Post by Boromir on Feb 24, 2012 17:10:45 GMT -5
Grey Ships Pass
[/font]Lay Down your sweet and weary head[/font]
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“You carry the fate of us all, little one. If this is indeed the will of the Council, then Gondor will see it done.”
Name: Boromir
Age: 41
Race: Men (Gondor)
Alliance: Good
Night has fallen you have come to Journey's end[/font]
History: Boromir was born in 2978 of the Third Age within the proud kingdom of Gondor. His father was Denethor II, who would become the ruling Steward of Gondor in 2984, and his mother was Finduilas, sister to the Prince of Dol Amroth. Boromir also had a brother, Faramir, who was born several years after him in 2983. It was not long after Faramir’s birth that Finduilas passed away at the early age of thirty-eight, Denethor remaining unmarried after her passing, as well as becoming more grim and distant from his sons. Despite the detachment their father had from them, Boromir and Faramir grew close to one another during this time, Boromir protecting and looking after his younger brother, despite the evident preference Denethor placed on the eldest son over the younger.
Being the eldest son of the Steward of Gondor, Boromir was named Steward-Prince of Gondor, expected to assume the position of Steward of Gondor after his father passed away. Before this however and also a cause of his position as heir to Stewardship, Boromir was named Captain of the White Tower, becoming a prominent commander in the Gondor military. It was soon that Boromir’s pride and devotion in Gondor shone, and the eldest son devoted his life to the bettering of his people and to leading them in the protection of the kingdom. He led the forces of Gondor to large success against their foes, and became a well reputed and popular warrior and commander. When the forces of Sauron overran Ithilien in 3018, Boromir led a successful defense of Osgiliath, stopping the forces of Mordor on the eastern half of the once great city and destroying the bridge across the river Anduin, despite the fact that only he, his brother Faramir, and two others were the only survivors, being forced to swim across the great river to safety.
It was not long after this battle that both Boromir and Faramir received a dream. In the vision they were given a riddle concerning Isildur’s Bane, and were bade to go west to Imladris. Both Faramir and Boromir requested to go to the journey from their father, but Denethor, seeing that Boromir and his pride would allow no others go forth on the task, and favoring him, allowed the eldest son to leave the city of Minas Tirith. Setting forth, Boromir left his brother and the kingdom of Gondor, and began his journey to Imladris, or the elven city of Rivendell. The entirety of the journey took 110 days, the horse in which he rode having been killed in the river Greyfold near the ancient city of Tharbad while crossing.
Boromir arrived within Rivendell just in time to attend the Council of Elrond, representing the people of Gondor. Throughout the course of the meeting he attempted to persuade those attending that the One Ring would be of more use in the hands of Gondor, and that the people who had shed their blood to defend all the people of Middle Earth could use the ring as a weapon to destroy Sauron. He failed however, and eventually the ring was taken by Frodo Baggins, and the quest was formed to destroy it in the fires of Mount Doom. Despite his opposition to the plan, he joined the Fellowship of the Ring as one of its original nice companions, and set out with Aragorn to represent the men of Middle Earth. Though he never left his hopes that the One Ring and the Fellowship would journey to the kingdom of Gondor, Boromir now follows them on their journey to the lands of Sauron, his loved homeland and the fires of a growing enemy before him, and the wishes of the free people of Middle Earth following behind.
Appearance: Boromir is a large and imposing man. Due to his Númenórean blood, as well as the military life-style he held in Gondor, Boromir has a great size and a considerable strength, greater than that of normal man, standing at a height of 6’4” and being of a heavy and broad built. He has light brown hair and blue-grey eyes, as well as a being fair in appearance. Boromir wears the standard armor of the Gondorian foot soldier, though he is more lightly armored, bearing only the chain-mail, leather, and a pair of vambraces, all over which he wears a travelling cloak. He also carries the Horn of Gondor, a large horn of war that is an heirloom of the Stewards of Gondor, said to bring aide to all those friends of Gondor who blow it.
Weapons: Sword, shield, and dagger.
Grey ships pass into the west[/font]
Role Play Sample: It had been some time since Boromir had left the mighty gates of Minas Tirith, but still the proud city of white shone in the morning sun. His horse standing atop a hill that lay to the side of the great city, the captain of Gondor turned his head back towards the city, his hand coming up to shield his eyes from the rays of sunlight that streamed from the clear sky above. A slight frown creased his face, as he simply stared at the pinnacle of Gondorian might, marveling at its towering bastions, its turrets and towers rising to reach into the bright sky, and the city itself resting against the marvelous White Mountains, as if the city was one of the snow peaked mountains as well. Even from where the man rested he could still see the small black shadows of wagons and men moving to and from Minas Tirith, the stoned highway leading away from the stout walls brimming with the early morning activity of those awakened.
