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 Currently the gate is withdrawn into its housing and the doors before it opened wide.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.

You are nearly blinded by the driving drizzle as the storm seems to increase...You can barely make out your location..

Gandalf has arrived.
Gandalf comes by. Gandalf! Why, if you had heard only a quarter...

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Weather:            Stormy
Time:                Late Morning <about 10 AM >
Season:              Autumn
Date:               Monday - September 10, 3014

Real Time:          Mon Jun 15 15:27:12 1998
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Analdin:
        Dark blue eyes, the color of the stormy sea, shine glacially cool from this clean shaven young man's face. Dark blond hair cut short, short to hanging just abover his ears in a clean wave, covers his head. His cheekbones are chisled and his features are sharp, though the lines of his mouth are those of one used to smiling - if only slightly. His hands, when they can be seen, are rough and large. His left hand, however, sports a black glove at all times. He is a man of muscle, espicially with strong arms. Though not extremely large, he rises to six feet and is of meduim build.
        He wears the black talbard of the Minas Tirith Guard, with the Tree embriodered in silver on the breast. Simple black trousers are tucked into boots, black and polished to a shine. Upon his shoulder is company insignia, a Silver Ship set against the Gates of Minas Tirith, along with Lieutenant's bars and Company Commander's. A longsword hangs from his belt, perhaps not old, but well forged and well used. No special adornment can be seen on it save the marks of much use. A shining helm with raven's wings sometimes adorns his head, though more often, when in the city, is nowhere to be seen.
        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.

Mithrandir:
        Before you is an old man, long grey and as gnarled as the ancient staff upon which he leans. Great cragged brows peek out from beneath a wide-brimmed pointy blue hat and a sweeping silver beard that extends past his waist. He is clad in ash-grey robes and a winding scarf and his feet are shod in black leather boots.
        Both the crooked point of his hat and the frayed edges of the scarf hint of long roads and hard days. Clearly, this man has led a difficult life and it does not seem amiss that he should seem so worn and weary.
        Yet...
        Perhaps all is not as it may seem. Every once in a while, you catch a glimpse of his eyes and they are dark as coal and glittering black. Stranger still is the gleaming sword hilt that at times is revealed beneath his robes. Indeed, even his movement seems at odds with his appearance--quick and steady steps that belie his age.

Even in this stormy weather, with the thunder breaking loudly overhead and lightening flashing, lighting up the city bright as the noonday sun, a number of people are filing their way through the Great Gates of Minas Tirith. Farmers bringing their wares to sell inside the city, men of the Guard going on and off duty, merchants wandering in and out for any reason... they all form the habitual crowd outside the Gates. One man stands aside, just under the awning of the guardhouse outside the Gates and against the wall, the shelter just enough to keep this black clad man from being drenched.

The falling rain rattles off one such man's hat as he plods forward through the downpour; and the water beads off the broad blue brim, slick from the storm and bent with the weight of the water. A great point rises from the center of the hat, and bristled brows fight against even the brim itself for prominence.

His heavy boots slog through the mud noisily, and upon his staff of gnarled and ancient oak does he lean; his robes are full soaked through, and his beard drips most piteously.

As the crowd wanders past him, the young man in the black uniform of the Minas Tirith Guard pays only the attention of one interested in a sight only for the sake of boredom. Others stand beside the Gates, checking those who pass for weapons and preforming other such duties, watching the people intently. The Guardsman under the awning does none of this, only shouts out occasionally to those on watch, otherwise keeping his silence. However, his eyes light on one section of those wandering by, and he catches sight of an old man wandering past in the storm. Taking a step out into the wetness of the falling rain, ignoring the patter of the raindrops on his bare, blond head, he steps over to that man, falling in stride with him, "Good sir," he begins, voice just loud enough to make it over the din of the crowd and the storm put together, "Isn't it a bit.. stormy out today for a stroll?" his tone holds a hint of amusement, but laced heavily with curiousity.

"A stroll?" queries the man in a sharp voice, looking the youth over with a quick and steady eye. The barest hint of a dancing smile begins to play upon his lips, beneath the bristled beard... and his own voice is filled with amusement that makes the guard's seem droll.

"It has been far more than a stroll," replies the aged figure, and indeed though he was at first creeping along he matches the youth's pace as much as the youth matches his. "For I have come across the Ered Nimraith these last days, and from far beyond that in earlier ones."

