stone piers and arcades, proclaiming their honor and pride for all to see. No mean portico or ante-chamber is this!! To reach the Throne Room beyond, one must follow a blue-carpeted walkway that skirts the sides of this hallway. For, directly astride the center of the chamber, you cannot fail to notice a long and massive desk. The area before the desk lies devoid of furniture or other impediment, save one small statue. Here, those with court business come to plead their affairs.

Turning to the south, one notes over the archway a great map, greater than any other commonly known. On it lie painted the lands of Middle Earth and the realms of the ancient Dunadan, places wherein the sons of Numenor yet hold sway against the onslaught of the Shadow.

The Alcarondas - Stern
The first rays of the rising sun touch gently the waves of the Port of Harlond: Docks, rising up the fresh new vapours of the salty air. Everything in sight is bathed in the bright colors of dawn.

The moon above shines brightly and you are able to discern yourself hither, at the stern of the mighty warship Alcarondas, for many torches and laterns serve to banish the dark of night. A large wheel is set here in the midst of the wide deck, many-spoked and stained a deep rich brown, and a single man steers it whilst keeping an eye fixed upon a brass compass. Rigging and sails, and piles of coiled rope are stacked near the rails in orderly disarray, and the sailors seem not to heed this hindrance as they go about their duties. Soaring high above you head is the main mast of the ship, nearly a full yard across at it's base, and reaching a hundred feet into the sky. Sailors cling to the rigging while others are perched precariously on the lengthy wooden spars; heedless of the swift death that awaits should they fall.
 

[Serin(#14605)] The ship is alive with the bustle of busy hands and shuffling legs. Shouts go up and down the riggings and railings of the ships. Many sailors have gotten up in the morning to perform their daily duties: Yeoman mop the deck, seaman stand in a row tying parcels together for some coming voyage and marines stand at attention awaiting orders from their sergeant, Galain. A rather out of place yeoman, who had awaken long before the sun bathed the ship and the blue waters around with its golden glory, leaned along the stern side railing writing with a quil into a red, water-stained book.

Galain shouts out to the marines gathered that they are to get to work with their normal chores of making sure the ship is seaworthy. He turns his attention toward the stern and a smile spreads over his face. Galain moves toward Serin and nods to him coughing slightly as to let the yeoman know he is there and not to take him by surprise. "Good morning Serin, what is that, that you are writing lad?"

((Serin
STATUS: IC (3m idle))

        With head held high and grey eyes sprarkling like two lonely stars before a pale moon, you behold Serin. He is a man probably in his mid twenties. Serin radiates the air of a great seaman. His straight hair is reddish brown and ever kempt. His ashen face is stern, and unrelenting in its all-perceiving gaze.

        Around his sturdy upperbody he wears an airy, white-buttoned shirt; opened a little at the top to allow the breeze to flow in. Around his long legs are a pair of close-fitting, leather-pleated, black pants. At his feet are two soft-leather boots tinged by dark weather stains. A ferric chain, barely visibly upon his chest, holds a bronzed-guilded insignia of a little gull; the symbol of a yeaman. Strapped diagonally over his back is a thick sheath showing the bronze-colored swirly pommel of the silvered blade of a greatsword.

        Serin moves almost mechanically. His expression is all too often cold and indifferent, though when a smile is prvoked it shines with the radiance of a mirth long since vanished from the world. Serin's voice is calm, quiet, and very direct. In anger it rumbles like distant thunder. He is a sharp mind, reserved in his words though sometimes threatening in his posture.

((Galain(#26812POenANcf))
You gaze upon a tall man, in his latter mid years, with a scraggly blond beard. He stands around 6'3. His muscles are well toned and are in proportion with his body. His hair is that of a dirty blond and his eyes are a dull green color. There is almost always a grin on his face which adds to his almost wild looks.
        Galain is clad in a loose fitting maroon shirt, which is tucked into his white pleated pants. His pants are tucked tightly into a pair of large black boots. The boots are laced all the way up to the top and are well polished. Upon his shoulder is embroidered a crab with crossing swords underneath it.