Boromir had left early that day, and though many were still in slumber when he and his horse had rode down from the white citadel, news of his departure still bade a crowd follow his slow ride through the streets of the city, even going as far as the gate itself, some cheering and bidding him safe travels, others simply staring as he rode onto the flowing grass of the Pelennor Fields that surrounded Minas Tirith, some bearing visage’s of hope at the man’s quest, others bearing a melancholy mood in their downcast eyes at the departure of the proud captain.
Though the morning was bright and the hopes of his people were behind him, Boromir was laden with a heavy heart. It was not known how long his ride would take, the journey to the west would be a vast one, and the vision which guided him had been cryptic about what he would actually find once he reached the western lands. It could be a matter of weeks, or his journey could take months. And then of course there was the faint but unmistakable danger that such a trip presented, and that his life would possibly be threatened at least once during its course. But no, even as such a thought crossed his mind, the proud man shook his head. Death would not be an option, his people had brought their hopes and wishes onto him, and he was bound to uphold this through Gondorian honor. The faith of Gondor itself may have rested on the journey; he would view it as such, and would not fail regardless of the challenges.
Spurring his mount, Boromir turned away from Minas Tirith, away from his family, away from his homeland, and began the long journey westward. The rising sun shone in front of him, but the man kept his eyes cast downwards towards the earth, his hands resting idly as they clutched the reins of his horse. It would be some time that he would remain within the lands of Gondor, and for at least that duration he would not need to fear danger or foes. But it was not just logic that persuaded him to such a slow and careless beginning to his trek, but also a slight reluctance to leave. Gondor was his homeland, the mighty and magnificent kingdom the entirely of the life he knew. Though he was taking the journey of his vision for the sake of his people, Boromir still felt remorse that he was leaving its fields and mountains. He held confidence that his father and younger brother would be able to defend its borders, but it was the mere fact that he would not be there to take part in such defense that sat heavily within his mind. Gondor had been his charge for many years, the proud men his brothers, and the White Tree his symbol. Was it right that he was leaving it all for the riddles of a wayward dream?
Sighing, the great man, even in the light of such thoughts, lifted his head up, and the frown that had once lined his face was now replaced with the beginnings of a smile. For in his heart he knew, somehow he knew, that he was following the right path, that in pursuing Isildur’s Bane he was following what his destiny held for him. For the power of Sauron, the sworn enemies of Gondor and all those free within Middle Earth, was continually growing in their vile power each day. Boromir was a proud man, and held Gondor in the highest of lights. He knew the men of its lands would hold back the darkness of the east back for many months, years even, for the valiant efforts of Gondor were great, and the bravery of its soldiers knew no bounds. But what then? For every drop of pure Gondorian blood the enemy could afford a river of their vile orcs and beasts of shadow. For every foe struck down, ten more seemed to take their place every day. Though Boromir held faith Gondor would never surrender, never show weakness, how long could they truly hold out against such an enemy? Was it not, even to the most hopeful, a matter of time?
But no, that was why Boromir now set forth as he did. Lifting his face towards the sun, the man allowed his smile to widen, and at once his spirits and hopes rose, and all thoughts of defeat left his mind as if the light of the sun itself drove them out. He would find Isildur’s Bane, he would find a way to defeat Sauron and his vile kingdom, would see to it that Gondor would remain alive, and that its people would be able to prosper and live in peace. It was his duty as a man of Gondor to protect the kingdom, and it was also upon his honor that he promised he would do so. As long as Boromir lived, the White Tree of Gondor would still wave proudly within the clear sky. With a kick into the flanks of his mount, the man urged his horse forward, the beast rearing its head as it began to quickly ride across the morning lit grassland. His hair blowing in the cool morning breeze, the captain felt the rush of his horse beneath him, felt the morning sun upon his face, and felt the hope of his people that he carried upon his back. And he laughed, a great laugh that echoed across the grasslands and into the white-capped mountains that rose up from the earth nearby. Gondor would survive; it would defeat its enemies and free the land of Middle Earth from the shadow of darkness that threatened to destroy it. And Boromir would be the one to see it done. It was such thoughts that filled the man’s mind as he rode out into the morning horizon, his homeland and his people pushing him forward, forward to a journey guided by a single dream, a single dream that promised the restoration of his people, and the ultimate glory of the White Tree.
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Custom title: Steward-Prince of Gondor
Codeword: “Golden Leaves”
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