Weather:            Clear
Time:                Late Morning <about 10 AM >
Season:              Spring
Date:               Hevensday - March 20, 3014

Real Time:          Sat Apr 18 19:53:18 1998
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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 Tree embriodered on the breast in silver, 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.

Serin:
 Serin is a tall, sturdy man, with cool, grey eyes and a careless smile. Below his straight brown hair is a suit of dark mariner's blue, upon which he has fastened a long silven sword and a leathered satchel. But his clothes do not betray his noble birth, nor does his face cast a shadow on his skill. For the air of a great sailor is woven about him; and in his expression there radiates a fervor of old; subduing the world around. Serin's face still bears the pain of a long forgotten mirth. He remains emotionless, indifferent, and untouched by happiness; as if smothered by an unknown sorrow. Serin is a decent man, though he rarely can count his friends.

Training Ground:
 The training grounds spread out in a semicircle, rimmed on the sides by a wall, and bordered in the back by the towering Mount Mindolluin which rises above until it melts into the clouds. The open grounds offer a stark contrast to the stone cobbled streets of Minas Tirith- here dirt cakes the ground, muffling the footsteps of the soldiers of the city as they train. Frequent drills and large troop maneuvers are held in the grounds with the sounds of clanging metal ringing out onto the adjacent street as guardsmen cross swords in mock combat.
 

A sailor, dressed in his finest travelling clothes of blue and black emerges through the circle. The sun beat on his back in the hours of the morn, and he squints faintly at the people fighting around him.

Analdin stands quietly to the side of the large training grounds, watching with a keen eye the soldiers practicing. Many near to where the Lieutenant stands are fighting one against another, paired up to pracitice their swordsmanship. On the far side can be seen half a company or so of Guardsmen drilling in other things.

A long silvered sword is drawn from a sheath resting on the sailor's back, and is swung carelessly back and forth in a diagonal pattern. Dirt and dust are stirred up as the mariner's boots begin moving with these strokes. Looking across the ring he stops, dropping his sword, and approaches the guardsmen in their practice drills.

Analdin silently watches the sailor's approach as calmly as he does his drilling men. The bright, late morning sun shines off his helm, and those of many other guardsmen, making the practice field shine brightly. As the mariner draws his sword, the Lieutenant gives him a quiet nod of greeting.

Serin slowly passes the men, observing their fighting with subtle pleasure. When he reaches Analdin, and stops at his flank, he shoots the man a somewhat apologetic look followed by a smile. "They are well-trained.", he says with a bit of satisfaction escaping his lips.

Analdin gives another quiet nod, gaze sweeping the practice field, "Aye, that they are. I see you made it back to your ship alive, then, since we last spoke." As he speaks, a twinkle becomes a bit more evident in his dark blue eyes, shining like the first star from the dusk sky.

The sailor's hands and sword fall to his sides, descending upon a sigh as two shrivelling vines wilting amid a desert. From the tall, stark features that usually glare or brood in indifference a light springs, and he laughs aloud in a booming voice. "I made it alright my friend. Nials proved helpful, I might add. My apologies for having to fight you in such desperation, returning was all that mattered to me." He turns his head half-cocked at Analdin, "But I will have my revenge nonetheless, the ruthless corsairs shall pay I promise you that."

Chuckling lightly, Analdin turns his gaze back to the mariner, "Though I am certainly glad you made it back alright, I rather pity the corsairs, should they come under your blade any time soon." His tone is light, much less full of temper as in Osgiliath, and his posture is straighter, as though a great burden has been lifted from his shoulders. "What brings you to Minas Tirith, friend," he asks, "When the corsairs are yet elsewhere... At least," he pauses a moment, a hint of a smile touching his face, "I have not yet been told of their arrival."

The takes a shallow breath, stretching his sword and eyeing it all the while. "The corsairs are yet away. My captain will not depart until all sailors are accounted for." He pauses twisting the blade up into his sheath. "But my heart is hot, and I need to practice for whatever perils may lie ahead."

Analdin eyes the sword carefully, looking it over carefully, "A man must needs be ready to face whatever foes may present themselves," he says, as though quoting some famous philosopher. After a quick glance at the soldiers around him, he loosens his own sword in its sheath, "Perhaps you would wish to train with me and my men, and get yourself ready for an encounter with the corsairs of which you speak. They are fierce, I can grant you that, and fight well."

A spark of amusement fills Serin's face, and he redraws his sword. "Too true, too true." , he says, almost admiring the combat already going on. "You are indeed a man of high honor, and this time you shall have no such scrapping from me." He adds emphasis to this by waving his sword like a wand before his face, and relaxing into a stance like that which every swordsman learns as standard procedure.

Analdin draws his sword, the sound of metal on air slicing the atmosphere around the lieutenant. Holding it as though it were an extention of his arm rather than a tool, not gripping it tightly, but not loosely, he falls into a stance that seems second nature to him, one foot a just behind the other, both spread apart some, giving him a state of balance. "Shall we?" is all he says, tone quiet, belying the swordsman's stance.

