(Archive) - A call to arms

Elendor - Wednesday, August 30, 2000, 11:38 PM

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Weather: Sunny

Time: Early Evening

Season: Spring

Date: Sunday - March 10, 3021

Real Time: Wed Aug 30 09:51:07 2000

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*Note - log supplied by Mablung aka Faramir*

Minas Tirith: Before the Great Gate

Rising up before and tapering off towards the great moutains behind them, a walls of Minas Tirith climb into the air. Here, at the roadside a small hill rises to the entryway of the city where guards stand before the gate. These men are known as the Doorwardens. Currently the gate is and the doors before it . The great Gate itself is housed between the two Doortowers before you, standing some 100 feet tall and nearly 50 feet wide. The gate to is made up of a pure steel bounded about the trunks of an unknown wood. The gate is said to able to withstand anything, as even the most strongest blows will just make the gate bend slightly and then return to shape.

If you are an archer and would like to shoot into the battlements, type: SHOOT Battlements AT

To look up at the battlements type

Contents:

Mablung

Belahir

Delios

Obvious exits:

Southwest leads to Pelennor Fields: In the Shadow of the Walls.

Northwest leads to Pelennor Fields: In the Shadow of the Walls.

East leads to Pelennor Fields: West.

North leads to Anorien: North of Mount Mindolluin.

South leads to Inns and Stables.

Gate leads to Minas Tirith: Inside the Great Gate.

Mablung\'s description

Far-sighted and fell-handed, his name is long remembered. For it is one accounted in the story of the Turambar in the annals of Beleriand. Yet, his heroes\' name is not unworthy given for mighty is his aspect all alone. Keen enough to pierce the veil of fear upon men\'s hearts in battle is his voice. Long a leader of men, this voice is often used and those that follow know its power truly. He is tall and crowned in dark hair and bright eyes glinting grey. Like the men of old who walked upon the shores of Middle-Earth under banners of the Sea-Kings he would seem, if any were now known in all but song. But those songs are rarely sung in the places he would walk. Under deep Shadows they dwell, where no gleeful voice has now been heard for long the lives of lesser men. There is sorrow there and it is carried in some small part by all who\'ve known it. He is little different, for sadness lies beneath the stoic visage he would draw before men\'s eyes.

He is of those few who account themselves the heirs to fallen Westernesse and say it sooth. Small is their number in this Land of Stones. And so, he rises in the eye like a great tower on the fields of vision. Built in the manner of the works of yore so that the watcher cries out on its seeing, yet crowned in darkness like the forebodings of doom.

Cast about him is a forest raiment. For he is girt for such deeds as would be hidden from the seekers in the wood. Green and grey are the clothes he wears, with cowl over head and tunic bound by belts. His gear is such as might a woodsman clad, for such is he by manner. Little is his word given but honestly it comes if ever. Silent are his footsteps on his worn boots of soft sole and black leather.

Delios\' description

Tall, broad-shouldered, defined, yet not bulky. His appearance more athletic than strong and more agile than precise, the face of Delios of Rovacil would not give away his true self. Only the eyes of this man may belay his truth from under the bangs of his golden hair. Hands callased and hardened upon the palms, his fingers remain gentile and proud. Every muscle in his arm that can be seen is ripped from bone to form a defined physique, though not bulky or in any way massive. Powerful legs support this angular frame, the frame underneath his shaply face. Attractive by most standards, but not princely, he seems to hold most ofhis seduction within those justifying eyes.

A dark green cloak of light fabric currently covers his body. The folds of it are soft, flowing, waving easily with any breeze. Loose does it hold to his figure, distorting the natural shape of a man. Its hood, when upon his head, casts a dark shadow about Delios\' face. Only a few locks of golden hair may ever peer from beneith it. A tie of fabric closes the cloak, and only a bulge of armor, shield, or sword gives any shape to what lies beneath it. Boots hold to his feet with leather ties, the shafts of the boots covering a set of loose leggings. Neith the cloak, secured to his body, is a vest of leather armor. It is studded, supported by its metalic enforcments, and bearing the symbol of a Scout of Cair Andros upon its back quarters.

Belahir\'s description

You see a man of slightly above average height and build before you. His arms and legs are thickly corded with muscle he appears strong, just not god-like. He has brown hair and hazel eyes that radiate intelligence and cunning. He has good looks and an extremely charasmatic smile,something just draws you to him. He is clean-shaven and his hair has been cropped short. Around his neck is a set of claws, that upon closer examination appear to be the claws of a bear. They have been polished well and they are hung on a thick cord. The man wears greenish grey clothing that seems to blend directly with his surroundings no matter where he is. He wears a tunic, leggings, soft boots, and around his shoulders is a dark colored cloak. On his hip he has a black belt, that supports a longsword that he carries at his side. The blade is sheathed, so as not to glint off the sun and show his position. The hilt of the blade is plain, although well polished and taken care of. Underneath the man\'s cloak can be seen the slight bulge of some type of armor. To those who have a trained eye it could be discerned that he is wearing Studded Leather to protect his torso.

