You pemit "A young guardsman runs up to you, quite literally. Out of breath, he composes himself quickly, and gives a snappy salute, "Corporal Malahir!" he exclaims, "The Lieutenant wishes to see you in his office!" With that, he rushes off on his next errand." to Malahir.

Analdin:
        With his relatively short, boyishly cut blond hair, a twinkle in his eyes, and an entire six feet, this young man seems to almost blend into any group of boys that could be playing in the street. However, upon closer inspection, the glacier cool look behind those ocean-deep blue eyes and the straight posture show him to be no child, but a man of some responsibility. An air of strength, mental as well as physical, shines about him. His hands, when they can be seen, are rough and hard from work, and his muscles are far more than slight.
        The uniform of the Minas Tirith Guard seems to go quite well with his features, giving him a more mature look than most might see at first. The black tabard with the emblem of Minas Tirith upon it, the Stars and the Tree, the dark trousers tucked into black, polished-to-a-shine boots, all of it adds to the feeling of responsibility about him. Upon his shoulder can be seen company insignia, the Silver Ship set against the Gates of Minas Tirith. Bars of rank also adorn his uniform, Lieutenant's bars, and company commander's. A well cared for longsword hangs from his side at most times, and a shining helm with raven's wings sweeping back oftimes covers his head.
        His posture is that of a trained soldier, though rather friendly for it. Even though black is the dominant color in his clothing, his light, almost Rohirric features give him no appearance of darkness. An air of purpose surrounds him like a light mist.

Malahir:
        Immediately, you are captured by the honest brown eyes of a young man, who is scantly an adult. There is inner solace in his eyes, which almond shape and youthful glint, show to the viewer his true emotion. Framing his amiable round face are wild brown curls that extend down to his broad shoulders. His smooth face is clean shaven, but not by choice. His leather tanned skin displays the strength he bears in his arms. On his left forearm is a nasty scar, and if he is not wearing his armor, another long scare can be seen on his right shoulder. His impressive stature measures six feet, one inch and he weighs in excess of 210 lbs. Although he has a well toned muscularture and broad frame, he sports a slightly convex belly.
        He appears to blend in with a moonless night. He wears a black tabard emblazened with the city crest of Minas Tirith: the white tree and seven stars, in silver embroidary. He is robed in a long black satin cloak. On the left lapel is a silver brooch of a ship, and on the right part of the cloak, above his heart is a crest of white and blue, with a sword and two horses rearing to meet at the center. Loose black pants are tucked into black boots and a broad black leather belt slims down the tabard at the waist. A silver buckle, also with the etching of a ship, hangs dead center. His black helm is winged at the crown with long cheeck guards, close fitting to the face. Lazily, his sheath hangs below his waist, where the gold pommel of his sword sticks out from his cloak by his hip. Occasionally, he brandishes an antique wooden cane, the handle being carved into a falcon's head. But while on duty, he grips a small leather buckler that proudly displays the crest of purple and gold, three wreaths, a sigil of his ancient family line. Adding to his massy bulk are the heavy chain mail bodice he wears under the tabard. The metalic links of his armor show little wear, but his leather buckler shows signs of numerous survived battles. His sword his well polished and the gold gleams from a half hidden sheath.

Analdin's Office:
        Upon entering this room, you immediatly catch sight of a rather plain, wooden desk. It stands not too far from the door, leaving only enough room between itself and the entrance for a pair or so of uncomfortable-looking chairs. Situated upon the desk are many sheets of parchment, a few loose scrolls, red sealing wax, a quill pen and fountain of black ink, and a couple pieces of iron, forged into various shapes, though apparently good paperholders. A window is situated on the far wall behind the desk, allowing the sounds of the training grounds below to filter through with any light at times.
        Beneath the window, against the left wall when you enter, is a plain cot, not too unlike those in the officers' quarters, with a trunk at the foot. Against the other wall is a bookshelve, rather impersonal looking, though the scrolls and books upon it are well organized - first alphabetically, then by dates. Across from the desk and pinned to the final wall, is a carefully drawn map of Gondor, inked upon a thin sheet of finely tanned and bleached leather.
 

