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 Currently the gate is withdrawn into its housing and the doors before it opened wide.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-shine is glorious in the brilliant blue of a clear Spring morning.

Ingold:
        Eyes with the greyness of stone shine on this man's face; eyes that, more often than not, hold that tiny spark of humor hidden deep within them, so deep as to appear permanent. Hair of a blackness deep as wet coal covers his head, ofttimes finding a way to fall into his eyes and give his face a youthful appearance. Yet apart from the shine to his eyes and the vagrancy of his locks, there is nothing that would cause anyone to assume he is young. He is tall, a good six and a half feet or so, though none would call him particularly well built. Only the muscle and build attained from years of soldierly experience keep him from appearing lanky.
        He is decked out in the black tabard of the Minas Tirith Guard with the White Tree embroidered in silver upon the breast. Similarly colored trousers are tucked into high polished boots of the darkest ebony. Upon his left shoulder are the bars and cables of a Commander's rank, his right holding no more than the insignia of the Rammas Echor, a wall of stone. From his belt hangs a longsword, the hilt of which is unadorned silver. Topping off the uniform, a shining helm with raven's wings sweeping back oftimes adorns his head.

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 200 lbs. He has a well toned muscularture, a broad frame, and a newly firmed stomach.
        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. Thrown over this robe is a fanciful purple cape, with satin edges dyed magenta. Placing square on his back the symbol of his noble house, the signet of three golden wreaths. On the left lapel is a silver brooch of a ship, and on his tabard, above his heart is a crest of white and blue, with a sword and two horses rearing to meet at the center, the coat of arms of the house Rovacil.
        Three gold and black rank cables loop around his left edge of the tabard throat down to the arm opening. Loose black pants are tucked into highly polished 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 left 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 silver and sable metalic links of his armor show little wear, but his leather buckler shows signs of numerous sabre strikes.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Weather:            Clear
Time:                Late Morning <about 11 AM >
Season:              Spring
Date:               Mersday - May 2, 3015

Real Time:          Fri Sep 04 20:59:11 1998
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

As the sun rises above the horizon, a sound can be heard from the east. It grows louder and louder, as if coming closer to the Gates every moment. After a few seconds, it can be made out:

Thumpity-thump! Thumpity-thump!

The gallop of a fast horse!

Overhead the busy market street, the high noon sun beats down upon the backs of shoppers. The market is in full swing, alive with shouts from merchants selling their wares with an auctioneer-like flare.

Parting the crowds in the center, like a black adder crawling through a field of grass, an impressive guard of Minas Tirith makes his way to the gatehouse. Being saluted to by the collective of guardsmen, they are all make a semi circle around him, as he speaks to them. Then all at once, they disperse and head in various directions, most heading out of the gates and toward the inn no doubt. Thus, noontime signals the changing of the guards at the gate.

That fast-paced clip-clop of heavily-shod horse hooves grows louder and louder until it overrides even the general noontime din of the crowd outside the Gates of Minas Tirith. Soon enough, against the rising sun, a figure on horseback can be viewed. By this time of year it has grown fairly warm, yet a black cloak lined in silver flows from his shoulders in the eastward wind. After a few moments longer, the horse upon which he rides can be seen for what it is: a well-built, powerfuly muscled beast with a ebony coat and white spots on its flank.

Malahir, finished with the task of relieving the morning shift, stops breifly at the guardhouse to pick up a violet cape, swinging it over his head and tying it snug around his neck as he approaches the late comers to the afternoon shift. Hoarse shouts can be overheard, having an immediate effect on the dozen gaurds that sporadically filter though the crowds, "Aye, late again are you Beril. Make it snappy, get to your posts quickly. This is the busiest time of the day, no time to have the gates unguarded", he makes for a corporal that accompanies the meandering soldiers, "What a lousy outfit you have saved for me. What did you all do when Analdin and I were gone? Sleep?", he chastises him viciously as they enter the guardhouse.