As the sun of Middle-earth begins to fade away in the west, torches and lanterns are brought to kindle upon the walls of the city. Silver seems to glint upon the stone as twilight falls, pressed upon by the oncoming inky blackness of night. And as with every night, wanderers accustomed to it begin to stalk out. The guard shift takes place, the patrols of the fields are set awide, and the wall sentinels are roused from their noon-day rest.

Gathering both weapon and shield from the guards at the gate is a cloaked figure of green and brown. His hands dilligently strap the shield upon his back, which is quickly covered by the cape of his cloak. And then, with a swift and sure movement, a long dark blade of steel is sheathed at his side. This also covered with the same fabric. Lastly, a quiver of arrows is gathered follwed by a long, hand crafted bow of great beauty. These he attaches to his back, the arrows slung low and at an angle.

Many eyes gaze Eastward in the fading light. They keep their watch in tireless vigilance for the shadow that looms there, beyond the mountains, embattled woods, beyond the river and the walls that stands between the Citadel and the Enemy. Two eyes stand below of a wall filled with many and they are the keener despite their lower height. Mablung leans against white stone encircling Minas Tirith even as their length is cast in grey hues by the oncoming night. The man is silent as the darkness falls upon his face. The wind whispers, carrying the rumor of death, for battle looms ever on the borders of this land. The wind whispers, carryig the rumor of life, for Spring sets her mantle on the stones of Gondor.

The Ranger turns his gaze from the brooding Black Land. A breeze wafts through his raven locks, its invisible force seems to turn his head. His grey eyes glint in the dying light as they espy Delios.

Despite the warmness of the spring day the gathering gloom of darkness gives those who gaze upon it a chill, for the heavens seem to reflect what goes on upon the earth below. War, death, and battle are promised in the skys and anyone with half a brain can look up and see it plainly written among the clouds.

Walking out of the gate is a young man dressed in the manner of a Scout. He strides boldly only occasionally glancing up at the forboding skies. He retrieves his sword from the gate and walks out quickly, purposefully.

The sun sets as the day draws to an end, leaving the night sky dark save but the twinkling of stars.

With the other scout passing by without even a glance, Delios for the time being dismisses him from mind. Callased hands take the cloak about him, wrapping it tighter to block out in incoming night breezes, but it makes no differance. For the breeze will bite through it like any blade of orc or man, just like they may bite through flesh.

Taking one deep breath, Delios turns towards the south and the stables that lie in that direction. His feet seem reluctant to move, but when they do begin their pace it is obvious that it is a faltered one. For on ever step, his right leg is favored, apparently pained by some covered wound. Every step is limped but his face blocks out any sign of emotion.

A voice from the darkness growing at the wall calls out. In heavy tones it breaks the stillness of the night. It seems that all who move beyond the gate carry their own silence. Each traveler locked in some private moment, their footsteps hushed by the sighing wind. The voice cuts through this stillness, like the bitter breeze to which men\'s cloaks prove useless, for this voice is Mablung\'s and it means command.

\"Delios and Belahir! Come forth, Scouts! Come hither!\"

A lonely figure, tall, covered in shadow, stands silouetted by the white length of wall behind him. The ranger awaits those at his command, grey eyes shining.

Turning slowly, the Scout by the name of Belahir looks to the sky and then to the source of the voice that cuts through all the wind. He turns fully and takes a step towards the man, beofre he notices his fellow companion in arms. With a smile on his face despite the gloom of the early night, Belahir approaches Delios and claps him on the back. He says nothing, merely smiling encouragement and comraderie. Slowly he walks with him, despite the man\'s limp.

A quiet sigh rolls from the lips of Delios, his eyes closing momentarily to regain composure. For that voice he recognises and it sends only thoughts of unwant through his head. But none the less, he ceeds to the command, turning slowly upon his good leg to begin slow pace back to lone figure, Mablung.

Upon reaching the Ranger, after several hobbles and near pangs of anguish, Delios bows his head once in greeting. \"As you commanded, Sir.\" But no further words are spoken from this Scout, wishing to keep conversation with this one to a bare minimum.

