[ I | and i awoke to a greater darkness ] [There had been the clash of battle, of steel and meat; there had been the thunder of hooves, and the cries of dying men, and above it all the beating of great and terrible wings. Then, as his horse reared beneath him and the foe he fought crashed blow after blow against his shield... sharp pain. Cold. Dread. Darkness.]
[He awakes.]
[For a moment, he is not sure where he is. Then he stands, dripping in muck, fumbling for a sword that is absent from its scabbard, and he is not in the smallest part surprised to see the name on the stone.]
[Not surprised, no - but horrorstruck. For what is dead must be dead, and what does not die is...]
[He has seen the faces of those which does not die. He has heard the beat of their foul mounts' wings.]
[He scrambles out of the grave without any of his usual grace, and stands panting in the darkness, his hand clutched unconsciously to the place beneath his ribs where that cold pain first sprouted. Cold. It is so cold. He stumbles through the cold darkness, a tall, lean figure still armoured for battle, his long dark hair half-shielding his face, his grey eyes wide and wild. At last, seeing the hint of a light and a figure in the dimness, he lengthens his stride, finding his voice for the first time since waking.]
Hold! Hold, and speak a pace with me! I mean you no harm.
[At least, he hopes he does not. Who knows what the dead may mean?]
[ II | denial ] [This city is madness itself. Minas Tirith is a bustling place, but not like this - neither so bright, with lights that bristle in colours that he has never seen, nor so loud. Faramir walks without aim, his hood raised against the falling rain. Few approach him.]
[Few, but not none. He takes the pamphlets when they are handed to him, and glances down at them; then reads them again, more slowly; then, with a grave and heavy weight, he shakes his head.]
I will not. I will not, not now, nor ever. For all that has been lost, and all that may yet be lost, I will not.
[So, yes, that is a hooded man in armour muttering angrily to himself in the middle of the street. Honestly, not even the strangest thing happening on this city block.]
[ II | anger ] [He can only go so long before he meets one of the monsters that the pamphlet spoke of. At least, "meets" may not be quite the word.]
[He has no sword, no shield, no bow. But he has a sturdy stave he picked up in the graveyard, and the power of his conviction behind him as he places himself firmly in the monster's way, the stave held in a decidedly threatening posture.]
Do you speak, creature, or no?
[ IV | change (nymph) ] [His skin is changing, thickening to bark. Through it jut sharp, clawing thorns, bloodied where they burst to the surface. It must hurt, but although he is tense and his hands have clenched into fists, he does not move or cry out. He is staring at his reflection in one of the plate glass shop windows, his face grave.]
Is this how it begins? With so easy a thing as pain?
[Talk to him at your own risk. He has the tone of a man who could break into soliloquy at any moment.]
Faramir | Lord of the Rings
[There had been the clash of battle, of steel and meat; there had been the thunder of hooves, and the cries of dying men, and above it all the beating of great and terrible wings. Then, as his horse reared beneath him and the foe he fought crashed blow after blow against his shield... sharp pain. Cold. Dread. Darkness.]
[He awakes.]
[For a moment, he is not sure where he is. Then he stands, dripping in muck, fumbling for a sword that is absent from its scabbard, and he is not in the smallest part surprised to see the name on the stone.]
[Not surprised, no - but horrorstruck. For what is dead must be dead, and what does not die is...]
[He has seen the faces of those which does not die. He has heard the beat of their foul mounts' wings.]
[He scrambles out of the grave without any of his usual grace, and stands panting in the darkness, his hand clutched unconsciously to the place beneath his ribs where that cold pain first sprouted. Cold. It is so cold. He stumbles through the cold darkness, a tall, lean figure still armoured for battle, his long dark hair half-shielding his face, his grey eyes wide and wild. At last, seeing the hint of a light and a figure in the dimness, he lengthens his stride, finding his voice for the first time since waking.]
Hold! Hold, and speak a pace with me! I mean you no harm.
[At least, he hopes he does not. Who knows what the dead may mean?]
[ II | denial ]
[This city is madness itself. Minas Tirith is a bustling place, but not like this - neither so bright, with lights that bristle in colours that he has never seen, nor so loud. Faramir walks without aim, his hood raised against the falling rain. Few approach him.]
[Few, but not none. He takes the pamphlets when they are handed to him, and glances down at them; then reads them again, more slowly; then, with a grave and heavy weight, he shakes his head.]
I will not. I will not, not now, nor ever. For all that has been lost, and all that may yet be lost, I will not.
[So, yes, that is a hooded man in armour muttering angrily to himself in the middle of the street. Honestly, not even the strangest thing happening on this city block.]
[ II | anger ]
[He can only go so long before he meets one of the monsters that the pamphlet spoke of. At least, "meets" may not be quite the word.]
[He has no sword, no shield, no bow. But he has a sturdy stave he picked up in the graveyard, and the power of his conviction behind him as he places himself firmly in the monster's way, the stave held in a decidedly threatening posture.]
Do you speak, creature, or no?
[ IV | change (nymph) ]
[His skin is changing, thickening to bark. Through it jut sharp, clawing thorns, bloodied where they burst to the surface. It must hurt, but although he is tense and his hands have clenched into fists, he does not move or cry out. He is staring at his reflection in one of the plate glass shop windows, his face grave.]
Is this how it begins? With so easy a thing as pain?
[Talk to him at your own risk. He has the tone of a man who could break into soliloquy at any moment.]