Serin pulls his nose from the book and leans off the rail. His eyes quickly scan the blond-beared, tall gentlemen addressing him. He slaps the red book shut rather abruptly and replies, "Nothing sir, merely finishing my journal and piecing together a song." Serin's voice, as usual, is drained of all sentiment; neither disdain nor warmth crossing its monotone.

Galain chuckles and tries to peak at the writing on the book even though it is closed. "Well tis good you are keeping a journal, maybe it well be usefull some time." he stands to his full hight and shouts out at a marine who was talking over the railing to a citizen of Minas Tirith. Galain then turns his attention back to Serin. "What do you think about setting sail Serin? There was talk that we might and I wanted the crews information and thoughts about it."

Serin's grey eyes flash alive and his voice gains some fervor to its inflection, "Setting sail? 'Tis a grand idea, sir. The men 'ave been 'ere an awfully long time sir. We just make sure the craft is seaworthy, but are the me shipmates says i? Mayhap we should sail to Dol Amroth, and see whos will come wit' us after thems Haradrim."

Galain nods "Aye, I twas thinking the same Serin." He looks off toward the west. "The only problem is, is that I heard a rumor stating that Lord Imrahil and Lord Boromir were to arrive in Minas Tirith sometime in the near future." He sighs. "I am not sure what Rinkair well opt to do, but I shall mention sailing if it is in the crews interest."

Serin smiles wanly, "Why should one wonder that they'd be comin' 'ere?" Serin steps across the deck to the opposite railing and looks out across the eternity of the sea. "We've been 'ere too long I say." Serin tucks the book under his arm. "too long, aye, too long."

Galain nods "Yes yes, I know. I have felt that it has been time for us to move, for quite some time now." He chuckles "Aye, time..seems time is everything no?" he sighs "I shall talk to Rinkair about setting sail for Dol Amroth as soon as we are ready to set out."

Serin brushes some of his stray bangs from his eye and tries to look happier. "If YOU are talking to Rinkiar then I'd expect to set sail by next week." He cocks his head another yeoman, snatches up a rope, tosses it to him, and approaches Galain. "In the meantime, we ought to think of having a celebration ere we should sail. This is the flagship is it not? Does not its timbers charge the depths with its might? Do not its banners flow yonder mass?" Serin touches a spoke of the wheel and turns back to Galain. "It is the glory and pride of Gondor."

Galain nods his head "Aye it tis the flagship and pride of our glorious navy." His eyes scan the Alcarondas. "That tis visible to all, for look about the ship. She is the finest to sail our mistress the sea." He grins at the men at work "Each man knows here from wood plank to cloth sail and rope rigging. A celebration we could have but each man has had shore leave for mor than a month that we have been in the harbour, tis this not celebration enough?"

Serin nods his head, "Too true, too ture." He glances at the port of Harlond and back to the sea. A breath of salty sea air fills his lungs with joy. Serin chuckles to himself and continues, "There be rumor that the Cap'n has taken fancy to some lady. But you needn't say your heard it from me."

Galain chuckles "Aye, I did hear a rumor about the crew, although few came out and said it openly if any." He hides his grin by rubbing his beard. "Tis not the place of the crew to talk about the fancies of the Captain however." He stares out across the bay and frowns. "At least the weatehr is fair, if not good at best."

Serin smiles coyly, "Of course not, sir." He opens his book onces more and takes his former place against the railing. There he randomly begins chanting whispering phrases, but for the most part is barely noticable by anyone.

Galain nods and as Serin takes his previous spot near the rail the marine sergeant steps up and leans on the rail overlooking the maindeck and watches the crew work diligently on various tasks from cleaning the deck to keeping the folded sails in proper condition upon the masts. He speaks over to Serin without turning his head. "If ye need I shall be here for most of the day, or down working with the crew. There are duties to be done and tasks attended to."