The Bloody Dawn

Fiontann, my friend,

I am in need of your help. I am not one to tangle my words, so I will come straight to the point.

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.

As Geth slept, Aeruthuil sat still in the grass to watch over their makeshift camp. His hood pulled down to his eyes and the bottle clutched in his hands he listens to the animals roaming the area. His eyes opened, looking down at the rings around his fingers reflecting the light of the moon before lifting the bottle back up to his lips for a long sip of his drink. He then closes his eyes a little, letting his mind wander to one the few memories he remembers clearly.

“What is it we are doing here Neyaa?”  That was the question he asked that led to that terrible fight that almost cost us our friendship. And now I pose the same question, ‘What is it we are doing here?’

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.

Deep in the night, in one of the rooms at the Pony, Taraborn lay awake in the dark. A warm, soft body is curled up against him, her coppery hair splayed across his chest and her breath light and faint. Narys’ presence would normally be enough to help him sleep almost instantly, especially after the rigorous fun they had had not long ago. But not tonight. Tonight, he lay awake, his mind contemplating life and what he wanted from it.