Continuing on at the pace the old man sets, though having to chance the length of his stride, still keeping up with no problems, the guardsman nods quietly at his words, almost as if not paying full attention. His eyes wander over the crowd a bit more, until a place name is mentioned, at which the young officer almost stops, a light brow rising, "Across the..." Confusion, something not often seen in the man's face by the confidence bright in his eyes, shines in his face, "I fear I have not heard of that place. Is it in Gondor? For that would indeed be something of a long walk. Espicially, and no offense intended here, good sir, but for a man of your apparent years."

"Ered Nimrais," the man repeats gruffly, the gates growing closer. His stride seems to quicken even more, and no longer does he lean upon his staff at all, but carries it instead loose in one of his ancient hands. "Ered, mountain... nimrais, White. Those over there."

The free arm of the aged creature waves towards the nearby range, cloaked in the grim mists of rain. "Do they teach none of the elvish tongues in Gondor any longer? The Men of the West have lost much lore, but I know that surely knowledge of the Old tongues must still yet exist here."

Clasping his hands behind his back, the young man glances to the approaching gates, meeting the eye of a guardsman stationed there before looking back to the man he walks along beside, "The White Mountains? Why didn't you say so in the first place, then," it takes a few moments before understanding of even this simple translation dawns on the man, and his words come a bit slower than at first, some hesitation making an appearance, "I've crossed those myself, sir, and 'tis not too far a journey." Even as the rain pours down upon his bare head, the man ignores the pattering and the beads of water dripping into his eyes, and he wipes a vagrant strand of light, if somewhat wet, hair from his face. "There's people around here who speak words like those, mostly the Lords up nearer the Citadel. I see no need for all that high learning, myself. Doesn't do me any special good, no more than reading and writing does."

This last causes the old man to laugh aloud, and pick up speed some more! "No good does it do you?" he queries. "No good? And what, then, would be a good kind of knowledge, young sir? What -would- you know, if not the tongues of Old?"

The pick up of speed causes the Guardsman to lengthen his strides. However, the Gate seems to apprach rather quickly at this speed, and he slows down a little bit to something resembling a strolling pace rather than such a hurried stride. "I know the workings of the city, sir. The old tongues, no one uses them out here at the Gates. I don't have need to speak them to my men, as they would understand about as well as I. If I can do my duties, keep my company running, and obey my commander, I don't see any need to be doing it all in a language I don't have need to understand. Now swordsmanship, that would be a useful learning, sir, much more so than tongues no one around here speaks any more."

The old man growls, and pulls himself to a dead stop in the rain, raising his staff so that it shakes in the face of the youth. "Swords?" he demands, his voice raising a bit. "Do you think that is all there is to life? Any of the yrch... that's orcs, young one, in the old tongue... could match your kin in the art of the blade."

A dark fire burns in the glittering eyes of the man, and he raps the butt of the staff into the mud, where it sinks a pair of inches deep. "This land was not founded by men who cared for naught but swordplay!" he pronounces. "Gondor was founded by the sons of Numenor, who fought in the Last Alliance of Men and Elves! If you are a true guardian of this kingdom, sir, you will remember that and make your studies a serious matter. For if the knowledge of Old passes away, that which was Gondor will be truly lost, even before the Shadow starts its work."

The young man continues on for a few steps before noticing the man's stop. Drawing to a complete halt, he turns slowly to face the older, brows beginning to knit as his brow wrinkles in something resembling anger, "And how would knowing this old language you speak of, and speak, help me to fight those orcs on the border? How will it help me defend those men I command, and those I am sworn to defend?" His deep blue eyes shine brightly, ignoring the mud that spatters up to the ankles of his polished, if somewhat dirty from the days weather, boots. "And who are you, sir," he adds the 'sir' almost grudgingly, or out of force of habit, "to lecture me on my own duties? I usually leave that to my commanding officer, and Lord Boromir when he cares to." Standing straight, shoulders squared, the young officer faces the pronouncements of the old man as well as he does the weather... being touched by them, but ignoring the main reason of the storm, almost ignoring the storm itself.

A slight smile touches the lips of the man, but it dispells not the fireceness that blazes in his old eyes. "I have many names," he says. "In the north I am known as Gandalf: in the West of my birth, they called me Olorin. In the South I am known as Incanus: in Rohan they call me Stormcrow.

"But all that matters little! Hear my words, and answer them if you may: what was the downfall of Numenor, if not the loss of love for the ways of the elves? How else did the Shadow fall upon Ar-Pharazon the Golden?"

