‘Crack’.
The sound of a twig snapping in twain almost appeared to echo through the woodlands to the east of Bree. The brown boot that had planted into the brush stayed vehemently still, and its occupant cursed under his breath in the tongue of the Elves. To his front a young stag had perked up from its prone position, ears twitching as it tried to distinguish the nature of the noise; eyes beading as it looked for any potential threats, its fight or flight responses kicking in to the gods' perfection. Dagramir stayed still, his muddy green attire hidden partially from sight thanks to the cover of the trees. His steely blue gaze focused solely on the animal a little further down the gently-sloped hill from his position. White fingers adjusting ever so slowly to take a tighter grip upon the ash-wood bow that lay in his possession.
He had never considered himself a hunter, per say. Growing up amidst the wealth of Minas Tirith had burdened upon him a certain sense of entitlement. One that came almost as a birth-right, inherited through only the purest of blood. Though back in the time that that mattered, his pale hands were also clean - almost pretty, in a way - with not a callus to note. Harbouring a skinny frame beneath noble robes of magenta, hiding naught but his skin, let alone the scars he would come to bear. His eyes chalk full of vigour, the deep-set oceanic blues inquisitive in their sparkling nature. How pitiful they would have felt had they known the haunting, deathly stare they would come to bode. However there was many a trade that he was not familiar with in his younger years. Becoming intimately familiar with the nature of human anatomy was but one small step in his hunger for knowledge, a desire he burned into the use of his weaponry. The once proudly posh child would not have survived the journey halfway across the world had he not beaten an everlasting mantra into himself. Be it to stab, scratch, or claw his way to safety: he would not succumb. He would survive. Weaknesses had to be lashed, stripped of their very being, and erased from existence else he fall to the grave. A rather bleakly poetic view on the world, of course, but, at the very, least it worked.
The corners of his eyes creased, his eyesight straining, focusing in on the animal before him. The simple iron arrow that had lain still against the shaft of his bow stuttered slightly, before the string found its nock. The young buck, satisfied that it was in no immediate danger, returned to foraging from the ground, and Dagramir began to make his move. His feet travelled slowly, edging his crouched frame forwards to take a better vantage point, the spattering of mud across his tunic and pale skin doing well to blend him as best as possible to the hill. Camouflage, at least, was something the Gondorian was well-versed in. Transferring his knowledge of man to beast was an easier transition than he had first thought. Men were naught but beasts themselves, of course. Dragging on clothing, and shaving off excess hair, did little to change that. Unlike men, however, it was much more difficult to close the distance between a man and, well, a deer, or any other creature for that matter. Where he excelled in his deft handling of the knife, he struggled with the surprising intricacies of the bow. A short smile graced his muddy features. ‘Narys would’ve had this bastard down by now,’ he thought to himself.
That damned woman.
Her face had been absent from his mind for so long, he had half thought that she had ended up dead…or worse; married off. The last time she had graced his eyes was before that of the Raven. Choosing to set aside a youthful blaze of lust for the chance at a legacy; allowing the huntress to once more roam the lands free to be pestered by any other slightly less handsome wanderer. And yet, there she was: standing dumbstruck at the sight of him in the Prancing Pony, of all places. No longer did he see that fiery, lustful teenager. Instead, in her place, stood a hardened young woman. Evidently they had both seen their fair share of the world in their absence from each other. Though that did not even seem to matter, for the horrors that had beset his eyes could not diminish the rekindling of their conversation, slipping back into old habits as if those years were naught but a rub of the eye. Everything different; yet everything still the same. Unavoidable as it perhaps may have been, to harbour such a neutral conversation when the freshest memory he held was one of such stark emotion, it felt a little…odd. Though even the huntress could not save his thoughts from falling back towards the very same siren-...
‘Shit.’ His eyes twitched. The deer had already begun to wander further down the hill, heading straight for the nearby clearing where a stream of water cut its way through the brush. His pale fingers clenched tightly onto the ash-wood bow for a moment, squeezing against the frame to stifle his frustration, before he made another move. Already eyeing a shaded position by a nearby tree, he slithered for a new vantage, a deadly sheen misting his eye. With the buck preoccupied, sipping delicately from the flowing water, it was now or never. Steadying his hands, he nestled downwards, before raising the bow slowly. His left eye clenching shut, and his fingers reflexively pulling back upon the string.
“Dagramir?”
His ears twitched, though his sight remained locked upon the animal. The ghostly voice of Ashaia echoed through his mind, bouncing around the frame of his skull with a veracious force. His fingers relaxed slightly as he struggled to make sense of it all…though he would not be beaten. Grunting quietly, he refocused his psyche, and pulled the arrow back once more, the string kneading a callused line across his digits as the deer slowly lifted its head in confusion.
“Dagramir?!”
It couldn’t be. Could it? No. He had been through this before. It was naught but a test, a wraith that existed only to torment him, to make him stronger. She couldn’t be here… In the corner of his eye, black spots began flashing amidst the hazy trees. Darting this way, and that, before smoothing together to form a crudely-shaped figure just a few metres to his right. His knuckles turned white in their aggression, his focus flushing away at an alarming rate. Tremors began to shake their way through his body, before the tension could no longer be held, boiling to a sudden climax.
“Dagramir!”
With a loud yell, his fingers released their hold on the string, the arrow flashing forwards towards its loosely-held target. The simple projectile flew true, whistling straight over the animal’s head before lodging into a tree at the other side of the stream. Dagramir spun around on his knees quickly, coming to a stand as he turned to face the figure, a hubris anticipation boiling in his eyes. The apparition, however, had vanished just as quickly as it had appeared. The trees around him sat empty, leaves and bushes swaying with the gentle wind that the spring had brought. His brows furrowed as he turned back towards the stream, only to see the rear of the buck darting quickly back into the cover of the treeline and off into the distance. His lips pulled taut as he wrestled with his emotions however the lid had already been lifted. With another scream he threw the bow at a nearby tree and, to the resulting sound of a loud ‘knock’, he dropped back to his knees. His hands raced upwards, gripping tightly onto the black waves of hair just beyond his forehead, his fingernails threatening to dig into the pale skin that lay beneath his roots.
There was nothing he could do. For the siren that threatened to drive him mad refused to leave him. A burning hatred turned wistful love was all he had left to reminisce over. While she had disappeared physically, the thought of her followed him wherever he went; keeping him in a stranglehold he could not hope to escape. Travelling the roads alone in his absence, drinking himself into stupor after stupor, and taking many a beating had not brought him any measure of peace as they usually did. The mere thought of her name brought trembles back to his fingers, knowing that she was out there, somewhere, evading him. The Viper, a once free spirit, brought down by a poison of his very own creation. The longing continued to wash over him in swathes, allowing him to remind himself of his cocky confidence before washing it all away once again; back and forth, becoming as certain as the waves in their gentle, destructive nature.
His fingers relaxed slowly, and his head lifted to breathe out a slow sigh. The huntress, at the very least, signalled the eye of the hurricane. A stalling of the storm to allow him to breathe just that little bit easier. There were so many questions he could not answer, yet his mind demanded the knowledge. He needed to find the Raven once more, somehow, someway. What followed? He could not yet envision. However the plan remained set and, in the meantime, he knew he had to strengthen himself for the approaching storm. Whether that be through the medium of archery, or finding new souls to bare his thoughts to, he had to evolve. Distractions were all he had left, otherwise. Grimacing tightly, he scrambled over towards his fallen bow, retrieving it back into his grip, before scarpering off in the direction that his prey had retreated.
He would not succumb.
He would survive.