A nod is given, and the sailor immdiately rushes forward, wrapping his blade against Analdin's and making many petty strokes. Upward and downward he strikes, though quite apathetically, until finally he stays his onslaught to consider something different. A shuffling of the boots is all one can see, and the mariner bound forward, inadvertently kicking up dirt and gravel, and swipes at Analdin's sword arm.

Serin attacks you with his Greatsword!...
...and he hits! Ouch!

Analdin blocks the small strokes easily, moving his sword smoothly with what seems a simple flicking of his wrist to bring the longsword into a position to defend himself. Carefully watching the other man as he pauses a moment, the lieutenant lets his guard down slightly, just enough, that when the mariner finally attacks again, he is not ready enough. The flat of other's blade catches the guardsman's sword arm, hitting his sword away in the process. In retaliation, Analdin uses the momentum the greatsword gives his arm in hitting it to bring the sword around and down in an attack on Serin's shoulder, managing a small smile and a nod of aknowledgement to the sailor for the hit.

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

The greatsword is a lengthy and heavy weapon, such that Serin must grip it with both hands. Now in a hit such the sailor's against Analdin's sword arm, there is always a chance that one can not easily retrieve such a weapon as readily as the flicking of a longsword. Surely then, the mariner's shoulder is smitten, though not seriously, and it provokes his heart to fervor. And in an upheaval of that weapon of his, he ventures yet to strike the torso and chainmail of Analdin in a hope that in its strength it might wind him.

Serin attacks you with his Greatsword!...
...and he hits! Ouch!
.
Analdin takes quick step back, rather a dexterous one for a man of Analdin's build. The strong muscles of his hands and arms are relaxed as he moves, though he appears to draw the sword after him, moving it back a little later than himself, leaving just enough room for attack beneath it. As the attack comes as surely as it will, the Lieutenant gets it only in his chain mail, though the impact of the blow itself manages to make him pause a moment. Eyes shining in the sunlight, he follows through by taking a step forward again, bending his knees a tad, and swinging the flat of his blade at the mariner's legs.

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

An unlooked for hit is awarded to Analdin, causing Serin to laugh as the steel touches his legs, eve as though his mind had been ever absent ere then. In a quick recourse though, the Sailor surges a few steps ahead in the arena, twists his body around, and sends a backstroke at Analdin's flank as he encirles around his opponent.

Serin attacks you with his Greatsword!...
...and he hits! Ouch!

Serin is a tall, sturdy man, with cool, grey eyes and a careless smile. Below his straight brown hair is a suit of dark mariner's blue, upon which he has fastened a long silven sword and a leathered satchel. But his clothes do not betray his noble birth, nor does his face cast a shadow on his skill. For the air of a great sailor is woven about him; and in his expression there radiates a fervor of old; subduing the world around. Serin's face still bears the pain of a long forgotten mirth. He remains emotionless, indifferent, and untouched by happiness; as if smothered by an unknown sorrow. Serin is a decent man, though he rarely can count his friends.
Upon seeing his opponent's tactic - a bit late, however - Analdin wheels about only to find the other's sword hitting his side as he moves. A hint of suprise registers in his eyes, and he gives a quick nod, "Good tactic," he says in his quiet voice. As he speaks, he continues to pull his sword about, bringing it around at Serin's side.

You attack Serin with your Longsword...
Serin parries your attack with his Greatsword!

The sword is, of course, glanced away from Analdin's mail, since it was sent on its flat. The figure of Serin continues to spin a little more, and as he finishes the revolution on a different side of the ring, he stretches out his sword and checks Analdin's attack. "Thank you. No higher praise could I hear than from a friend.", Serin says coyly. The sailor holds steel against steel, looking Analdin squarely in the eye for a reaction. When the glance is received, the mariner slides away his blade and rather than sweeping low or high begins swinging Gurthang about in a large circular motion, finally tumbling it abruptly at Analdin's sword and arm.

Serin attacks you with his Greatsword!...
...and he misses!

Analdin meets Serin's gaze with his own intense blue eyes, breaking contact only as the blow comes toward his arm. Yanking, in an almost graceful way, his arm out of the greatsword's path, the lieutenant manages to dodge the intended blow, and keep his sword arm from being scathed yet another time. Dropping his own blade so the tip almost touches the ground, he holds up his other hand, glancing at the sky, "I am afraid, friend," he coughs slightly, with a glance to the street where stands a figure above the training grounds, "That I shall be late for an important meeting if we continue."

Serin nods evenly at this, and follows suit by dropping his sword's tip to the dust. "You are amazing, and a good teacher for these fellows. Yet I hope my practice will prove as successful on the Haradrim, and my ways as honorable; which still must be observed as you have shown me." With that, the mariner, eyes beaming, sheaths his sword and turns out of the arena.

Analdin sheathes his own sword, "You shall do well on the corsairs if you keep up what you have been, and perhaps take a bit more training. Farewell, Serin." With that, he outsteps the sailor on his way out of the training ground.