The old man shakes his head, firm lines forming under his eyes. "The Old Ways will keep you strong," he says. "No orcs will lay low a faithful Gondor; it is only through the teachings of your ancestors that you will defend Gondor from the rot within. For if the heart of your kingdom dies, sir, the body is not far to follow."

Eyes remaining blank of recognition as the man with the staff names himself, shaking his head slowly, the young officer listens with what appears to be intent interest... But his eyes shine dully with the boredom of a school boy being lectured by the teacher. "I know not much at all about the downfall of Numenor, nor the Golden man you speak of. But I tell you, the elves aren't welcomed well down here, from what I hear in the streets. Never met one myself, but I know a number of people ready to gut them if they come to this city." These words come from his mouth slowly, and only after a few long moments of thought. Rubbing his clean shaven chin, the Guardsman adds, "No orcs will lay low any Gondor, if I have a say in the matter, sir. And I don't see a rot here, not in Minas Tirith, at least, except perhaps in the walls of some houses I've seen."

Gandalf brandishes a gnarled and ancient staff....

"I can see that I am going to have to adopt a more direct discussion with you," says the old one, plucking his staff out from the earth. "Strength flows from the Old Ways, I say, and you will hear me not... so now we shall see."

"Take out your sword!" he cries, prodding the youth gently with the staff. "I am but an old man, as you say, but I am strong in the ways of the Old: so let us see where the true strength lies, and if your swordplay will protect you from me."

And with that, the man offers the youth a stern whack towards the thigh.

Gandalf attacks you with his Staff!...
...and he hits! Ouch!

ARB: You've been injured for 1 hp's by Gandalf's attack...
...you have 79 left. Please RP this injury accordingly.

Brows knitting in confusion at the man's words, the young officer starts funbling with his sword, peace knotted in its sheath, for he has no use of it off duty and around the city. As he unties it hurriedly, but before he has the chance to draw it, the old man's staff comes swinging and bangs hard on his thigh. Finally getting the sword free of its sheath, the guardsman holds it up, glaring at the old man, "Now what did you have to go do that for, sir? I swear, just like my father, picking up a stick every time a man, or boy for that matter, says something he doesn't like." Mumbling something to himself he holds the blade up, soaked as it is already, in a position of defence, though makes no move to attack the man, "I don't usually fight men of your age, sir, and they don't usually send me anything more than boys to train.. With that stick of yours, unless you hit me again unawares, I don't see...." trailing off, he shrugs, only holding his blade loosely and staring at the strange man.

"Indeed," says the old figure, but of a sudden his spine is straighter, and his figure is taller, and every thread of fragility and the weakness of age fades from him as if a cloud had passed over a mountain, revealing that what seemed but mist moments ago is instead granite, stone as old and hard as the earth. Glittering eyes flash, like blazing coals.

The next stroke from the staff is blindingly fast, and directed towards the weapon wrist.

Gandalf attacks you with his Staff!...
...and he hits! Ouch!

ARB: You've been injured for 1 hp's by Gandalf's attack...
...you have 78 left. Please RP this injury accordingly.

With a hard glare in the old man's direction, the officer winces as the staff raps on his wrist... A blow he didn't even move to intecept, quick as it came. "I think you have the advantage on me, sir. That staff of yours isn't so dangerous as the blade I carry, and I have more to worry about injuring those citizens around here." He says nothing more, however, only shaking his head slowly, and rubbing his wrist quickly, then, almost akwardly near the crowd, he swings the blade in a tight, well controlled arc at the man's arm, seeming as of yet unsure that his blows won't kill the old man.

You attack Gandalf with your Longsword...
Your attack against Gandalf mildly wounds him!

The Gondorian blade slips along towards the man, and strikes his robes and drags long and firm... and yet the blow feels hard, but draws no blood. Even the cloth passes out from under the stroke uncreased by the sharp steel.

"A fine cut," says the wizard, eyes blazing. "Yes, I have the advantage of you... but it is not as simple as the weapon I carry." Slipping a jab up and in at the solar plexus, the old man moves too fast for his bones.

Gandalf attacks you with his Staff!...
...and he hits! Ouch!

ARB: You've been injured for 1 hp's by Gandalf's attack...
...you have 77 left. Please RP this injury accordingly.

Sirion comes downhill from inside the city.
Sirion has arrived.

Elidran comes downhill from inside the city.
Elidran has arrived.

A lone rider approaches the gate from the Pelenor. His white hair is matted from the rain. He looks up at the gates of steel for a long moment as he urges his horse forward toward the gate. Upon his breast, the sigil of the Ship and Swan sits.