Finally, after less than five minutes yet what seems longer as the sounds linger in the air, the man on horseback reaches the gate - at full gallop. A path is made for him as he comes in from the crossroads, women hurridly pulling their children away, young ones dashing to the side, and merchants and farmers alike moving out of the way.

Mutters run through the crowd. The man reigns his horse in suddenly, just a few feet short of running over a small child, and causing the beast to rear up on its hind legs. A few Guardsmen on duty salute the figure, those who see him clearly, and a murmered name is spoken a few times, in a number of different tones: awe, respect, and disgust among them. "Ingold."

No sooner than the whinying of a horse dies down, the head of Lieutenant Malahir sticks out of the gatehouse. Eyeing the horseman suspiciously he cocks his head, also whispering the name of the guardsman. His cape swishing behind him, Malahir strides up to Ingold's beast, in front of the indangered child, "What in the name of the Valar? Couldn't you see this poor child here", pointing to a guard to aide the child back to her mother.

The designated guard leaps into action, taking the sobbing child away from Malahir and Ingold, leaving the two practically alone, facing each other in a sort of stand off under the gates.

The figure swings down off his horse with more than a little flair, and holds a hand to the approaching Guard before the lower ranking man can touch the child. Instead, he picks up the young boy, pulls something from a pocket, hands it to the wee one, and sets him down, patting him on the back in the direction of a more than worried mother. Turning back to the Lieutenant, the lanky horseman looks down at him as if studying his face. "Why, I saw nothing more than the young lad before my beast, Lieutenant," he stresses the rank, even though a near-grin sneaks upon his face, "A friend of mine. I would rather slice off my own hand than injure the boy. But," and the grin slips slightly, "I have more important matters to attend to at the moment. What news of the city? I have been away more than a few days now." The crowd around the Gates continue about their buisness, though more than a few flash the rider a smile which he returns just as brightly.

Malahir watches the commander in silence, never letting his eyes stray from him. After Ingold aides the child and addresses him, Malahir bows his head slightly, "Please forgive me sir. I am glad we share the same oppinion of those smaller than us", looking the tall guard in the eye, as they are about the same height. He salutes smartly, "Welcome to Minas Tirith. Please, come inside, I'll have refreshments ordered up for you and your horse. I see you wear the insignia of Rammos Echor", straying slightly to eye his right shoulder, "You have traveled long, aye?".

With a wave of his hand, the Commander beckons a young boy over, a lad no more than ten or eleven years. Handing the boy a coin - in the sunlight it appears to flash bright silver - he hands the reigns of his horse over and points to the stables. After one look at the piece in his palm, the lad's eyes widen and he nods sharply, leading the beast away. "Not overly long, Lieutenant. My inspection took me to the southeast Gate, only a league from the city. I ought check in more often, but work has piled up." With a shrug of his shoulders, the officer looks down once more at Malahir, "And you, Lieutenant, who might you be? I fear I pass this way less than to my liking, but I never did forget the name or face of one of the Lieutenants."

Malahir starts to lead the way for the commander, showing him the entrance to the gatehouse on the inner side of the gates. Caught in the shadow of the great fortificaton, his eyes widen, "Where's my manners, I apoligize again, but will try not to make it a habit", he extends his right hand and awaits a handclasp, "My name is Malahir Agendir. I am the new Lieutenant of the silver ship company, formerly under Commander Analdin", he says all this proudly as he composes himself taller than he really is. Smilling, he inquires, "I know of you and your work in Pelennor. You are commander Ingold are you not?", he inquires with curiousity.

Ingold casts his eyes about the area before the Gates as Malahir introduces himself, and absently clasps the Lieutenant's hand a moment, "Well met, Lieutenant Malahir. Agendir, is it? That name sounds almost familiar to my ear." With another, almost absent look at the crowd, he mumbles the name to himself before his eyes light up, "You must be Analdin's man. Are you related, then, to Emdir?" Shrugging once more, he sweeps a mocking, if well preformed, bow. "Ingold it is, Commander of the Rammas Echor."