Malahir has arrived.

Malahir walks into the room, blush red from an appearant jog. Saluting quickly after he closes the door, he begins to ask, "Is anything wrong sir?".

Analdin glances up from the papers on his desk upon Malahir's entry, motioning for the man to have a seat in one of the chairs before the wooden desk. Returning to his work for just a few moments, his writes a line or two, his uncultured handwriting not as good as many, but well enough for a Guardsman. Signing it without florish, he stes down his quill and slides the paper over. Looking the tired-appearing Malahir over, the Lieutenant replies in a calm voice, "Nothing the matter, no, but I wish to ask you a question or two. Seeing as you were on duty at the moment... I hope I didn't pull you away from anything important?"

Malahir takes a few deep breaths inbetween the lieutenant's explaination of calling him off guard duty at the city gates. Taking a seat at the large desk that Analdin seems to be behind most of the time during the stations in Minas Tirith, Malahir brings forth his large arms onto the uncluttered side of it. "Phwew sir. I was afriad something had gone awry. I double timed it up the two tiers and passed an overturned cart to get here in a hurry, so please forgive my tired posture sir...", looking pale, "go ahead sir, I will answer your questions to the best of my ability".

Analdin nods quietly, a sparkle of amusement in his eyes. Leaning back in his chair a little, he glances down at one particular sheet of paper on his desk, "As long as you are not being kept from important buisness. I admit, though," he takes a careful look at the Corporal, "That you look rather unwell. Perhaps I should give you a bit more duty that requirres physical effort, Malahir, to keep you in shape for running the streets of Minas Tirith?"

Malahir looks up from his waning energy and smiles weakly, "As for the first inquiry, I left the city gates in good hands sir. the loss of one pair of eyes, I assume, will not be cause for us to delay what you need to ask of me. As for the second...", pausing to take a breath, "I'm most assuredly out of shape. I've been getting more in shape ever since the faire in Pelargir last summer. But I'm afraid that coming home to the White Tree inn has not done good things to my waistline", frowning with real concern.

Analdin chuckles lightly, though he taps his fingers almost impatiently on his desk. His face falls into seriousness, the amusement in his eyes disapearing fast to be replaced with sternness. "Seriously, however, Malahir, I do need to ask your opinion on this. I recieved a worrying message just yesterday, one that has keps me thinking since." He picks up the single piece of paper in the middle of his desk. "What do you think we could do," he asks slowly, phrasing his question carefully, "With a young man in the Guard? Young, that is, meaning say ten, eleven seasons of age." His bright eyes drill into those of his aide as he awaits a response.

Suspision written all over his face, Malahir crinkles his brow and inquires, "You say he's just a lad of ten seasons?", then he shakes his head in pontificate abjection, "he is obviously too young to be in the guard sir, we are fighting to protect the young, the helpless, the defensless, not recruit them to defend themselves...unless", stopping to consider the ramifications of allowing such a youth to be in harms way, "unless he has some skills that may be required of us, out of the line of combat", drilling his own eyes into that of his friends.

Analdin, obvously troubled by this idea, nods slowly. "You believe, then, that a lad of that age would be of absolutly no use? None at all?" Leaning forward, placing his arms folded on his desk, he watches Malahir intently as he says, "Suppose that this lad has no skill at arms, nothing extremely special by the way of combat, and is a rather small and scrawny fellow." His expression places him on the edge of amusement, though the amusement of the absurdidy of his questions, "What think you then?"

Malahir's brows furrow, utterly apprehensive about the topic, he selects his words carefully before speaking, "Assuming you asked me for a reason not to except this lad to ease your mind in a heavily laden decision, then I believe you do the right thing not to allow him to get near a sword. But assuming that you wish me to qualify allowing him to be a guard, then I believe he will best suit us as a runner, or chief scribe. Or something of the sort", breaks into a chuckle, "I say sir, I would love to have a drummer to count off the beats in marching, rather than I having too".