With something of a loud gasp as the end of the old man's staff stabs him in the solar plexus, the young man takes a step back, shaking his head, "I've never fought someone with a stick before, sir. I do think that is the advantage you have on me... I don't, honestly, see another one. Except perhaps experience..." Cutting off his chatter, the guardsman swings his blade once more, this time a tight stroke aimed at the old man's arm, right up at the shoulder, the edge of his sword shining brightly as a bit of light shining through the clouds hits the wet blade.

You attack Mithrandir with your Longsword...
Your attack against Mithrandir mildly wounds him!

Sirion dismounts and immediately draws his blade, "What is this?" He cries, his voice thick with the accent of the Men of Belfalas, "What is this that one would assail an old Man by the gate of our citadel?"

The aged figure steps back, thrusting his staff in the earth, as the blade of the foeman slips again across his robes. The blow is hard, and the blade sharp, but the cloth does not rend nor tear... and no look of pain rises to the face of the ancient one.

"Do you think my weapon an unfair advantage?" he asks. "Then I will choose another: for I would not have you thinking yourself treated unfairly."

And with that, his hand comes under his loose robes, and pulls forth a blade the likes of which has not been seen in these lands since the elder days...

Mithrandir draws a sword from a worn leather sheath; and O, such a sword as this is rarely seen in the younger days.

Sirion pauses and drops his own blade and cries, "Mithrandir!"

The young man lowers his own sword, eyes glinting brightly at the sight of the blade drawn from the man's sheath. "Sir, that blade would be far more an advantage. It is much better forged than my own... I have not seen one so.. Well, 'tis not a normal sight for a Guardsman as myself." Keeping his sword down, not making a move to fight, he blinks a few times as someone calls out a name, looking around slowly. Seeing a white haired man approaching from somewhere, he makes to put his sword back in its sheath, "Sir, I could not bring myself to try to dent that blade... Not that I could, from the looks of it." Putting a stop to his own rambling, the young man simply stands there, somewhat confused, eyes shining.

You forego your chance to attack.

"Yet you say you have no love for elvish things," says the wizard, holding forth the glistening blade. "Know this, then! The runes you see upon her name her Glamdring, the Foe Hammer! She was forged in Gondolin of old, and in her lies the very terror of the Elvish Smiths."

The eyes of the man gleam at the words, echoing the shimmer upon the blade: even the misting rains seem not to cling to her, though they do to her wielder. "Here is the strength of the old ways: here is the power that will hold back the Shadow. Not in your swordarm, sir, but in that which comes from of Old. Defend that, pursue that, and you need fear no darkness."

Sirion bows to the old man, "<Sindarin> Not all have ********* the ***** Mithrandir, and **** blade brings hope to the remnants of Numenor."

A few moments pass, the Guardsman's gaze on the blade, before the old man's words sink in, "That is an elvish blade, sir?" His eyes widen slightly, "But, you said 'twould not be swords that would save Gondor, yet you say old swords will? You confuse me..." Trailing off, he takes a step back as another man older than himself approaches and speaks in a strange tongue words he does not understand.

Sirion picks up his own blade now and is silent.

Mithrandir inclines his jaw to the other who approaches, and sheathes his blade with a sound that seems almost a hiss. "Nay," he says, keeping to the Westron. "It is not the sword which will save you, but the wisdom of those who forged her; it is not the arm who wields her, matching strength against strength, but the wiles of those who could bend the glories of the stars into steel. Loved well were they by those who founded your kingdom, man of Gondor: loved well should they be by you."

Mithrandir returns the ancient blade to its sheath.

Sirion looks at Mithrandir for a moment before venturing, "Yet, it is oft said that: lore will keep at sword's whim. Thus we have girded ourselves in these days of doubt, when the shadow of the East stretches. Yet I cannot say more, for I am not of this land, but rather here at the behest of the Prince." Again Sirion falls silent and then looks to Elidran and as if an old man looking for a bending ear says, "Once I saw this man in my youth, and he ventured with us to war. Mithrandir he is called, the Grey Pilgrim. A wizard he is, and strange things follow his coming many say."

Elidran walks up the path into the inner gate, his hand on his sword pommel. He salutes Analdin, and blinks at the sight of Sirion and Mithrandir.

