Analdin: An intelligent-looking young man catches your eye. As he sweeps a lock of his relatively short blond hair out of his deep blue eyes, you catch a hint of mischief hiding in them. You judge him to be about six feet tall, perhaps a bit more, but definitly no less. His features, though slightly boyish in appearance, give him a definite sense of responsibility, perhaps a reason for the Lieutenant's stripes on his Guard uniform. The uniform, a black tabard with the stars and tree of Minas Tirith, black trousers, and polished to a shine black boots, seems to almost be too military for one with his boyish looks, but after closer inspection, suites him quite well. A helm of black steel, with raven wings sweeping back from the sides adorns his head.
        Strength, however, is apparent in his stance, physical as well as mental. His medium build doesn't leave much for what would be thought of a very strong man, but it is apparent that this lad has seen his fair share of hard work. The thoughtful gleam in his eye pears out at you, and immediatly shows a good bit of intelligence, ready to be applied to any problem at hand. One might consider him quite handsome, though he looks boyish at times thanks to the short cut of his hair yet bangs that sweep across just above his forhead when his helmet is removed.
        Though black seems to be the dominant color in his clothing, which includes a black glove on his left hand, his almost Rohirric features makes it so he gives off no appearance of darkness. A well-polished and taken care of sword hangs from his belt, and he wears it proudly. His posture is friendly, and, though somewhat serious, a hint of a grin shows in his eyes and at the corners of his mouth. An air of purpose surrounds him like a light mist.

Malahir: Immediately, you are captured by the honest brown eyes of a traveler from antique lands. Framing his amiable round face are wild brown curls that extend down to his broad shoulders. His leather tanned skin displays the strength he bears in his arms. On his left forearm is a nasty gash, which appears to have never healed correctly. His impressive stature measures six feet and he weighs in at 210 lbs of well toned muscle.
 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 horse. 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 high crowned with long cheeck guards, close fitting to the face.

Osgiliath: Western Ruins - Gondorian Garrison
        You step into the camp of the Gondorian garrison on Osgiliath, perhaps expecting that at night it will be peaceful and quiet. The exact opposite is in fact true...a dozen watch-fires are kindled amidst the ruins of the former glory of Osgiliath, and at least as many black-clad men of Minas Tirith patrol the camp, their eyes flitting nervously about them in the darkness.
        You hear a flapping above you and flinch...suddenly...
        ...and then blush when you look up and realize that it is only the flapping of the pennons attached to the tops of the tents. As you gaze upwards, your eyes fall on the bright jewel of Earendil's star, far to the west...tracking eastwards, Varda's jewels seem to dim to a grey nothingness hovering above the Ephel Duath, the black wall of rock to the east.
 
 

The camp at midnight shines under the light of so many small campfires and the stars above them, like smaller campfires in the sky offering unattainable warmth and comfort to the soldiers. Analdin stands stiffly and quietly, gazing up at the stars. The eastern edge of the camp, where he stands as though he were on duty there, is illuminated by a small fire a few feet behind the Lieutenant.

Malahir steps out of his cramped tent, holding his right shoulder gingerly, rubbing it as he walks toward the center of the camp. He picks up a ration from the meal wagon as he passes by. Chewing on it abesent mindedly, he watches the pennents whorl in the wind.

Analdin, as his eyes remain on the heavens above with their swirling mass of glowing orbs, keeps his head cocked sideways listening closely to the wild around him. The orange flicker of the fire reflects off his armor, even more so on his winged-helm. Every now and then, he glances around, casting an inspecting look over the camp in general.

Malahir, looking around the camp, stops his absent minded gazing and stuffs the remainder of his rations inhis mouth and hurries over to the camp fire at the eastern edge of the camp, vaguely making out a figure he was not sure of. He pulls out his sword, and cautiously approaches the man in the shadows, "You sir, who goes there?"

Analdin, in true soldier fashion, spins on his heal. Retaining his almost-at-attention posture, he draws his own sword with the tell-tale sound of metal on metal as he whips it out of his sheath. With a definite hardness to his voice, one born of the disturbance to his pensive watch, he says, "I do. Lieutenant Analdin. And if you wish to make something of it, have your sword ready."

Malahir watches the man wheel around, sword in hand as if the sword had reflexes all its own. He is completely taken aback, stepping back with his sword low to the ground, and his mouth open. The fire now illuminates the stern face of his Lt. After a moments pause, he resheaths his own sword and quickly salutes, "I'm sorry sir, I was not aware you were out here."

Analdin sketches a salute in response to Malahir's, and also points his sword downward. His blue eyes reflecting the firelight, making them seem a dark orange, voice softening even though his face does not. "Good evening, Malahir," he says, a tone of dry humor entering his voice, "And thank you for not running me through before discovering my identity." Relaxing a bit, yet not resheathing his sword, the Lieutenant adds in a much friendlier tone, "How have you been? I noticed you were quite injured after the battle.

