Hasharin

Full moon. Midnight. A few ragged breaths shake their way out into the crisp air of Bree. Spring was in full bloom. There was a lightness to the usually turbulent town. Talk of the upcoming festivities had lightened those whose moods had been soured by the recent civil unrest. But, between the peaceful windows, deserted stalls, and the usual drunkards stumbling their way out of the Prancing Pony, walked a figure. A figure marred with death itself.

"You killed them, Dagramir. They're dead because of you. Look back at all the rotting corpses you left in your wake. You deserve to die for the things you have done. Yet you failed to even kill yourself. Do you hear their screams, 'Black Viper'? Do you?!"