"If the old ways could forge a blade such as that," the young man's voice is filled with something resembling admiration, though his thoughts seem to remain on the sword, "I suppose they must not be so bad... But I should think a good sword in hand and the knowledge of how to use it would be very useful, perhaps as much as those ways you speak of." He nods silently upon noticing Elidran's salute, but his eyes remain on the old man with the staff. Ears deaf to Sirion's words, he looks at

Pulling his staff out of the earth in which it resides, the old wizard nods once to the younger man. "You have a hand with the sword already," he says. "Finer men I have rarely met: but it will come to naught if you neglect the search for wisdom. For it is only the wise who can stand against the fear of the Shadow."

But now, though he does not disdain this younger man who has so held his attention, he turns his eyes as well upon the elder who has come. "You who know of my name," he says, "or at least of one of them; come forth. You should speak more to your youth, for they seem to have gone astray."

Sirion approaches the wizard, "Verily Mithrandir, Gondor has decayed even in my span and we forget the old lore. Yet not all. Yet ere I speak I shall not forget my courtesy. My name is Sirion and Tirion was my father and I am in the service of Imrahil of Dol Amroth."

Analdin takes a quiet step back, surrounded now as he is by men with many years on himself. Yet, shoulders straight, he watches them, eyes remaining mostly on Mithrandir, an unsurity shining in them as bright as anything else. His expression is somewhat confused, and he glances up at the sky, as if noticing the heavy rain for the first time, "Where does on go searching for wisdom, if I may ask, sir? And with what time, when a man has many duties that keep him up late many nights already?" There is nothing in his tone save pure curiousity.

Elidran stands away from Analdin and the elders, listening and watching them, and offering no words of contribution.

This statement from the elder draws a nod from the aged man, and a blinking of an eye that lies beneath the cragged brows. "Tirion I remember well enough," he says. "It was a dark day when the men of Umbar laid him low: and though it is their kin, Lord of Calembel, who bring me hence, I would not speak of such things now."

The old figure turns upon the younger man, and waves him closer. "Here is one who may teach you," he says. "You question is answered aright: for he knows much that may be sought, as your own ears have heard. But I will show you a thing or two more, ere I leave... and already you have learned something of elvish runes, if you recall those etched upon my blade."

Sirion falls silent upon the words of Mithrandir and looks to the hilt of his sword.
Sirion has disconnected.

Elidran cannot help himself, and cranes his neck to peer at Mithrandir's infamous blade, his expression curious.

With a quiet nod, the young officer of the Guard, "Aye, those I remember... though more the blade than the runes, I must say." After a silent moment, he adds, "And, I suppose, if you are as this man says," he nods towards Sirion, "Mithrandir... I have heard the name, I perhaps have learned more today than I already sought. That is, about things I was not seeking to learn."

Elidran steps closer to Analdin and Mithrandir, the young guard's curiousity at last overcoming him. He nods respectfully, eyes sweeping Mithrandir with curiousity.

The wizard nods, settling upon his staff again: and once more the exhaustion of age seems to rest upon his shoulders. "There is ever much to learn," he agrees to the young guard. "But you have learned more than you imagine, if you have learned this much: to respect your elders, and heed their lessons."

Elidran inserts, with a grin, "I cannot imagine anyone failing to heed a lesson you give them, Mithrandir sir."

After nodding to the old man's words, the young guardsman adds almost as an afterthought, "Though I still don't see how knowing that old tongue you spake if is going to help me any..." This he says quietly, eyes glinting, almost boyishly wiping a strand of hair from his face.

"I can," says the old man sadly, turning again towards the tall gates. Analdin's words are not lost upon him, though, and after a few steps he pauses and turns back, the thunderous storm sweeping rain deep into his clothes. "You will understand," he says. "In time. Until then, trust in what you have seen today: that should be enough."

Analdin follows Mithrandir's gaze to the gates, intaking a sharp breath as he does so, and muttering a curse, "I suppose, sir, if I still don't see your point.. perhaps some time later. But..." trailing off, he looks once more towards the gates, almost anxiously, "I fear I was supposed to meet with my commander, Captain Elbarad. And not too long ago, either... Forgive me, sir, but I think I'd best get on over to his office before I learn something more unexpected about forgetting the time."

Mithrandir inclines his head beneath his hat, now sodden by the rains, and he nods. "Time is of the essence," he agrees. And then he turns away from the youth, and reenters the line passing through the gates himself: and soon enough he is beyond, inside the great City.

Mithrandir enters the fair city of Minas Tirith through the gate, beneath the watching eyes of the guards.
Mithrandir has left.