Tall before the white walls, facing toward the black east, Mablung looks upon the twain before him and nods. He makes no word of greeting, for the wind swirls suddenly, stealing the air and clutching at cloaks -- reminding all that Spring is Winter\'s true-born child. The ranger\'s eyes look over Delios, grey light shines upon the favored leg and the halting words. A fleeting smile passes over the worthy\'s lips.

The wind dies, bringing down a heavy silence between the tall man and his audience. The ranger\'s words cut through it, like a blade through water, \"I have need of you both. Will you bear my words to our brethren?\" His eyes first find Delios, as if expecting some rebuttal. But, it is but a momentary glance, though precedent gives it greater weight. They find Belahir finally. Mablung waits as the night pools about the their feet.

Kerowyn has arrived.

A man stands against the white walls of Minas Tirith, his eyes upon the East. He casts grey glances at the men that stand before him, his voice is low, meant only for them. The evening traffic through the Gates moves along the road without much notice of these three. But it is clear their purpose there is not in idleness.

The night\'s air and present company may bring thoughts of...unfavorable commentary, but Delios bites his tongue. For there is no reason to bring confrontation upon himself. With a simple nod, Delios gives his own answer. With injured leg or not, his duties will be accomplished...unless some wandering healless would say other wise. And they most often tend to.

In silence, Mablung takes each man\'s answer. He nods as the moments mount and the wind hews the air between them. It cuts like cold blades upon their necks, slicing down the sheer sides of the high walls. The ranger sitrs not, no stranger to cold nights and bitter gusts on naked flesh. His grey gaze is cast beyond the men before him and for a moment he stands watching the lonely travelers along the road. Passing from the pooled light of the Great Gates, the leave the way empty as they pass into darkness on the way to the Crossroads.

His words come unexpected, for the time has mounted. Finally, he says, \"We shall take a great journey and return to our duties on the marches from the North. Take word to our brethren that we go to Rohan and from thither shall we cross the river and head back to whither we belong. I shall lead you upon the sixth day from this night shall we begin.\"

From the road of inns and stables, walks Kerowyn, a face familiar to many now, though perhaps not in its current disheveled state, for straw is stuck willy nilly to the fabric of cloak, a stray piece falling from her hair now and again to be brushed to the ground. THe chill of th breeze sends a shiver through her body as she nears the gates and a frown to the East, and upwards tot he battlements.

A faint nod again is all that Delios gives, but it is a deffinate positive answer. His eyes take glance towards the stables and then back towards Mablung, no emotion within them, only a question. \"Shall I depart for the Eastern Marches now, Sir? Or do you have some other point you wish for me to reach first?\"

As the woman nears the place where he keeps audience with Delios and Belahir, Mablung watches her. Kerowyn, though known to many, is unknown to him, and her rohirric looks go not unnoticed. He stands silent once again, a queer air is upon him, as if some unseen being has placed some mantle over him to cause this heavy air he carries. His mouth opens, as if to speak, but the words come not. Delios interrupts him.

Mablung\'s weighty gaze is brought to bear on the scout, \"I suppose the East March would be a place to look for thy breathren, Delios. But there were many who paid witness to Prince\'s Tourney in the South. I would bid you seek them first, for they are whom it holds more need to return thither.\"

He looks Eastward, and leaves unsaid the destination he refers to.

A bow of his head he gives again, but not before his eyes glance towards the figure Mablung had been studying. A moment is taken to study her, but then, recognition takes over and a smile crosses the scout\'s lips for once. Turning back towards Mablung, his words are whispered upon the air. \"She is the Lady Kerowyn, a heales from Rohan who gave aid during the last siege upon the last bridge. A masterful heales, she has stiched many of my own wounds as well.\" His eyes turn back once more to the lady, then towards Mablung again. \"But I shall take my leave now, with your permission Sir.\"

The regard of either men does not go unnoticed, and a courtly nod, for all her raimant, is given as she nears close enough that normal speach might be heard, if not the whispers of the men.

The young Belahir smiles steadily throughout, though the near confrontation between the Ranger and his fellow Scout do not go unoticed by the man. When mablung has finished speaking the lad nods quickly and confidently, saying quietly for the wind, \"As you command sir. I will go south and collect our brothers who did not return with us after the tourney. And sir, I must say that it will be good to be back on real duty again. It has been long since I have been in Ithilien, what with all the competions and tourneys of late, and I long for it.\" That said he turns to the lady Kerowyn as she comes from the stables and he smiles, noding to her, and throwing her a characteristic eyebrow raise for the straw upon her. With a shake of his head he glances up at the sky and returns his mirthful gaze to his commander, \"Their will be battle ahead. And death. And,\" his eyes light up,\" there will be adventure.\"

Kerowyn returns Belahir\'s raised brow with a smile, and soft, carrying words, \"I do not trust the stablehands here, I fear.\" It is not accusation nor censure that colors her tone, but merely plainness, and her regard lingers never overlong on one person solely, turning now to Delios with a raised brow of her own.

