@amdirfiren
Moonlight flooded the smooth floor making a sea of cold silver illuminating the pathway from the private chambers in the citadel to the outside. Even the soft boots could not prevent the stone walls of the empty corridor from echoing back their mockery. The sole occupant traveled light with only a single bag of supplies slung across his back. His mount, Cyrnil, was already laden with his sword and shield, and stood waiting in the stables on the lowest tier. They would not be gone long, a few days at most, if there was one at all.
A rumor of orcs in Bar Hurin had reached him. Remants of the Dark Lord’s army defeated weeks ago but still trying to survive in a world that was becoming more hostile towards them. Even with rumors being imprecise a band of ten was manageable. The thought of being in battle once more made Boromir’s blood turn hot with anticipation.
“I have met worse than you and it is I who remains standing,” he murmured to himself. A challenge to the enemy who remained leagues away.
His dark cloak hid him as he stole down the seven tiers, the sleepy stable boy taking no notice as of his charges disappeared into the night. The main gate of the city remained in shambles, a victim of Grond, leaving the city open to the fields. The sentries, already complacent in these days of peace, wondered where the lone rider was headed, but seeing no pursuit quickly pushed it out of their minds.
The still acrid air of the Pelennor felt more freeing than inside the city. Boromir nudged Cyrnil into a canter, the dark horse as eager to stretch his legs as his rider. It would be late morning by the time they arrived in Bar Hurin. With the smoke from Mordor thinning the sun shone brighter. The party he sought would be well hidden from that celestial golden face. But Boromir would find them.
He had nothing but time.
