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 right upper arm, near the shoulder, is company insignia, a Silver Ship set against the Gates of Minas Tirith, right above which is the insignia of Company Commander. On his right shoulder are the silver bars and cables of a Lieutenant's rank. 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.
        A simple white bandage can be seen beneath his black talbard on his right side, the snow white severly contrasting the raven.
        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.

Arnafel:
It is apparent to those who look at him that the blood of Numenor runs true in Arnafel. His tall stature and keen grey eyes attest to his bloodline. His long black hair is held back from his forehead by a braided leather thong, and falls till his shoulders, framing a youthful face, finely structured with high cheekbones but with a few lines of care and weariness already graven onto his brow. At first glance, his face and slim build give an impression of youth, but a closer look reveals that his eyes do not belong in that youthful face. They are the eyes of a man who has seen and borne much, a man who is burdened by cares and responsibilities which no one of his youth should have to bear. A long scar tracing his left jawline, indistinguishable except in moments of anger when it stands out whitely, contributes to this impression.
         He is dressed in clothes which seem designed for comfort and free movement rather than ostentatiousness. His breeches are of soft brown doeskin, and his tunic, white in colour, with a blue line running along the hem of the tunic and the sleeves and with a ship and swan etched upon it in silver, is worn over a thin suit of leather armor. It is belted around his waist by a wide brown leather belt, from which hangs a small pouch from the right side, with a simple dagger in a worn sheath next to it. A grey hooded cloak falls from his shoulders, reaching till slightly below his knees, clasped around his throat by a silver brooch in the shape of a swan. His boots are of brown leather, of calf-height, with their tops turned down. The only feature in his ensemble which stands out is the lethal looking longsword which hangs from the left side of his belt in a beautifully tooled scabbard,it's silver hilt gleaming.
 

Emyn Muil, Scarp over the Marshes
Analdin's lantern provide a circle of illumination that shows you are on a chert-strewn and frozen path which slopes off gently to the northeast and levels out to the southwest. Off to the south and southeast, the top of a sheer cliff can be made out. The area north and west of the path is hilly and sparsely forested. Around you, the late night air is cold, befitting a winter night.

The dark sky is overcast and dreary.
 

A small fire, very small, is settled in the darkness of Emyn Muil, giving off very little smoke yet much more warmth, for the night is dark and cold. The December air whistles through the campsight, blowing gently against the weary questers, just enough to cause more of a chill.

One figure, clad entirely in the black of the Guard, sits his watch by the fire, dark blue eyes sweeping warily over the surrounding area. A few of the others are up and about at this time of night, undoubtably from the inability to sleep.

An indistinct figure sits at the outer edges of the camp, the firelight barely touching his shadowed form. A great cloak is wrapped securely aound his body, and his leg is stretched stiffly ou on the ground before him, as he leans back with his back resting against a large boulder. Grey eyes gleam in the darkness as they move restlessly around the campsite, never settling long on one spot.

As his eyes move over the camp, the darkness hindering sight some good bit, Analdin's gaze falls upon the back of one of his companions, apparently another restless soul tonight. The sights about are in no ways uplifting, considering the gloom that surrounds the camp. Standing, stretching some, the Guardsman takes a few long steps over to where the squire is seated. "Not a very comforting night, is it, Squire?" he says quietly, his voice cold.

The grey eyes follow the black-clad figure as it approaches and stops before him. Arnafel cranes his head, barely able to discern the dark figure against the black sky, the firelight creating a halo against the light hair in stark contrast. He shrugs at the man's words. "This is a forsaken place, Lieutenant. Neither day nor night be comforting in a place such as this."

Analdin nods down at Arnafel as he speaks, "All too true, Squire. The less comforting considering there are beasts such as those trolls," he nods up towards the cave only a few leagues away, "nearby. And the Haradrim..." Trailing off, he takes a seat quietly beside the other man, not asking whether he wishes not to be disturbed at all, just sitting. "Speaking of those, I do wish to have some words with you concerning the battle." His dark blue eyes glint an almost erie orangish color as the fire catches them, and the coolness in his gaze is not at all hard to discern - especially considering it is so evident in his tone.

Arnafel cocks his head, gazing curiously at the face of the man sitting next to him. "And those words be not pleasant ones to judge from thy face," he says dryly, then shrugs and leans back. "But speak on, since no more pressing matter appears to be at hand."

