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Post by Ivorwen Meneldil on Feb 24, 2012 17:36:39 GMT -5
Another day had dawned and it began just like any other day. People going about their daily routines that they repeated like the guards of the city. Ivorwen got up early to start her day which would be different then any other day. Taking her basket she gathered supplies at the local market on the first level double checking her list before she made her way to the a few houses that had sickness or the elderly, who all demanded to pay her even though she did not want it and was only volunteering to help them. Still she took the money which would help since her father's work as a blacksmith brought in decent money, but not enough. By mid afternoon she made her way back home the high afternoon sun made the air get hot for it was the summer season and therefore it was known to get warmer then usual. She had just returned home to hang her cloak up to find a letter on the table. It was from her father wanting her to come to his work as soon as she returned home. She placed the letter back down on the table and left the house once again.
It did not take her long to walk to her father's workshop which was near the gate to the sixth level. Dodging horses and people that were all in a hurry to get to their destination. She had stopped to look out at the landscape from the fifth level the view was very beautiful and she was still fearing about the dark clouds of Mordor. Sauron had returned making the people of this city fear for what was about to occur. She still had hope as she resumed her walk to her father's work where he wanted for her to take a custom made sword to the Citadel which surprised her, but when she asked who it was for. She grimaced. The Stewart had ordered for a sword to be made by her father for his eldest. Despite what she thought about him. She agreed to go. With the sword in her hands she made her way up to the Citadel which she had never been to before.
Reaching the Seventh Gate she spoke the password which the Stewart had given to her father in order for the deliver to get in. She was allowed in and walked up the tunnel to the courtyard which had a beautiful view, but she was not here for that. She told a guard that she was here to deliver a sword to the Steward and she followed him giving the once white tree a sadden look as she passed by. Hopefully it would return to youth when all of this is said and done. The guard announced her once inside the Tower Hall and seeing the Steward all happy as she came up to him allowing him to unwrap the cloth that cover the special made sword. She only wished that he would share equal attention with his youngest, who she saw often as he passed by although never speaking, and to Gondor itself. Ivorwen snapped out of her thoughts as she held the scabbard of the sword when he withdrew it to inspect it. Her father's work was always of high standards and she knew that very well even as a child she knew it was true.
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Post by Boromir on Feb 24, 2012 18:21:58 GMT -5
Boromir walked through the gate that led to the seventh level of Minas Tirith, the guard that had let the eldest son pass disappearing behind him as he climbed towards the top most area of the city, and to the magnificent citadel that sat upon it. His footsteps echoed dimly off the cobbled passage that he travelled across, his strides relaxed though with purpose. For Boromir had been within the bustling streets and alleys of the city’s first level when a messenger from his father had arrived, biding the eldest son to arrive at the citadel of the city by the late passage of the afternoon. Emerging from the tunnel that passed under the protruding rock of the nearby White Mountains, Boromir emerged atop the courtyard that sat before the white citadel, shielding his eyes with one hand as he regarded the sun as it shown in the horizon, low and past the height of the day and signaling that indeed it was of the requested time that he should arrive.
His steps increasing in pace, the man quickly traversed the gleaming white stone ground of the courtyard, though he slowed to regard the white tree, or what was left of it, a melancholy frown creasing his face. The courtyard and the tremendous view it gave of the lands of Gondor surrounding Minas Tirith were beautiful, but the white tree itself was decayed and dying, its bright branches hanging limply at its side. And then behind it Boromir turned to view the distant horizon, and the realm of Sauron, the fire and ash of the vile realm darkening the distant sky. Even as he looked on a chill bore down his spine, and the captain averted his gaze, shaking his head softly as he did so. The dangers of Gondor’s enemy was great, and even atop the mighty bastion of Minas Tirith the eldest son felt for the most fleeting of moments his hopes sink. But soon the sun, which had seemed to dim, shown once more brightly, and a wry smile across his face Boromir turned away from the darkness and approached the citadel.
A pair of guards, their crowned helms glinting softly in the afternoon sun, opened the large doors that led into the citadel, and as Boromir quickly passed through them his arrival was announced to those that were within the great hall. At once the brightness that the day outside had provided the captain was quenched as the dark and dim air of the great hall washed across him, the grim atmosphere something Boromir had long ago grown accustomed too when beside his father. He glanced towards the end of the citadel hall, where the proud throne of the kings, wrought in stone, sat silent and imposing, and below it the simple yet elegant seat of the Stewards, and as excepted he spotted his father sitting within the wooden throne. But at once he noticed that instead of a dark visage, the man bore a gleeful smile, and beside him stood a woman. Approaching the pair, the eldest son hailed his father, before speaking. ”I have heard your summons father, what is it you wished to see me for?” Turning towards the woman, the man smiled slightly, ”And who is this fair maiden that stands before us?” Even as he waited for a reply Boromir noticed the sword held within his father’s grasp, partly covered by the cloth it had been stored within, his eyes regarding it with curiosity as he awaited one of those before him to speak.