Malahir smiles toothely and bows with as much pomp as a man of his impaired grace can, slipping one arm under his cape to display it's colors, "Aye commander. You are twice correct. I am indeed one of Analdin's men, he is a good friend and my trusted comrade. We have just come back from a quest I'm sure you've heard. The success of finding the dragon helm of Turin must have found even the stout troops of Ramos Echor", he winks then continues on, "And my uncle is none other than Emdir. Although, my father would probably not want that fact known, so let's keep that our little secret for now".

Ingold shrugs once more, "As you wish it, Lieutenant. 'Tis your family, and not mine." A Guardsman hurrying to his post, his armor a little off-center and his helm askew upon his head rushes behind the officers just as the Commander begins to step back and lean against the guardhouse wall. A frown flitting across his face, which doesn't last long at all, he leans against the wall. "I have heard of this quest. 'Twas successful? Rumour flits about the wall, but I have had no official news."

Preoccupied with the passing guardsmen frightful wardrobe, Malahir stammers, "Um, yes. Well, I can understand how Pelennor can be cut off from the outside world. How goes it on the wall? I've been there recently, on the quest matter of fact. But only for a short while", he squints as he remembers the events of the last year, "After a long and challenging travel, we have succeeding indeed Commander, the dragon helm is save in the hands of Lord Sirion".

With a nod of his head, the older Guardsman folds his arms over his chest. "A good thing. That helm ought be in trustworthy hands, an there are few more so than Sirion's, if what I hear is true. Turin's was a terrible fate. Have you studied that history, Lieutenant?" He seems almost to ramble, but there is no absence in his mist-grey eyes.

Malahir looks at the man for a few seconds, his eyes searching the stranger whose name he's heard two years prior, in the battle of Pelennor. Seeing the legendary commander for the first time, he seems to be calculating in what he says, "I have indeed commander sir. You don't go through an experience like that and not learn a thing or two. you can say that I've learned more than any story or history book can teach", he smiles faintly, then looks at Ingold with calm brown eyes.

The Commander's dark eyebrows rise slightly, "Oh? Perhaps you can tell me the tale sometime. Or Analdin might, should he ever escape the paperwork he is destined for." His mouth twists into something resembling a wry smile. "Sometimes a ptomotion is not quite as grand as it may seem. Remember that, Lieutenant." The smile works its way back to normal, and though it fades slightly from his lips, it remains in his eyes. "What other news of the City?"

Malahir shrugs lightly, looking for a nearby guard, who seems to be idly holding up the stone wall, "You sir, fetch us some cool cider would you", and he returns his attention to the dark haired officer, "I will take that advice in consideration. My only interest is to serve my fellow man, and do what is just. the capacity to do it in doesn't bother me", rubbing his nose and perusing the entrance of the city, "I cannot say for sure commander, I've just got back myself, in time to take over a badly idle company it seems", waiting impatiently for the guard to return with their drinks.

Continuing to rest almost easily with his shoulders set against the wall, Ingold watches with amusement as Malahir shoos the Guardsman off to fetch drinks. Yet he says nothing on the subject, a singularly amused smile touching his features. That smile appears almost perminant, relaxed as he is, and quite usual for one of his rank and responsibilities. "Ah, yes. I did forget. My mind was on other things. Have you heard of the tourny planned by the Prince Imrahil? Rumour of it reached the Rammas Echor a few days ago, during my inspection of the northeast gate. Men of Dol Amroth riding through on their way to Rohan."

A touch of mirth is seen on the guard's face, his etched features softening somewhat, "Aye, it seems as if you do get news rather slowly, but at least you do get news", he winks but doesn't comment on the Prince's Heralds, turning his attention to the guard who ambles by with two ciders in hand, "Good man Limortis", dismissing him with a salute, "if only he could get to post on time", shaking his head sadly "a good go getter that man tho..anyways, I heard about the faire when I was still at Dol Amroth, they announced it the very day I departed for Minas Tirith. It should prove splendid. Will you be able to get off your wall for the event?", he inquires.

