Tall he was, standing at 6ft2” with thick, lithe muscles to match, giving him a toned, athletic appearance. A mop of curled, sandy blonde hair rested lightly on his head, often in a slightly dishevelled, careless manner, yet somehow the slightly scruffy aspect made it look all the more attractive. Bright blue eyes the colour of a deep forest pool centred his face which was dominated by two large, poignant cheek bones. In all, one could consider that he was quiet the handsome man. I would know, I have seen and loved every bit of his beautiful body.
Ours was an interesting relationship to say the least. We lasted the full extent of one month – my longest ever relationship apart from Bucke and Threland. In public, he would show me off and we would get drunk – the honour of catching “Slippery Sefa the drunkard” being used in an attempt to gain him street credit. In private however, that was where the real “fun” was to be had. You see, we used to spend almost our entire time either in bed, snogging the faces off one another or he used to beat me to a pulp. The bruises I sported for that month were impressive to say the least. Joran used to get somewhat riled at the man and not surprising really, yet I stuck with him – for a goodly time at least.
Eventually however, it became too much. Row after row after beating after beating followed in a monotonous cycle of misery until I could handle it no more. I knocked him out. I dragged him into the middle of Dale in the night. I stripped him of his clothes and I chained him up in the middle of the square. I always loved the convenience of Joran being a member of the watch. By morning he awoke stark naked, chained and with a crowd of people staring at him gormlessly. The only issue with this move was the mild death threat that followed but I hooked up with Joran for two weeks and he protected me well enough.
I remember my last encounter with him before leaving Dale. We were in a seedy little tavern in Dale, both on separate tables and with different groups of people. Suddenly, and quiet without warning, the whole place erupted into a fantastically spontaneous barfight with everyone at everyone else – the kind which is so rare in tame old Bree. After a good ten minutes or so of brawling, two of us remained – Dyrus and me. We flung ourselves at one another, beating the heckington nellies out of each other until both of us went down together, knocking the other one out.
The next time I saw him was in a room filled with slavers, slaves and horror. Yet he I would forgive him for any evil deed that may have brought him to work for Aedia and her ilk. He saved my life. He saved Favarth’s life. He tried to save Qwin’s life…who knows it that worked. It is amazing how a single arrow fired in the space of a few seconds can end a creature so beautiful. Farewell dear Dyrus, I hope that you find peace in your final act of valour for though you were cruel to me, you were still dear to me.
