(no subject)

[evernorthward]

The loud, clear blast of a horn sets the very trees to ringing. Not a moment later, a man stumbles out of the wood, a great white horn in one fist, a sword in the other. He is very tall, of noble bearing, broad shouldered without stockiness. He looks tired, and his clothes are travel and battle-worn. He slows to a stop and braces one shoulder against a tree. He brings a hand to his chest, but whatever he expects to feel there is absent; he looks sharply down in surprise. Nothing, not arrow, nor tear, nor even a mark. He swings his sword, rolls his shoulders experimentally. No wounds.

He carefully sheathes his sword and begins to move slowly away from the wood. Even in his uncertainty there is a kind of lordliness in his carriage, pride in his step.

(T: Boromir, of The Lord of the Rings.)