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Post by Ivorwen Meneldil on Feb 24, 2012 19:44:15 GMT -5
When Ivorwen made her way through the seventh gate, a gate that most common people like herself never entered unless there was a great gathering or celebration of some sort. Sadly, there had not been such in many years. The sunlight met her when she came out of the inclined tunnel that opened up to the courtyard. At first she looked at the view behind her with was very beautiful despite the dark clouds in the horizon as well as continuous sound of thunder. It was a painful reminder that they would all have to fight whenever the war began. Ivorwen hoped that I was not anytime soon. Soon a guard confronted her and she returned back to what she was sent here to do. To deliver the sword to the Steward of Gondor, who she detested greatly. She told the guard her business here and he led her towards the citadel without delay.
As she walked through the courtyard it felt eerie to be coming here. The white stones of the citadel were darkening as if the sunlight was turning its back on the white city, but there to her right was even a darker reminder of the darkness that was seeping through the walls. The White Tree. It no longer had the once white leaves that bared the fruit for people to enjoy or the light that cast away the darkness. It stood there decaying it's upper trunk black slowly poisoning itself downwards to the it's very roots that lived in the grass and the water of the fountain next to it. It pained her heart to see the tree in such bad shape, but no one could do anything about only the King could, but they had no King just a Steward that gave his attention not Gondor, but his eldest son. Boromir. The Captian of the Gaurd, who was nothing but a 'air-head' she had seen how he acted in the past. He was full of it, but sadly she did not know the full story.
Upon entering the Tower Hall, she saw the rows of the statues of the past kings lined both sides of the hall which were marbled in black and white. It made her somewhat dizzy just to look around. There ahead of her stood the white throne up its own stairs and it stood as a reminder that there was still hope on this once grand city having a King again. Ivorwen hoped she lived to see someone take the throne. When the guard introduced her to the Steward, she hid her thoughts about him and showed him the sword that he had requested her father to be made for Boromir. She watched as the Steward inspected the sword as she held the scabbier and the cloth that it had been wrapped in. Not long after this she heard a voice and saw that it was Boromir. His father spoke up telling his eldest that due to his success in the army. He had a sword made for him by her father. Ivorwen smiled a bit when Boromir asked her who she was by calling her a fair maiden. That charm was so old these days, "Ivorwen Meneldil. Daughter of the Blacksmith that made your sword." she replied with a bow of the head.
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Post by Boromir on Feb 24, 2012 20:10:45 GMT -5
Boromir’s eyes tilted towards his father as the aged man lifted his head from inspecting the sword he held, his smile widening slightly across his wrinkled face as he beheld the voice of his beloved son. Placing the sword carefully onto his lap, the steward folded his hands and began to inform Boromir of the reason for his summons, and of the sword that still held the captain’s gaze of curiosity. The proud man listened as he was told that due to his success in commanding the forces of Gondor, against the shadows of Suaron that plagued the far borders of the realm of the White Tree, his father had ordered a sword to be crafted for his use as a gift. A slight look of amazement spreading across his face, Boromir nodded towards his father in appreciation towards the acts of thankfulness he had taken, and upon seeing this the steward smiled even wider, his wrinkled hands carefully wrapping around the sword as he lifted up the blade. Reaching his hand out Boromir was allowed to take the sword, and placing his grip around the hilt of the sword he carefully pulled it from his father’s grasp.
Taking a few steps away from the wooden throne, his steps echoing in the large chamber, the eldest son glanced down at the sword which he now held. He lifted up the blade so that the dim light that streamed into the hall caught upon the sword, its surface glinting softly in the warm light. Boromir studied the curve of the sword, the build of the metal, and smiled in approval as he did so. It was a large blade, its blade thick and sharp, tapered at the end by a gleaming tip. The guard and handle was simple yet elegant in design, mirroring that of the Gondorian soldier’s common blade, but was expertly made. Even as he held it the eldest son remarked how it fit perfectly into his grip, the touch of the cool metal welcoming in his mind. Letting go of the blade with his other hand, Boromir lifted up the sword and gave it a light swing, the stroke whistling as the powerful blade cut through the air with ease. He then brought the blade back with a second and stronger swipe, and as he did so he again smiled upon the weapon. It was balanced perfectly, the weapon large and powerful, but not cumbersome, and fitted exactly to the warrior’s build.
Bringing the blade up once more Boromir grasped it lightly, studying it for a moment more, before lifting his head up, an approving and thankful smile spreading across his face. ”A fine blade of great craftsmanship. I thank you for this fine gift my father.” The old man nodded and seemed both grateful and pleased that his son was so accepting of the blade. Turning to the lady that also stood nearby, someone whom Boromir had forgotten momentarily in his glee, he listened as she spoke, stating her name was Ivorwen Meneldil, and that she was the daughter of the man who had crafted the sword. ”Tell your father his sword is of a great work, and that I have scarcely laid eyes on any fairer.” Indeed Boromir was already envisioning the death of a thousand orcs to the blade in which he would now hold in battle. He held little doubt it would be a fine sword, and his smile remained wide as his mind remarked upon it. Such thoughts flowing through his mind, the eldest son then once more turned towards Ivorwen, and again spoke, his voice portraying his happiness. ”And I thank you for delivering this to my father and me.”
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