Analdin smiles at Malahir's mention of a drummer, "Perhaps he could serve in that capacity, then." His smile fades a bit, and he shakes his head slowly a few times. "Also take it as given," he adds quietly, "That some position shall have to be found for this young lad, for, whether we like it or not, he shall be joining us in the Guard." Heaving a light sigh, he lowers his head forward just a tad, looking at the desk before him before returning his gaze to the corporal.

Malahir sits back in the chair, relaxing slightly as the sound in his voice losing it's tension, "I'm sure the men will treat the new guard with mixed reactions. But I for one will assist you in giving this lad a viable, constructive position in the company. Do you know if he writes, or is able to be disciplined at all? That certainly would determine his future in the guard", nodding in self amusement over the question of young boys in the guard, "We could use a drummer, or banner carrier. But may I ask who the father is?".

Analdin closes his eyes a second, as though considering Malahir's words, "Aye a drummer, perhaps. I would not risk him at the front of battle as a standard bearer, though. I wish to expose him to as little battle as possible, actually. He is not to be a Guardsman, but must live with us in the least, and earn his keep. As for his father..." Trailing off, the Lieutenant straightens a little, "His father is my own. The letter I recieved is from those who were caring for him.. thet believed that I, his brother, could do a better job... and have already sent him on his way to the city. He shall be arriving within five days at the most..." His eyes, shining with a mixture of concern and resignition.

Malahir eyes twinkle, concern and excitement entering his mind at once. "I'd say sir. This /is/ a big concern for you", all suspicion being wiped clear from his face, "a well fit drummer boy he shall be, we will all protect him like he was our son, although I believe his identity should be kept secret, yes sir?.. Or if your mastership wishes, I could tutor him on my off duty hours to be your scribe", a hint of questioning at the end of the sentence.

Analdin leans back in his chair, the words finally out, and watches Malahir quietly. "Aye, a drummer he shall be. But young Dric? A scribe? This is the lad who takes after his own brother, Malahir. The one who, once his brother left for the city, began getting into fistfights with the older boys of the village." Bright eyes twinkling with pride, "And won many of them, that is to be said. But I doubt he has the patience to learn to be a scribe." Chuckling lightly, perhaps at memories, he adds in a softer tone, "But to keep his true identity a secret, aye, I believe you have a considerable point there."

Malahir nods, a lighthearted sigh escaping, "Ah, to be young again sir..", shaking off the reverie that consumes his thoughts, "You have my word as a friend, and honor as your aide, that the secret of young Dric's idenity will not escape these lips. And as for his position, does he need any drilling in march or drum sir?".

Analdin nods quietly, posture stiffening a bit once more, straightening to the soldier's posture he most usually wears, "That he will, Malahir. Who," he leans forward suddenly, ruffling through a stack of papers, eyes skimming down a number of sheets as he talks, "is our current drummer, do you know? Was it not young Liantis, injured all too recently in a skirmish in Osgiliath?"

Malahir watches with sudden amusement the lieutenant skim about the papers, but he discreetly hides his amusement as the present conversation at hand wouldn't qualify the brevaty, "Aye sir. It is Liantis, son of Morgen. He is only seventeen, and wishes still to be in the guard. But his father has asked permission from Lord Boromir himself, to grant him leave. I do not know what will become of that", his head bowing slightly.

Analdin finally finds the paper he wants, obviously, but just as soon as Malahir states the information from memory, "Yes, that's the lad. He was wounded seriously," his tone softens, almost to sorrowful, "And it was not sure, even at the time we returned to Minas Tirith whether or not he would live. His father did right. I would have granted him the leave, had he asked me." Dropping the papers with a loud rustle, he folds his hands on his desk, "I suppose I shall have to find someone as can teach Dric the rythm of the march. But that can be taken care of soon enough."