Delios\' eyes return towards Lady Kerowyn, a soft smile forming upon his lips for this \'near-friend\' of his. For s true friendship would be hard to claim, with the infrequency of the past visits. A low bow of his head and a offer of a hand are given when she comes within distance. \"M\'lady. It has been long indeed. How fair you as of late?\" But during the bow, his leg falters once more, a tinge of pain crossing his eyes for only a split second and no more.

\"Stray not too far southward, Belahir! Your fellows are near at hand, for the games have all been ended for a fortnight! Their boots might now be better found before the threshold of their families\' halls!\" Mablung\'s words need little force to space the distance between himself and the retreating scout, for it is one much used to this, being accustomed to battle and the din of swords and dyig men. But its power is leashed as it is turned on Delios, near at hand. The ranger nods, saying only, \"You may go, if that is your wish.\"

Keeping his place by the wall, the tall man looks toward the East once more, where no star shines above the shadow. Shortly, he leaves the darkness to the other eyes upon the wall, for his turn towards Kerowyn as she speaks and Delios addresses her.

\"Better than you, I wager, sir Delios.\" Her voice is wry, loud enough to drift only to the scout and those nearest him, \"Were you not ordered by young Mara to remain at rest?\"

Belahir chuckles softly and continues to shake his head at the Rohirric woman. He scratches at his chin as if trying to decide whether or not to say something, but in the end, his sense of humor beats out his sense of decency. \"M\'lady perhaps it is not that you trust the stablehands too little, but that you trust them too much. It appears that you had a bit of...shall we say...a tussle? with the stableboys...\" the lad trails off as Mablung\'s sharp voice carries out over the wind, on the starry filled night. The man becomes serious, a surprising thing how quick he can change and control the emotions spreading across his face. \"I will do as you command, but there are a few, I know, that have remained among the Prince\'s city. Should not the word be sent to them as well?\"

Kerowyn turns from Delios at the word,s nay, the accusation of Belahir. \"Indeed? I wonder would you accuse your land\'s own Lady Princess of such acts, and live for it, sir?\"

A soft smile is all that Delios offers for the time being, his eyes still focused upon the Lady Kerowyn with ernest. Perhaps, he had left part of her title out.

\"N\'aye,\" says Mablung, \"We would be six days gone before you had returned with them and that would see us almost to our journey\'s end.\" The ranger holds up his hand and the light spilling from the Gates falls upon it, though he stands in shadow. \"The last party has departed for Minas Tirith. What few of our fellows remain thither shall return with them, I deem.\" A light shines from his grey eyes as says finally, \"Seek for them amongst their company and you shall not search vainly.\"

The night hides his smile as Belahir\'s jest goes awry. But he says nothing.

Belahir bows his head slightly and rubs his eyes as if his head ached. He shakes his head, but nay, not even this, could shake the grin from the poor, foolish, scout\'s face. He bows deeply, and graceful enough to put any practiced Lord to shame, and speaks, \"M\'lady, you must forgive the idiocy of the youth. I fear that I must have some sort of humorous disease, that I must take every opportunity to make a jest. But this one was in obvious poor taste, for it is apparent that what I implied did not, in fact, take place. I see now that it is much more likely that the young stableboys which you so mistrust, and rightly so, were dancing wildly with thee, as others have in the past.\" He spares the lady a wink while he continues to shower her with apologies. \"Oh and what a fool I\'ve been, to insult such a Lady. Perhaps you should have me executed m\'lady, for that would be the only just punnishment, nay there must be something worse even than that. Oh I know, banish me from your presence, for that would be the greatest punnishment of all.\" The scout stays bowed but shifts his eyes to his two companions, looking for some sign that he is doing well.

Another smile, hidden by the shadows beneath the wall, between Gate and shadow, is all that Mablung offers in answer. His grey eyes, filled with light, watch Kerowyn, for her answer to the scout\'s apologies is of greater matter. However, as Belahir speaks of punishment, a heavy hand falls upon the hilts of his sword -- almost a threat, were this man not known to be a leader to the youthful scout, but definitely a promise that some words should not be offered in light fashion.

THe words of the apology are listened to carefully, a blank, passive look upon the Lady\'s face, as if she were indeed about to place judgement upon the man. \"In truth, I tripped over a carelessly placed pitchfork, if you must know, sir. \" As passive and emotionless as her look, comes the words, \"And I fear I have no taste for such punishments as you suggest. I shall leave such, if any, to your commander.\"