Ingold chuckles dryly, glancing casually at the cider in Malahir's hands though makes no move towards it. "Off my wall? I know not how they do it these days, my good Lieutenant, but when I was of your age and still a Corporal, and before, they taught of us distances. You pass often through the Rammas Echor when you march to Osgiliath, through the eastern gate. Yet the northeastern gate, the farthest point from the city of Minas Tirith, is but four leagues away. If Lord Boromir so orders, or if I can manage leave for the time, I fully plan to show down some few men of Dol Amroth. They believe themselves fair with the blade... but they have much to learn from us of Minas Tirith." He winks.

Malahir looks down at the two mugs of frothy milk and squints his eye, "what in the name of Turin is this? I said cider", he calls out to Limortis, who wisely pretends not to hear. Turning to Ingold he shrugs as he extends his hand, "Sorry sir, would you like some goat's milk?". He reflects some on the matter Ingold brought up, "Aye sir, distance is the soldiers best friend and his worse enemy. What is it I was asking, oh, right. I'm sure Lord Boromir will allow his best officers leave to attend the faire. I'm hoping I will be invited again".

Ingold blinks once or twice as he glances at the mugs of... milk? "Thank you, no, Lieutenant. I've a friend in the city with a few fine bottles of brandy he may be willing to share." He shakes his head, mumbling the word milk. "Do you drink, Malahir? That is, anything more than cider and.. milk?" The smile upturns almost mischeviously, "I know you to be one of Analdin's men, and he is rumoured to have strange drinking habits. Perhaps you picked up on them?"

Malahir bows his head for a moment, looking into his mug of goat's milk. Gulping he upturns both mugs and empties the contents on outside the city, stretching to make do. He looks at the commander for a moment, again, hesistant in the shadow of such reknown leadership. Nervously he recalls, "there was a time, I was young and careless, sir. And I took to drinking like a fish. And yes sir, to answer your second query, I have not only noticed Commander Analdin's disdain for brew or brandy, but have myself vowed to keep to cider only", he answers quite on the edge about the subject.

A dark brow rises on the tall Commander's forhead, "Vowed? Cider?" He shrugs lightly his shoulders and speaks in a frank tone, "To each his own, or so it is said. Though there are many who doubt the competency of a man who shuns drink.. There are just as many who doubt the ability of one who does. I will have a glass every so often, but 'tis no good to be so sick before duty. 'Tis a lesson I learned many years ago as a brash Private."

Malahir nods quickly, "Aye sir, to each is own. I don't shun it, it's just not for me I presume", he smirks and changes the topic quickly, "Since it's your guess as good as mine how the city fairs, mayhaps we should attend the merchant council tonight. Do you follow the guild's doings?".

Ingold's face turns quite bland at mention of the merchant council, though he manages to keep a look of complete, schoolboy disgust from his face - if only barely. "Not since my father left me to my own means. The guild has forever bored me. I am a soldier, Lieutenant, not a merchant. There is a definite reason for that." Smile showing through that, though, he adds, "You do, I take it?"

Blushing slightly at the ears he smiles, "I once thought like you sir. How boring it was, and to be told I have to like it on top of that. But once I became a soldier, it was then that I realized the guild is just as important. I've seen it's effects day in and day out on these streets. On my own accord, I go to their meetings. But like you said commander, to each is own", he winks as he reaches inside his cloak and pulls out an antique pipe, "you don't smoke do you sir?".

Motioning with his head in the general eastward direction, Ingold nods, "I take a pipe every now and again, aye. Thought not to bring mine with me today, however. It was to be a short ride to the city, no more than a day away from the wall." Unfolding his arms in an almost dramatic stretch, he stands up from against the wall and clasps his hands behind his back. "If the merchants were of any interest besides the energy it takes to protect them when they wander too far eastward, I might consider attending the meetings. But I have held no interest since my father ceased his lectures about their importance."

Malahir nods and smilies as he takes up the pipe and smokes casually, "I should probably quit this nasty habit as well, I don't listen to my fathers lectures anymore, although I am forced to listen and take heed of a certain lady's lectures now", he winks and then asks out of the blue, "Are you married Commmander, a soldier as dedicated as you would probably be hard pressed to find time for a wife, aye?", he raises a brow curiously.