Malahir nods, a downcast look upon his face, "We lost Liantis senslessly, there was no need for him to be left without a guard with him at all times. I guess we got confortable with him being a strong young adult, just beginning to become a combat ready guard", looking the lieutenant sternly in the face, "It shall not happen to your brother sir. I will personally see that he safe".

Analdin allows a touch of a smile to light on his face, even a hint of gratitude, "I agree with you there, Malahir, though there are all too many we have lost senselessly. Personally," he leans forward a bit, lowering his voice in a conspiratorial manner, "I believe the men, gruff and mean as they appear on duty, will protect them with their lives, be he my brother or any small drummer lad." Chuckling softly, he stacks some papers on his desk. "If you wish to return to duty, Malahir, I have nothing else. Thank you for your help on the subject.."

Malahir scratches his head, the curls of his brown hair being matted from wearing his helm on duty. Grunting as he raises, Malahir motions toward the papers, "If that is all, I'm sure the men are in need of me at the main gate", saying this a bit too sarcastically, "It would be my pleasure if I could take some work off your hand and finish it for you while I'm on duty. Personally, I think Elidran has become quite a seasoned guard, and has the post at the moment".

Analdin smiles softly, and shakes his head, "No need, Malahir. For once, I actually have little as needs doing.. Though, if you would walk toward the gates with me? Whether they need an extra eye or no, I would certainly like to spend a bit of the day outside the office." Shrugging and standing, he adds, "If nothing else, having returned from Osgiliath, the sight of the city seems more beautiful now than before."

Malahir raises fully and moves to open the door for Analdin, "After you sir. There is nothing like a good stroll through the city. Sure is better than making it post haste. You get to see much more without a pounding heart at your chest", winking slyly as he starts to follow the lieutenant out of his office.

Analdin nods quietly and picks up his helm from the cot nearby, holding it under his arm as he strolls toward the door. Standing just outside the office, he waits for Malahir to catch up, though glances almost disaprovingly around the officer's quarters as he does so.

You walk through the open doorway and out of Analdin's Office.

Malahir closes Analdin's door behind him, motioning toward his own tiny office, "Could you excuse me sir, I haven't been in my own office in days. I think I left something important in there", starting off toward his cob webed cornered office door.

Analdin chuckles lightly, waiting just inside the door to the officer's quarters for Malahir's return. He continues scanning the room, making note of a few cots in particular, obvious disaproval shining in his eyes. Though he keeps his mouth shut, perhaps out of regard for the sleeping officers, his eyes roam the room like a nurse examining a child's toy closet.

Malahir steps back out into the main room, passing by his cot as if he wishes to hide it with his own impressive stature. A new shield hangs upon his arm, his old one being lost in the malaise of the front in Osgiliarth. The shield is trimed with purple, and a crest of his noble house, the sigel of the house Agendir, three wreaths, are sewn on the buckler. He brandishes the new piece, "Hear we are sir, almost forgot about it. I thought I'd never replace my first one, but the leathersmith did a fine job indeed", admiring the work as he walks toward Analdin.

Analdin loosly admires the new shield, nodding carefully, "Certainly looks nice," he says quietly, "but does something that decorative work in battle? Work, that is, doing something other than drawing arrows to you?" The Lieutenant's feelings about nobility shine through here. Shrugging, he continues out the door.

Malahir shrugs, "As long as the arrows search out the shield and not my shoulder", he defends his age old customs in earnst as he follows Analdin out the officer's quarters.

You step out onto the street.

Analdin continues on down the street at a leisurely pace, though his eyes skim the area as he walks past. Turning to Malahir, he asks quietly, "How long do you think it has been since we have been in Minas Tirith? Staying so long at the tourny, and then battle in Osgiliath..." Trailing off, he sounds a bit nostalgic, though his voice is calm and quiet.

