Through the mud and the twigs, Dagramir would crawl. A meandering black-clad frame worked its way quietly through the underbrush, clay and muck spattering across his leather gambeson as he slithered through the moss – arcs of rainfall lighting up the blackened world around him in a beautiful chorus. Downwards he would remain, his fingers and boots only stopping once he had reached a small crevice rooted out of the trunk of an unassuming tree; the pale man taking shelter from the wet beneath the meagre roofing of oak and leaf. He had truly lost track of how many hours he had spent lost within the confines of Far Chetwood. While the Gondorian was usually an adept explorer at travelling through townscapes at speed, a master of orienteering he was most certainly not. The rogue certainly not aided by the multiple groups of rather peeved brigands that were lighting up the distant darkness with their torches and curses. All of them consumed with one rather simple goal; finding the snake in the grass. There had been a few close calls, certainly, the foreigner using what novice skills he had to remain hidden until night descended upon the forest, beams of light through the canopy withering away into silence. Naively, of course, Dagramir had assumed that nightfall would allow such rabid groups to disperse and allow him to slink off into the glowing moonlight - as he so oft had in times prior. Something was different in this circumstance. Their numbers were large; larger than he had initially assumed considering the proximity to the villages surrounding Bree-town. More than this, they were brazen in their wild attempts to hunt him down through the forest. Far too brazen.
Snap.
His ears prickled, the hairs on his arms standing to a head. His muscles tensing beneath their damp leather frame. Cerulean blue eyes sharpened in an instant to try and discern the location of his would-be aggressor; an all too familiar hand deftly stroking its way to the hilt of the knife that would sit strapped into his belt. How had someone managed to sneak their way close enough to him like this? Was his fatigue from this ordeal truly to be the end of him? His thoughts raced home, his Raven forever calling to him in the distant reaches of his mind – his children’s faces painting across his thoughts, their gleeful smiles providing an instant touch of warmth to his heart even in the face of certain demise. Tiredness stabbed at his eyelids as his focus briefly adorned the ring upon his finger, the weight of a day’s action falling into dark circles beneath blue orbs. There was nowhere for him to run this time, his large frame still largely wedged within the confines of the tree – a decision he was regretting more with each passing second of midnight. He glared out into the dark, his free hand bawling to rub at his eyes in a rather uncouth fashion. Where was he? Where was the man who would die by his hand on this night? Dagramir blinked. His eyes refocusing upon the image he finally would become cognisant of. The gleam of eyes adept in the night; the red hair calling to him through the darkness; the perked ears attuned to his every movement. He allowed a small smile of relief to finally slide its way across his lips.
A fox.
The animal stared at him through the steady patter of rainfall, and the Gondorian was unsure whether he was being sized up as a friend or a feast. It was within their impasse that Dagramir would finally recognise the situation he had gotten himself into. The crevice in the oak a keen shelter for small creatures looking to escape the onslaught of perpetual downpour. Upon his closer inspection, he could see the water ringing through the fox’s coat – the pale foreigner not being the only creature in search of solitude on this miserable evening. It would be a risk to give up his position for the sake of the animal, those still burning on his trail, even in these conditions, could be anywhere within the black of his immediate surroundings. Waiting for a tired and aloof aging sellsword to stumble into their trap, and deliver to them a bounty that would see them moderately compensated. No, today would not be the day he would die. Not if he could help it, anyway. Slowly, Dagramir would sink his body further into the opening within the tree, relaxing his muscles and flattening his arms to indicate his peacefulness and general nonchalance to the fox in the hopes it would come to share in his shelter. The fox hesitated for a few moments. No doubt the heavy drum of rainfall onto its head and back giving it an internal dilemma. As the rain-filled silence would pass between them, the fox would bow its head slightly, sizing the man up, before turning and darting away just as quickly as it had arrived. The Gondorian would watch the red blur bob off into the evening, silent apologies ringing in his mind that the creature would have to find a new hole to hide in on this eve.
‘Red’.
The Viper scoffed to himself, lifting his legs and adjusting his body so that he could fit more squarely within the hovel. Trying to find some scrap of comfort within his newfound home for the night. That particular colour had continued to haunt him through the years; a ghostly, crimson apparition plaguing him from the night he had tussled with his father and thrown him from the balcony of his ancestral home. That damned red spilling through the stone on the street below. The very moment his life was wrestled from his hands and thrust into the aether. A scared young boy forced from the warmth of the hearth and thrown half-way across the known world to land unsteadily on his feet. Red the colour of the flames engulfing the home he had built himself; red the sparking colour of hair that a few of his former companions would sport. Blue eyes shifted, peering out into the beyond once more. He was in her territory at this very moment; a phantom which he had not seen nor considered for quite some time. A fruitfully troubled past shared between them, to the point where he could not recollect whether their last encounter was pleasant or prudent; was she still even here? The towering trees and verdant foliage surrounding them doing its best to provide him painful reminders of a life once lived. Since he had ran from that damned cottage, the brigands in tow had caused quite a ruckus in their endeavours to find him – their actions had surely not gone unnoticed, if even to those just passing through. Dagramir would sigh to himself. No, there would be no aid to assist him in this latest trying time. No band of brothers to paint the forest alight in his name, nothing save for the convocation of ne’er-do-wells which would haunt him until he could flee far enough away to return to the sweetness of milk and honey.
He would briefly consider closing his eyes in these moments; allowing the fleeting reminders of a warm home and a loving family to knead his mind into the land of dreams. His racing mind would allow no such thing, his tired eyes forcing wide in order to keep himself alert and awake. He would suffer no more intrusions on this eve; neither animal nor adversary. At the furthest reaches of his hearing, he would have sworn to whatever gods beyond that he could hear movement. Havoc reeking through his sleep-deprived mind, he promised himself to stay resolute in his defence of his position from any unknown invaders. His hand slipping back to the comfortable meld his palm would find against the hilt of his knife. Perhaps just a few seconds with his eyes closed? No, he would not bear it. For what if the fox would return? Bringing in tow a horde of angry beasts threatened by his presence within their realm, teeth and claws sharp with vengeance to rid the forest of the black-clad fiend pestering their trees. Or should one of the groups of brigands stumble upon his position, what then? What use is the infamy of his combative nature when the once fabled Black Viper is found dozing like a babe amidst the comfort of wet moss and damp bark? No, he must remain vigilant. He must stay awake!
Stay awake.
Awake…
