I Hate People - Dorrin and Nadeann

~Dorrin~

“Can we please talk about this?” Dorrin protested as he was led through the woods. His hands were securely tied together and his sword was currently in the possession of the man who was pushing him further into the forest. The man was with two other people, both of which had severely bruised faces. The two beaten men were the reason for Dorrin’s present predicament.

It had all started when Dorrin found them going through his things at the inn he had been staying at. When they saw him the two men protested that they had thought the stuff had been abandoned and they did not know that anyone still claimed possession for it. Unfortunately for them Dorrin was a man who had long ago lost all trust in the goodness of people as well as the justice of the guards, which was why he proceeded the pair the worst beating of their lives.

However as he was giving Pat and Sam his version of justice their compatriot Landel snuck up behind him and knocked him out with a beer bottle. When Dorrin awoke he found himself tied up and without his sword. From the men’s muttering he soon realized that they planned to beat him to death, a plan that Dorrin firmly disagreed with but did not have much say in.

They took turns thrashing him with their fists for about an hour when Dorrin finally managed to untie himself. He managed to do this mostly because of luck, for as he was walking he had managed to grab onto a sharp stick which he kept hidden. His captors shouted in surprise, but even in his condition he easily managed to retrieve his sword. Ot was at this point that they ran away from him.

Dorrin began to give chase but the intense punishment his body received finally registered. He abruptly fell to the ground almost unconscious, “I hate people, I hate all people!” he mumbled angrily as he wondered which animal would decide to eat him once he could no longer keep his eyes open. He doubted that it would be long, already it hurt intensely to breath and his eyes were nearly swollen shut.

~Nadeann~

Her lute made a sonorous sound; simple chords, plucked once, twice, three times in complex chords that sounded far more complicated than they were.  Legs wearied with age and fatigue had trudged the length of these lands and a bit beyond and still the sounds of her lute comforted her, inspired her, and in general made Nadeann feel better.  She was on her way back from Tar Valon having performed at a grand ball held by the Amyrlin, an honour indeed, and was bound for Illian with its canals and wonderful accents.  That darkness seemed to be hovering over the days was inevitable; anyone might say that, and most of the time she did not know whether to put it down to advancing old age or some greater sense. 

She snorted.  It was unlikely to be the latter.

Her greying brown braid thumped between her shoulder blades and her pack rode on her shoulder, legs far preferable to any horse.  While her own legs might get tired, they wouldn’t bite her like a horse could, and while she did not mind riding, she just preferred her own legs.  The scenery around her was like to the great landscapes she had sometimes painted for pleasure, or the great tapestries that adorned the walls of noble houses and palaces across the land.  They would, for the most part, reflect the countryside around them, or in some cases the imagined images or far off lands like the Aiel Waste.  Around her it could be a forest anywhere in Andor, if depicted in a painting, or Murandy, or parts of Ghealdan.  Nadeann liked forests.  Their peace and tranquillity was rarely interrupted and there were lots of wooded glades she could practice her lute-playing in, new songs bringing new tidings.

Sounds of bracken rustling distracted her from the new lyrics that bubbled into her head.  Was it a hunt, perhaps?  Had she stumbled into the path of a wild boar, chased from its home by huntsmen bent on roast pork for dinner?  Nadeann drew her brows into a frown and looked around, trying to see the source of the commotion.  She had no desire to be trampled by running horses or a stampeding boar, so she cast her eye about this way and that, looking under the dark shade of trees and the lighter, lesser shade of hedges to see if anything was forthcoming.  It stopped, abruptly, and she tilted her head to one side, wondering what was going on.  Boars didn’t just stop, unless it had received an arrow to the heart and did not have time to squeal, and even if it had been hunted, the hunters would be right behind it.  Boots, now able to tread heavier than the bare press of sole on soil, would dig into the ground in their haste to catch their quarry before another predator could.  But there was none of that.

Confused, she shouldered the lute by its strap so it rested alongside her pack.  Now with both hands free she could draw the small knife at her belt if she needed to, or quickly reach around to pull her walking stick from where it too was attached to her belongings.  Her gaze landed on a figure half under a tree, and bleeding from a couple of superficial cuts.  Whoever it was looked in bad shape though, and so Nadeann hurried over to him, her hands not going to her weapon, but to her water bottle. 

“Hello?”  She called, tentatively touching the man’s shoulder lightly with her free hand.  He stirred a little and, encouraged, Nadeann knelt down alongside him to see his face.  Light!  The man was going to be covered in bruises when he woke the following morning.  She could at least make him comfortable.  Removing her cloak she rolled it up and lifted the man’s head gently to put the cloak under it.  She tried to talk to him again, asking if he was hurt badly, but did not receive a reply for a time.  Nadeann knew she was not strong enough to lift him all alone – her shoulders were by no means frail but she could not lift as much as she had once.  She sat back and took out her lute, playing a few soothing melodies she knew, until the eyelids she sat vigil over fluttered open.

“Good day to you, sir.  I’m glad you’re awake now, how do you feel?  I have been sitting, waiting for you to wake to make sure you’re all right.  Would you like some water?”  He looked at her, confused.  Nadeann smiled, her worn facing becoming younger with the action.  “My name is Nadeann Durrass, sir, and I am a wandering bard.  I mean you no harm.”  The poor love did look hunted. 

OOC – Nadeann is a bard, mid 40s, with long greying brown hair drawn back in a braid.  She is slender, quick-witted and kind.  Sorry for it taking so long to reply, but it’s been a busy time lately with the job change.  If you need anything, feel free to PM me J

~Dorrin~

Dorrin did not register what the woman had said when he first regained consciousness. Instead he sat straight up fumbling for his sword sure that one of those three men had come back to finish the job. As he painfully scanned the forest through the haze of pain that sitting up so quickly had brought, he saw the woman and began to relax. Or at the very least he stopped trying to draw his sword but out of habit and general mistrust his hand visibly remained on the hilt.

Dorrin was not eased when he finally realized that the woman had called herself a wandering bard. As far as Dorrin was concerned it was far too easy for a person with some musical talent to call him or herself a bard simply to mask a far more deadly profession. The fact that Dorrin though something similar of nearly every profession known to man was not a fact that he concerned himself with. Normally Dorrin would try to feel the person out, using the persona of jester that he built as a mask to try and figure out if that person was who he claimed to be. However, his recent beating did not leave him the mood for that.

Instead he stubbornly began to force his beaten body to its feet. He succeeded, and then a sudden wave of dizziness forced Dorrin back on his back with the wind knocked out of him. He lay there for a time ignoring the woman simply trying to regain his composure. Eventually he brought himself up to his knees though he was forced to bring out his sword and lean on it in order not to fall flat on his face. Even so his muscles shook with the effort that staying up took. Normally a beating of even this magnitude would not be a problem that large but the last inn that Dorrin stayed made him feel as if he would be robbed while he slept. That had given him quite a few nights of insomnia which only increased the affect his wounds had on his body.

“Why are you here?” he demanded having lost his belief in the spirit of altruism long ago. Despite his physical condition his voice still managed to come out low and intimidating, a far cry from the usual happy and excited tone he forced himself to express. At that moment he seemed very much like he was, a young man that the world had turned cold, cynical, and suspicious. And while Dorrin would knock off the head of anyone who said it the way he leaned on his sword with bruises covering his face made also made him look cornered. Finally if a perceptive person were to look they would see that his current situation made him quietly furious and frightened.

OOC -  I saved all the posts so they're now here as well as the other board.  When I've had time to reply, I'll post again. :)