Malahir steps into the sheltered end of the street, his eyes blinking back the rays of light that stab his eyes. He walks almost blindly for a moment, and reacts to the sound of Analdin's voice, "Ah...last summer would be the tournement. So it's not quite a whole year since I've strolled down these streets.

You set off down the road towards the more populated parts of town.

Stonewright's Street

As Analdin continues on his way down the street, he tilts his head in aknowledgement to Malahir's calculation. "Long enough ago, to be sure," he mubles just loud enough. Watching the little children at play on the Stonewright's street, he shakes his head slowly, continuing, the silver of his helm beneath his arm shining in the sunlight.

Malahir walks alongside his comprade, busying himself with sharpening up his new shield, picking off bits of imperfection in the sigil, "This sigil stands for something sir. Whether or not you agree with my noble heritage, I wear both the silver ship and my house crest with equal weight sir", gaining the lieutenant's attention from the children innocently at play along the road.

Falling in with the flow of people, you travel down the road towards the gate.

Analdin raises a brow, though doubt shines in his voice, "If you say so, Malahir. You know my views on the subject... I will not repeat them here and now, however." Matching the corporal's gaze, he adds, "Whether you value the Silver Ship as much as your house is not my matter, but that you value the White Tree enough to defend it and do your duty is."

You carefully make your way down the ramp.
You pass the guards and leave the city.

Minas Tirith: Before the Great Gate
Rising up before and tappering 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 withdrawn into its housing and the doors before it opened wide. 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.

Men and women enter and leave the city being stopped, most pass without contest others pass over weapons they carry or have them peaceknotted. Others are turned back as they approach with a horse or a cart. Only the horses of the Stewards errandriders are allowed in the city. Off to the south are the stables and inn houses outside the walls. To the east lie the crossroads of Great West Road and the Great North Road.

The Sun is marching slowly towards Gondor, as the shadows begin to grow long, reaching to the east.

(Editor/Logger's Note: There is more action that has been happening at the Minas Tirith Gates, betweetn Elidran and young Dric. That RP is all the poses that strat with "Dric>" at the end of this log.  You may wish to go back and read those before you continue.  Here's where the two join together... Meaning, of course, here's where Analdin and Malahir came to where Dric and Elidran were speaking.)

Elidran salutes towards Analdin, "Sir. Good day to you..."

Analdin steps out of the Gate, just in time to get almost bowled over by a young boy running in. Stopping the lad, he glares down at him. His eyes widen, however, and he stufiles a curse, looking about to see who all is on guard duty at the moment. Eyeing Elidran, he nods at the salute. Holding Dric by one shoulder with a firm grip, he says, "Did this young man happen to fly past you, Elidran?"

Elidran nods, "He approached the gate and I stopped him to see what his business was, sir. I thought a lad alone travelling, at his youth...should be looked after, at least in some small way."

Malahir, stops alongside the Lieutenant, eyeing both the boy and he silently. He edges toward Elidran and offers an approving nod.

Analdin nods quietly, looking from the squirming young boy in his grip to the guardsman, "Aye, he most definitly is. And immature, uneducated, unruely, disrespectful, and most certainly too young." His tone is stern, and he looks back to Elidran, asking suspiciously, "He didn't happen to give you a mouthful of dirty language, did he? The kind we all learned in the barracks?"

Dric squirms under Analdin's heavy grip, though is unable to escape. Glaring from the Lieutenant to Elidran and back again, he folds his arms defiantly across his chest, as though to say "Am not!" to all of Analdin's accusations. Pursing his lips, he remains silently glaring around.

Malahir,'s smiles turns into a small chuckle as he stands cross armed, watching the little lad squirm. He inquires of the boy, "Are you lost little man? The good Lieutenant will be able to help find your way home", looking only down at the lad.

Dric only glares up at Malahir, breaking his silence only to mumble something about the "mean ol' guardsmen."