Malahir nods shyly, his smile forming while he brushes his long brown curls from his eyes, "Aye sir, I had a huge gash, but I'm lucky the ax head didn't go through the bone. My shoulder is still sore, and I have an aweful scare." He looks over toward the fire. His smile disapearing from his face. "I'm sorry again sir, all I saw was a silohuette, I wasn't sure what was over here.

Analdin's hard look softens a tad, as he listens to the young man, a half-smile comeing to his face. "Forget it, Malahir. I appriciate your checking out that which you did not recognise, on the chance that it could have been something more than myself. Something the slightest dangerous." Tone turning serious again, he adds, "There is one thing, however, that I disaprove of in that tactic..."

Malahir tilts his head, his hair jostled and swinging to the right, "Yes sir. Please, I wish to learn more from you"

Analdin nods, looking over at Malahir's shoulder. "I totally disaprove of you drawing your sword in any way until that arm of yours is totally healed. Do you understand?" The statement itself could have been a joke, but from the hard, serious look on Analdin's face, it obviously isn't.

Malahir nods looking hard at the lt.'s deep blue eyes, "Yes sir. I wasn't sure how this arm would have held up in a fight, but I was alarmed. The healers have granted me leave, but ofcourse, the infirmary is overcrowded as it is, so that doesn't mean much."

Analdin nods sternly, "And that notion you had after the battle of returning to duty the day after. Forget it again. Listen to the healers, soldier. The last thing I want is you to be perminantly disabled by a small injury by not taking care of it."

Malahir shrugs, rubbing his shoulder below the red scare over his massy deltoids. "I'll be fine sir. Just post me with another for a while. Unless you think you really don't need me on guard duty."

Analdin tucks a stray piece of dark blond hair back up under his helm quickly, as though to hide it. "If you believe yourself fit for duty, perhaps..." he pauses, eyes turning thoughtful for a moment, "Actually, I can do better than put you on guard with another. Tell me, Malahir, can you read and write?"

Malahir smiles, he's eyes glinting the fire below him. "Yes sir, I am pretty well educated. Though I don't consider myself a learned scholar. I know common. I was unsuccessfully taught many languages, I wasn't interesting in them when I was younger. Only in sword fighting and hunting. Why do you ask sir?"

Analdin's eyes begin to twinkle, "Well, honestly, I have a lot to do. A lot of things, as well as my fair share of paperwork. Not the sort of thing that requires my signature or anything, but work that a man well enough for desk-duty but not combat can do for me." Looking into the other's eyes, Analdin opens his one free hand questioningly, "Would you rather that or nothing at all?" Adding in a musing voice, "Perhaps I could get you on kitchen duty, however..."

Malahir readjusts his helm, unstrapping the tight cheek guards in order to get a relax. Sweat pours down his cheeks, and he wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. His eyes remain set onto the blue orbs of the LT. "It is a tough descission for me sir. But I'd rather be helping out the best way I possibly can, and if you need a scribe, I would glad to offer my services"

Analdin chuckles lightly, the stern and hard mask breaking, "Thank you then, Malahir. I certainly cannot promise it will be interesting, let alone exciting, but it needs to be done. And it would certainly free me up to finish some very important duties, like convncing They Who Make Uniforms that our Company's crest hould not be too hard to create." A grin approaches his face at that thought, his normal, almost boyish grin.

Malahir smiles slightly, it disappearing as quickly as it came, "I would be glad to help you out Lt. Analdin. But I don't wish to be a one moment longer from the front line. My assets are in my arm, as soon as it feels back to full strength."

Analdin loses his humor at Malahir's mention of returning to duty. Tucking another annoying piece of hair up under his helm, again as quickly as possible, he says, "Your arm will heal, eventually, and only if you rest it enough to let it. Believe me, I would rather have more men on duty than endless writing. But, as you know, many of my men are wounded much worse than yourself and do not even know their letters, let alone are well enough to write them. I would, if possible, just return us all to Minas Tirith, or get some support out here... But I cannot."

Malahir looks over the lt.'s shoulder at the war ravaged garrison of osgiliarth. The lit torch sconces making the walls seem orange. He nods, "Aye, many wounded. Many dead as well. I best get to sleep then, I look forward to duty in the morning.

Analdin nods and says in a tired voice, "Aye, sleep is a good thing, friend. Enjoy it while you can."

Malahir walks toward his tent, removing his helm and resting it on the used armor wagon. He stops and looks back toward the eastern approaches. Nodding to the dark figure there.

By the time Malahir turned around, Analdin was already back in his previous position: back to the camp and gazing at the stars.