...? Perhaps.
That particular word suited the feeling in his gut the most. Not unlike the honour he used to share amongst the thieves and brigands and braggarts of the world, except this time it was stemming from an unfamiliar source. There was some measure of admiration hidden between the secret aspirations for power. This ragtag group of misfits had managed to win his heart, through his years of service. Whether or not his initial intentions were of the devious sort, he had finally found a place to belong within a world of flying shit and unsteady masonry.
Following the crumbling destruction of a once fervent love, and his departure from visible world, he truly no longer knew where to place himself. Seeing Ashaia, and the presence that lay within, only further worked as a cause of deviation from his already off-beaten track. Was there still a place for a man, once a legend of his own creation, now a worn outcast of pitiful origin, in any sort of position of power or influence? The empire he had once stood atop had burned to cinder over the years, the connections he had once held throughout his domain now dormant beneath waves of forgotten trust. The mask of his own deity lay buried... somewhere. Even the name of his father had began to slip from between his calloused, pale fingers.
Was he truly still a 'Viper'?
Or was he naught but a shell, an imprint of what once was?
The man had gone through so much pain, seen so much misery, heard the screams of the damned, and had his skin seared by hellfire itself. Still, he stood there to smile and recount an exaggerated tale. A body broken, and mended, more times than he could possibly count, or very well remember. A mind that had been shattered to pieces, and brought back from the brink of the abyss. A heart that had been carelessly placed for the length of his knowledge of breathing. However, pity was never something he had sought out. He knew, himself, that the pains he had been inflicted was the result of his own sins. The everlasting ride of his life was the decree of something much greater than his mortal mind. That his affliction would never truly end until he had done something... better.
But much like all deities of grand design, the spoken word never came. So, what else was a man to do but coast through his life, 'til decreed otherwise. He was once foolish enough to believe that she was the message sent from above. The last time he had consulted himself, he was still the fool he always was, so...
Snatching the sigil into the clench of his white fist, the corner of his lips tugged ever so slightly. If he was ever going to find his groove back, the first step of his journey involved one thing: the immediate cease of his self-pity. The second step took him back home.
To her.