Analdin gazes out once more at the night beyond the small circle of the camp fire. Silence reigns here, for not many animals find it a good habitat, and those few that do are usually of some evil nature. "No, Squire, it would seem there isn't. Considering our position," he motions with a small flick of his arm around the camp once more, "We won't seem to be doing much this night." Heaving a light sigh, as if he does this out of hours of thinking and not raw anger that may have driven him earlier, the young officer continues, "I know there is no love lost between us, Squire. 'Tis most probably from my own fault that it is thus. But that is the least of my worries right now. I would like to ask you, however, to consider your behavior during our escape from the cave the other day." He leaves the words hanging, an expectant gleam in his eyes and a hint of a frown upon his worn face.

A thoughtful look passes across Arnafel's face on hearing these words. He pauses for a moment. then speaks, seeming to pick his words carefully, "I care not what thy opinion of me is, Lieutenant. It affects me not, but I would have thee know that I hold thee no malice. 'Tis just that I find my ire hard to restrain when someone does speak ill of my city. Mayhaps I have spoken as I should not have in the past in the grip of my anger...As for the cave...We fought together against the foe and that is well. Is this behaviour thou dost refer to, my refusal to leave the cave before thee?"

With a shake of his head, one that lands a vagrant strand of light hair in his face, the young Guardsman pauses once more and listens to Arnafel's carefully chosen words. "'Tis the same with me, Squire. Minas Tirith is my heart and blood. But that is far from the matter which I have mind to speak with you over, and the ill feelings between us two isn't of my concern at the moment." He stops here a moment, meeting the squire's grey eyes with his own intense gaze, "You know quite well that I ordered you from the cave, Arnafel. I had my reasons for doing so. By disputing that order, you put the life of a man wounded near death into jeopardy. What good excuse do you give for disputing that command?" his voice and tone gain a hard edge, and, though so far on this quest he has shown his defiance and boyish nature, the true commander's colors begin to show forth once more.

Arnafel rests his head against the rock at his back, staring up at the cloudless sky, before he turns to face the Lieutenant once again. "I contest thy words, Lieutenant," he says evenly. "Place Nials' life in danger? Nay, my actions were to save his life not endanger it. The troll inside the cave was undefeated, and another lurked in the shadows. Thou wast burdened and in position to defend thyself if attacked. Outside, Torelin and the Prince guarded against foes. If an attack came, 'twould be from within, not without." He shakes his head. "In such a position, the best way in which I couldst have guarded Nials...and thee with him..was to remain inside until thou wast safe." He leans back again, awaiting the heated answer which he is sure must follow.

A long silence follows the squire's words as Analdin considers his own reaction. A spark of anger lights in his face, understandable certainly, but he manages to reign in his temper. "Squire, I know the position we were in. Lords Sirion and Beladan had the trolls suitibly engaged. They would not come for us, not before those two were down. Torelin was injured badly enough and, might I add, you were rather red with your own blood. The two of you might make one fighting man to aid the Prince Elphir who, quite obviously, had no intention of keeping the Haradrim from escaping. A good help he was indeed." This last is said with some sarcasm. "But you had your orders, Squire. And when I give a man a command, I quite expect it to be obeyed. Is that understood?"

Arnafel smiles humourlessly at the expected response. "Lieutenant, Lord Beladan and Lord Sirion might be fell warriors, but they were hard put to contain a single troll, and where the other lurked, none knew. As for myself, I held off the Haradrim well enough with my injuries, and so did Torelin. And thou dost malign Prince Elphir if thou believest that he neglected his duty. Wouldst thou rather that he had prevented them from escaping and forced them to turn and fight us in our condition as it was?" He falls silent for a moment, a fleeting expression of pain as can be experienced from recalling grievous memories passing over his face, and then he continues. "Lieutenant, I will not follow an order which I do believe to endanger the life of a comrade, not if the order was from Lord Beladan himself. I have paid for that already, but I remain who I am. If thou dost wish to report me to Lord Beladan," he shrugs, "thou art fully within thy rights to do so." He regards the Lieutenant, waiting for his reply..

With a final nod, Analdin stands, straightening his talbard as he does so, "Squire, I have fought many battles in my time. One does not rise to the rank of Lieutenant in the Guard without some good experience and leadership. I will not have my orders questioned, I will have them obeyed." That said, he nods quietly once more before speaking again, "And you can full well expect my report to be in Lord Beladan's hands when he awakes. I would much rather settle this between the two of us than involve him. But if you will not follow commands, some that may endanger the life of a comrade or your own life, then you have no place here. 'Tis a leader's responsibility to do as he sees fit with his best judgement... And it is a Squire's responsibility to obey his superiors." On that final note, the young officer turns on a heal and makes his way back towards the fire, shoulders a little more slumped than before he had spoken to the other man.