Analdin's eyes fall to the young lad as he shoots Malahir his retort, a disaproving look touching his face, "Young man, I have the feeling you haven't been to many a large city before... Perhaps you wish to learn respect for those who keep the peace the hard way?" His tone is all but forgiving, harsh, yet at the same time with a hint of play in it.

Malahir raises a brow and looks at Elidran suspiciously, but quickly turns his attention back on the youngster. Crouching down to gain eye level with him, he takes off his helm and places it on the cobblestone. Looking up to Analdin he shakes his head and waves the disciplining off, "Would you tell me your name little guy. My name is Malahir", awaiting patiently for a response.

Dric looks up defiantly at the Lieutenant, and resumes his attempt to squirm away from the larger man's grip. "Leggo'me!" he shouts, though suddenly quiets when Malahir begins speaking to him once more. "M'name's Dric," he says quietly, looking over his shoulder at Analdin, giving him a hard glare, to which the lieutenant simply gives him a quiet smile.

Elidran shakes his head at the child's bad manners.

From down there, Malahir gives the Lieutenant a quick flash of his eyes and then resettles on dric. Reaching out his hand, he says fondly, "It is a pleasure to meet you Dric. Are you here alone good lad?".

Analdin shakes his head quietly, though a flash of amusement touches his face. He loosens his grip on Dric's shoulder, though still holds him hard enough to prevent escape.

Dric looks suspiciously at Malahir, drawing back up against Analdin a bit, "'Course I'm 'ere 'lone. I'm old 'nough to be 'ere 'lone." he answers defiantly.

Malahir withdraws his hand unnoticably and smiles amiably at Dric, "but ofcourse good lad. But should I assume you came alone, then where would my mannors be if you did not?".

Dric mumbles something beneath his breath about manners, but doesn't answer the Corporal, simply glaring at him.

Analdin stares down at Dric and Malahir shaking his head slowly, as if in disapointment. Listening to the two of them, he seems to be having a hard time keeping silent. He keeps the one hand on Dric's shoulder and the other holding his helm.

Malahir looks up to his fellow guards, Analdin in particular, and shrugs. Continueing to smile, a twinkle seen in his eye, the corporal asks, "Is this your first time in Minas Tirith Dric?".

Dric nods imperceptibly, looking Malahir over with a questioning eye. He seems almost hesitant to reply, but finally does so, "Yes, it's m'first time in Minas Tirith. Not my first in a big city, though," he casts the Lieutenant a glare, though his eyes show no particular recognition. "I lived in Pelargir 'till there was a big battle there. That's when I got shot, y'see, an' had t' go home..." he trails off, rebuilding his defiant veneer.

Malahir nods as he listens to the boys story intently, he winces imperceptibly as the scrawny lad recalls being shot by an arrow in Pelargir. Settling back into a smile, he finally gets up the nerve to ask, "Lieutenant Analdin. It seems as if this lad is in need of some new clothing, and perhaps a meal", eyeing Dric questionably.

Elidran nods towards Malahir, "I would concur with that, aye."

Dric's ears prick up suddenly as Malahir speaks to the Lieutenant, though he doesn't look up. Motioning with a finger, his whole look loses the defiance, and he almost begs Malahir to come down again so he can whisper in his ear.

Analdin nods quietly, "Aye, I agree with you on that one, Malahir," he begins to nod in the direction of the Gate, but stops at the young man's sudden peculiar actions. Interest shining bright in his eyes, he waits patiently, apparently not quite in so much of a hurry to get the young man away from here.

Malahir tilts his head slowly at the boy, nodding to his fellow guards as he crouches to the ground once more. Furrowing his brow slighly, he asks, "What is it Dric?".

Dric whispers quickly into Malahir's ear, eyes suddenly almost worried, "Y'mean that man up there, the big strong one, that's Lieutenant Analdin? Like y'called 'im?" He keeps his eyes intently on Malahir, waiting his reply.