Ingold allows a soft laugh to escape him as he shakes his head at Malahir's question, "No, no, Lieutenant. I have yet to find time or a reason for marriage. I suppose the other thing I lack is a woman as well." He winks almost unnoticably, and continues without a pause. "A life of travel such as mine would not suit a lady. And were she to stay in one place, I would see her perhaps once every week. Perhaps twice, if on a short circuit or only coming to the city."

Malahir looks secretively to his left and right, puffing on his pipe, more relaxed as the coast is clear, "Aye, travel is a curse sometimes, but it could be good for a relationship now and then. But I love her, there's nothing more I want than to make her happy and if she were to catch me with this smelly thing, I'd have to put it out. Trouble with dames eh?", he chuckles lightheartedly, "One day you may run into her in your travels sir, you never know", he pulls up a chair and offers it to Ingold, "Are you staying for awhile, or is there a duty you must finish?".

Ingold shakes his head at the chair, "After an hour in the saddle, I've no wish to sit, Lieutenant, but thank you." Hands still clasped behind his back, behind his cloak as well, he begins to walk a bit. "You are yet young, Malahir. Tell me, come ten more years, whether your views have changed." Casting a glance towards the Gates, his eyes especially taking in the great outcrop of stone above the Gates, he shakes his head. "Nothing pressing, no. A few reports to make, supplies and personal stores" he coughs quite loudly for emphasis "to pick up, a short visit in all."

Malahir decides it's not polite to sit while a guest remains standing and uncomfortably leans up against the wall with one leg bracing him. His eyes follow the pacing commander and his military like strides with his hands behind his back just so. Hiding an amused smile of his own he returns the lanky man's comment, "You don't look all that old yourself sir. Tell me, how goes it along the wall? My station is here at the main gates and has been for three years. I've come to love this little niche. I can imagine your niche is slightly larger than mine though", he jests with a wry smile.

Ingold stops his pacing long enough to fix Malahir with quite a stare.. though that smile still quirks at his mouth. "I think I shall take that as a compliment, Lieutenant. I would not doubt, however, that there is a good ten years between us at the least." Resuming his strides, however, taking him perhaps six lengths to either side of Malahir, not so far, he begins speaking once more, "There is nothing of too much import. The usual reports of orc attacks further east. An occasional bandit or two. A quiet watch to the north and south, though the east requires sharp eyes these days."

Malahir nods and seems satisfied with the answer, "You must realize Commander, I don't stray much from my post. I also tend to keep to myself for the most part. But I'm glad the rest of our defenses have not seen anything out of the ordinary. Perhaps the commander would like to visit with our new commander Analdin? Are you old friends?", he eyes the dark haired man from afar considering the normal conversational distance.

Ingold gives a shake of his dark-haired head, "No. We have met over buisness of the Guard, and in Osgiliath. I have fought by his side a time or two. But friends? No." He pauses a moment and looks once more at the Gates, shaking his head slowly, "Perhaps I ought get that buisness taken care of before the afternoon wastes away completly." His tone is low, as if perhaps speaking to himself.

Malahir looks to the guard suspiciously as he overhears a part of the his last statement. But he plays it off politely, "Commander Analdin is a fine officer and friend. Perhaps you should make an effort to stop by the barracks on your rounds of the city today. I know he's locked up inside his office making out orders and such", he shrugs and shakes his head, "The poor devil should get our more I say"

Ingold chuckles softly, "As is the way with all too many of our officers. So much time in the office or on the training ground and they waste away." He smiles smoothly and gives an almost lazy salute.. yet one with flourish. "Good day, Lieutienant. May you have a quiet watch and little trouble." With that he saunters towards the Gates.

Malahir edges from the wall and salutes smartly in return, "Well meet Commander Ingold. Do stop by more often, you have a new Lieutenant to get to know, and the White Tree Inn so close by", he mentions under his breath at the departing guard of Ramos Echor.