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. A brief goblin hunt, and a trip to the home of Taala and Eroforth left him in somewhat of a happier state. Certainly more content, by all means. He had an absence of friends in recent years, and knowing that he had people there to fall back on.. It solidified his choices of settling in Bree. He still felt the troubles of opening himself up to other's inspection, evidenced by his dismissal of past events as Taala enquired about the burns stretching from his chest to his bicep. Not so much an issue of trust, as he knew he could lay his life in the hands of the troublesome duo, but. More so embarrassment. There was a lot that the young man of Gondor wanted to leave in the past, away from prying eyes, because the mention forged his features into a grimace with the consistency of stone.
But he was happy, for the time being. Newfound companions catching his ever-piercing gaze. Narys, of course. Encounters with the likes of Lisbaeth, and Yeornya. Made the overwhelming urge of alcohol numb in his mind. For a time, at least. The 'little firecracker' was the first to notice his affliction. Dagramir refused to call it an illness, or an addiction, or any other silly name for a simple problem. But a problem it was, all the same. Her astute understanding, and subsequent gestures of friendship, was enough to set off the cogs of his mind. Albeit with a bit of dust exhumed from the machinery. One prying pair of eyes not quite enough to make him drop the bottle like a religious zealot, and go meditate in the confines of the surrounding hills, but it was enough to make him think. Between casual chatter, and the odd mention of the nude Eroforth whom would lie, unconscious, in the bedroom, conversations led to the topic of marriage. Tailia. He hated saying her name, only for the feelings that were dredged up from the abyss upon mention. 'Crazy bitch' would perhaps be his only thoughts of her, if one were to ask. But more affectionately, he still found himself pining for her company in the darkest of hours. Like the fool he is.
Love. What a curious feature of life. The binding force of the world around them all. The silent urge at the back one's mind to perform actions the normal man would presume to be insane. However incompatible the pair ended up to be, the affections that burned for Tailia had not dimmed since her passing. Somewhat to his dismay, but he cared little for what was the general consensus on their bond. He loved the bitch. As did he love their daughter. Never given the chance to fulfill his duties as a father, that would always be one of his greatest regrets. Though, thoughts of his departed family aside, something laying upon a stall caught his eye. A long overcoat, of a somewhat burgundy colour, shone out and caught his keen gaze. The coat lay, dusty, across the arm of a crooked chair that was on display. Immediately making a move straight for it, he lazily tosses a few silver coins to the stall-keep, much to their delight, and carries it off with him through the crowds of the early morning rush.
Death. What an elaborate feature of life. The ever approaching storm of mystique and wonder, one no man has ever been able to conquer. Not that he wouldn't fancy himself to try and be the first. Such a bittersweet endeavour life truly was. Walking out past the hedgerows of Bree, Dagramir takes the long stroll through nature, out to the west. Taking time, and care, to pick out an assortment of flowers as he would travel. And then, upon reaching the tree shading the two mottled patches of grass, he would sigh. There they lay. His wife. His daughter. At a spot of natural beauty, no less. Setting the bundle of flowers down between them, he lets his fingertips run along the grass. For the first of his many visits to their fateful resting place, he had no words to say. Only melancholy chimes of regret seeping over his thoughts. The final chains that tied him to his past lay six feet below his trailing overcoat. And it was time to let go. Slowly, a hand snakes to his neck, and he would slink his chain from around his neck, over his head, and into his gloved grasp. Toying with the wedding ring for a few moments, mulling over old thoughts in his head, he gently lays it across the grass. It would be a lie to say his eyes didn't well up during those brief few moments. That a couple of stray tears didn't float gracefully down the light of his cheek. That he didn't falter in his movements before their graves. But it was the right thing to do. A father, and a husband, he was no longer.
Only a man.
A man with a mission.
Standing quickly, a faint murmur of "I love you." flowing naturally from his ajar lips, he turns and, rather poetically, walks off. Those three words. Such meaningful, life-ending words. A recurring grimace would take hold of his lips, and he would fight the overwhelming urge of looking back. Successfully, this time. A chapter of his life, finally sealed. There were more pressing matters to attend now, ghosts of the past could hinder him no longer. Time heals all wounds, as he himself very well knew. Even the wounds of the dead. Overcoat trailing at his sides, he makes a beeline straight for Bree, only to avoid second-thoughts of returning. Thoughts wandering, as they ever do, his attentions are brought to a more pressing matter. Finding a companion for the night. Such was the continuous trial for the wanderer. Though such thoughts of a bed-warmer were distracted by his collision with Narys the previous night. Certainly enough to give him pause for thought on the subject. Kynaston's words of wisdom ringing in his ears. The anarchist within him wished to run and find her. To achieve what? Perhaps continue his devilish flirtations. To throw her in his grasp, and place his lips upon her's. To enrage a man he barely knew, drive out the most animalistic forces from him and feed his own ego. But what good would any of that do? He didn't quite know. Though something about such thoughts seemed to amuse him. The chaos. The drama. Delicious, and digestible. The pacifist within him, however... Is, of course, non-existent. But surely he wasn't going to be one to cause trouble, at least, not this time. Though, what else could he do? He wouldn't be cherishing the memory of his 'sister', Annsuel, if he chose to be civil all the time. Civility the first step in one's neutering, and subsequent submission, to society, after all. Oh, the trouble they caused, bottles of whiskey in hand. What would she tell him to do?
"Hmpf."
Jealousy. What an amusing feature of life.