Malahir leans in, his head turned aside. Making out as best he can the childish whispering, he nods. Leaning in another direction in order to whisper in Dric's ear, "it is he. Analdin holds you by your shoulders as we speak. Welcome home young Dric", leaning back to view Analdin and the skinny boy.

Dric looks up timidly, a slow grin spreading across his face. He straightens a bit under Analdin's hand, and stops trying to escape it. Though the grin remains small, it shines brightly in his eyes, and he looks to Malahir, giving him a solid nod, "Thank ye, Malahir," he says, looking about the city once more.

Analdin smiles quietly, overhearing the whispered conversation. Loosing his grip, he gives Dric a pat on the shoulder, "What say you we find some food for a travel-weary fellow, eh young man?" Casting Malahir a glance, he gives him a smile as well, not too different from young Dric's.

Malahir raises a hand for assistance on his second venture up from the ground, his knees creaking as he response, "Your very welcome Dric. The Lieutenant will see that you are properly taken care of".

Analdin nods quietly, "Aye, that I will, Dric. Come now, lets find you something to eat, and perhaps a place to rest..." Trailing off, he begins on his way through the Minas Tirith Gates, waiting for the young lad to catch up with him, and looking back to Malahir, "I assume you plan to continue your duties, then?"

Malahir salutes both boy and guard. "Aye sir. Elidran and I have the gates covered. Nothing to worry about at all."

Dric's grin widens, and he nods quickly, "G'bye, Malahir!" he cries, running ahead of Analdin up into the streets, with the Lieutenant giving a hopeless shrug and following after him. "Good day, then, Malahir," the lieutenant calls over his shoulder as he follows the rambunctious young lad.
 

Dric and Elidran's Conversation:

Dric> Minas Tirith: Before the Great Gate
Dric> Rising up before and tappering 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 withdrawn into its housing and the doors before it opened wide. 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.
Men and women enter and leave the city being stopped, most pass without contest others pass over weapons they carry or have them peaceknotted. Others are turned back as they approach with a horse or a cart. Only the horses of the Stewards errandriders are allowed in the city. Off to the south are the stables and inn houses outside the walls. To the east lie the crossroads of Great West Road and the Great North Road.

Dric> Dric:
       A short young boy catches your eye as he darts about wherever he is. He wears a white shirt, covered in scrubbed soot stains, half tucked into a pair of black trousers. Though his clothing seems to have been washed multiple times, it still has that little-boy dirtiness about it, the soiled look that comes from too much activity. It appears a bit large on his small frame, for all that. Blondish brown hair sweeps across his forhead, cut relatively short though it is scraggily and tends to fall down into his eyes. Those eyes being bright, shining, inquisitive-about-the-world blue.
        All of four feet in hight, with his boots on, this young lad makes up or it in inquisitiveness - and speed. He seems, from his build, to be no more than ten or so, but his eyes place him in more of the twelve-year range... though it may just be his overly-intelligent shine to his eyes and the lack of hight, which could throw off any judgement.

Dric> Elidran:
        Your eyes happen to fall upon an imposing figure. Well over six feet at the least, perhaps as tall as 6'4, and perhaps taller, Elidran's posture is usually straight, lending to his imposing stature. A well-proportioned body, with long, thick arms and legs, powerful chest, and an even stride, this man is clearly physically fit. A man of his stature, his height and physique, must be fairly heavy, and a quick once-over would tell anyone looking that this man is fairly heavy indeed. A fair-haired man, Elidran's sandy hair is usually close-cropped to his skull in a no-nonsense, out-of-the-way cut, the cut of a man who cares little for his hair as long as it's out of his face. The square jaw, wide, mobile lips, and pale complexion are hard to miss when regarding Elidran's face, which is also usually shaved. Meeting his eyes will reveal a tea-brown, murky gaze that meets the watcher's eyes unflinching, curious even.
        Elidran is currently dressed in an unimposing outfit, a functional leather tunic that hangs loosely upon his muscled frame, rough cloth trousers, sturdy boots, and a belt complete his simple outfit.
 

