Abrazimir Dimaethor
The trek between Lond Côl and Minas Tirith was one
Abrazimir was becoming accustomed to through the discourse of his official duties for Dol Amroth, often making the journey several times in a year. It was a pleasant ride, following the Great River up to the City of the Men of Númenor.
And ignoring the realm over yonder, across the Anduin. There was no compunctions at all about undertaking a week long round-trip just to deliver some report, missive, or dispatch of the southern defenses to the military command within the City. After all, it was a chance to escape for a while the bustle of the life of a prospective Swan-Knight and most importantly, out from under the grips of a stern, traditionalist father.
It was in the Headquarters, after dropping his packet of missives, that he saw the simple note posted upon the notice board.
Heading out for some fresh air for a few days or so. In need of some company. See you in the common room tomorrow morning around breakfast time. Which,
Abrazimir realized, if he wished to partake, was almost a full hour prior! A chance for reprieve and restful enjoyment of the scenery, this was perhaps one of the few opportunities to find some pleasures before returning to the arduous monotony of patrol and garrison duties, in the great preparations for the upcoming War.
Returning with haste to the lower levels, he left his mount behind and headed off on foot, after inquiring what direction such a group might have taken off in. Was he prepared or running off in forgetful haste? He was lightly garbed, a long coat of chain mail, trousers tucked into riding boots, with a blue tunic atop his mail emblazoned with the White Tree of Gondor, complete with a bellowing blue cloak typical of the folk of Belfalas, with a sword girted about his waist.
He should have brought a hatchet or something. He had a satchel of some old bread, a flask of water, though mostly emptied by now, and a few other oddities. Familial heirloom knife, a sleeping roll bounced at his back, gloves, a sewing kit and needle for the usual wear and tear of garments while traveling.
He caught sight of the group, but they were distant figures by the time he passed the North Gate. Were they…running?
Abrazimir shrugged and picked up his own slack, though the task was more laborious as he was somewhat armored and had to deal with the excess weight. But he managed to close some of the distance and was pleased to find them still loitering outside the wood by the time he was within sight. At a distance, he came to a trot, and raised his arm to indicate he was joining them, if they might see him. Quickly, he closed up the last of the distance and offered up a grin as he walked to the group of rangers at the outskirts of the wood.
He recognized a few of the faces as he walked up. Ranger
Mourgan, Captains
Pele and
Arnyn. There must be others as well.
”Hello!” Abrazimir declared as he walked up. He came to a halt and saluted, arm across his chest, bowing his head in polite, formal greeting.
”I saw a notice at Headquarters about a camping trip, decided I could use the break. How are you all? Could you find use and space for this straggler?” He inquired with a curious, raised eyebrow.