Dric> A small figure strolls toward the Gates, bright blue eyes shining at the sight of the city before him. Blinking a few times, he continues his route toward the gates, stealing between people and pushing his way past, getting as quickly as he can past the traffic.

Dric> Elidran stands near the gate. Seeing the approaching figure, he watches it approach attentively.

Dric> Finally reaching the Gates, and the Guards near them, the small lad tries to duck his way past, keeping as far away from the vigilant guardsmen as possible. Dodging past one, he straightens a bit, and tries to continue past the checkpoint at the Gates.

Dric> Elidran stops the lad gently and smiles down at him,' You're young to be travelling alone, lad. Can I help you at all?"

Dric> Dric looks up a bit startled at the guardsman as he is spoken to, and takes a few steps back, "Not 't all," he says in a rather insolent tone, "I'm old 'nough t' be travellin' by m'self. I don' need no guardsman t' 'elp me." He glares at the guard, obviously trying to act as tough as possible for a lad his size.

Dric> Elidran laughs softly, "Are you sure? Then tell me, lad, where are you headed?"

Dric> Dric nods solidly, "Nothin' at all. I don' need no help from you. What good 're the guards, anyway?" His eyes shine with something boardering resentment, "Your kind jus' let innocent" he stumbles over the word, "people get killed."

Dric> Elidran crosses his arms over his chest, "That's not true, lad. We defend the innocent, as you might find out if you stay in this city a while."

Dric> Dric puts his chin up a little, as though contesting the guardsman's words, "Tha's what you think, mister," he says, distain dripping from his light voice, "If the guards were tryin' to defend the in.. inno.. innocent, then m' pa's house would still be standing, and m'pa and m'ma would still be 'live."

Dric> Elidran cocks his head, "What happened to your house and your parents?

Dric> Dric folds his arms across his chest, frowning deeply for one of his age, "The big, nas'y orcs came, an' burned m' house down. They 'tacked the village, an' killed m' ma and m' pa. And the guards were right there, right nearby! I bet they coulda seen the smoke, but they didn' do a thing 'bout it."

Dric> Elidran frowns, "I do find that very hard to believe, that guards would not aid your family."

Dric> Dric rolls his eyes, "Th' whole village burneded down, mister! I wasn' there, I was stayin' with m' brother and m'sister in Pelargir, near all the big ships," his eyes light up at mention of the ships, but his expression hardens once more. "But then the pirates 'tacked Pelargir during a tourny, an' I got wounded, an' the Guard were right there!"

Dric> Elidran sighs, "I'm sure they were busy saving other,s Dric. I don't know, I wasn't there." he begins to look impatient.

Dric> Dric rolls his eyes up at Elidran, shaking his head slowly, "If you was really tryin' to save innocent people, the guards could've saved m'parents. They was good, honest people, an' the orcs had t' come and kill 'em. I'm gonna kill them orcs some day, since the guard didn't."

Dric> Elidran frowns, "Even guards are not perfect, Dric, we dont' always save everyone. We can't."

Dric> Dric heaves a large sigh, shrugging, "Maybe they're not, mister. But they can' be very good a' their job if'fn people nearby where they are get killed dead." He seems quite firm in his conviction. Straightening his posture, as though he could make himself taller by making his back straight as a soldier's, he begins to continue on hiw ay inside the gates, though he casts a furtive glance to the guardsman.. an almost mischivious glance, for that matter.

Dric> Elidran shakes his head, "Nothing I say will persuade you. So be it, lad. Go about your business."

Dric> With Elidran's permission to 'go about his buisness', Dric walks quickly into the city gates, hurrying as fast as he can past the other Guardsmen. However, he runs smack dab into a much larger figure striding out of the Gates at the same time. The larger man glares down at the lad, apparently about to curse at him, or at least give him a lecture on the etiquette of the city.