[Amanaduial the archer]

Alright, the slightly edited form of my profile and first post, as requested by Everdawn:

Character Description Form:
1.) Have you ever played in an RPG at the Barrow Downs? – YES – Which one?

(the three Inns), Brotherhood, a story from the Last Alliance, Lets Have the Party Here!, Rivendell, Cirith Ungol, The Undying Lands, Last Hope for Moria, Wolf Run, Search for the Lost Messenger, Gondorian House Call, Shadow of Umbra, Ride to the Dark Side, The Ambassador’s Son, Escape from Nurn, An Audience with the King, Kidnapped!, Roll Out The Barrels

2.) How many RPG’s on the Barrow Downs are you currently involved in? 3

List them, please: Brotherhood, a Story from the Last Alliance; Last Hope for Moria; The Ambassador’s Son

3.) Have you posted in The Green Dragon Inn or in The White Horse in Rohan? – YES – Which one? Both
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For your character please include:

NAME: Atharen (ah-THA-ren)

AGE: 34

RACE: Man - Ranger

GENDER: male

WEAPONS: A two handed broadsword which he can wield with considerable strength and agility for its side is in a sheath at his left side, and is what he uses in a larger scale fight. However, he can fight primarily with his left hand, something which may deceive an enemy and buy him a few valuable seconds in a fight; he has a shorter sword, a dirk, at his other side, in a discreet, plain, black sheath as opposed to the more ornate one of his broadsword, which is the most valuable material thing that he carries. The dirk is about the length of his fore-arm, maybe an inch shorter than from the inside of the elbow to the wrist. Also, a few more pieces litter his person, including another dirk worn strapped to his back or his belt; when strapped to his back it is mostly hidden from sight by his usual dark cloak, apart from the hilt which protrudes from behind his right shoulder, an inch or two behind and to the side of his ear – this means he can grab it with his right hand (by reaching upwards across his chest to it) and fight with both if necessary.

APPEARANCE: His age would be hard to place; his face seems no older really than if he was in his mid-twenties, yet at times, such as in the telling of tales or in anger, his eyes would tell of many more years than his appearance shows. These eyes are so deep brown as to be almost black, unreadable, which is strange bearing in mind his hair, which is lightened almost to blonde in places from being outside so much; it comes down to his jaw, as he can’t have it too long for practicality’s sake. He is quite tall and could be described as gaunt, especially at the time when he meets Maen, standing at nearly 6ft, and, despite his obvious strength which suggests somewhere on that frame there must be muscles, he still looks like he could do with a few meals. His face is, unusually for one who spends much of his time outside, quite pale, something he inherited from his parents, and his bone structure pronounced, his chin covered in stubble. A white, slightly raised scar, runs slanted down the left side of his face, from his left temple to his jawline, about an inch and a half from his chin. He wears practical, dark clothes, mainly leather or hard-wearing, sturdy material; his breeches are dark, dark brown, covered to just below the knee with a pair of long boots of soft animal-skin; a high, v-necked jerkin of tough almost black leather covers his torso over a shirt of dark, hard-wearing Rohirrim cotton; over this he wears a long cloak, black and hooded. His right ring finger and little ringer are missing.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Atharen seems to view the world as an outsider, sometimes seeing it with a suppressed, anger or disappointment, and sometimes with a sort of bemused, cynical amusement. It is not a world which has treated him particularly kindly, naturally, and his ‘profession’ has led him a rough road (not as rough as some, he considers though – this is not the view of an optimist, simply that of someone who has measured out the facts and come to a logical conclusion. This may tell you something about the way Atharen’s mind works), and he does not expect much from it for himself, but he resents injustice of any kind towards others. A gentleman in courtesy. He has a sort of watchful stillness about him that, along with those dark, unreadable eyes, unnerves many who he meets, especially those rich merchants who have too many secrets; it is the air of a hunter, a sort of scrutinising interest before the pounce. Sincere and loyal to those close to him, he does not, however, give his trust easily, and his friendships are therefore long but rare; unforgiving to those who betray this trust, and unrelenting in anger.

HISTORY: His father was one of the Dunedain, but married a Rohirrim woman who was not of the same high blood. He knows little about his father; his mother was beautiful and only seventeen when she married the ranger so strangely unaffected by age, and his parent’s romance was passionate but too brief for both of them, as he rode to his death against the bands stubbornly remaining wild men within the first ten years of their marriage, nine years after the boy’s birth; his mother, Teris did not find it easy to talk about him, and as he grew, Atharen’s likeness to his father caused his mother both incredible love and terrible pain. She brought the boy up as best as she could, running an Inn with her oldest brother, and because of this, the boy was always surrounded by his many uncles, all five of whom (excluding the Innkeeper) were soldiers. Their tales of battle always enchanted him, and his mother, aging before her time, sometimes would join in with the stories Atharen’s father had told her. Between his father and his uncles, Atharen developed his skill with sword and daggers, and his mother taught him to ride when she could find the time. When he was nearly eighteen years old, his mother revealed to him what his father had left before he rose away for the last time and, safe in the knowledge her son had discovered the wild life that called to him as it had called to his father, Teris died, a strange disease taking her away before she has even reached forty.

After his mother’s death, the young man had nothing much tying him to Rohan; although he liked to continue to visit the Inn of his chidhood, running it was never what he had wanted to do so, allowing one of his older cousins to have his share, he departed. He was no shyling – he fought in the War of the Ring, alongside his mother’s brothers, two of whom fell, but not long after this, he departed to take a different path. Despite his uncles’ urgings to join the army as they had, Atharen deigned to take the same wandering existence of his father and ancestors and, through high and low, has continued to do so for the past fifteen years; acquaintances have passed in and out of his life, but he still has true friends of all sorts in many places, Gondor being one of them, and a place that he has always been fond of.
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Amanaduial's post

The dark, cloaked figure marched grimly on through the drizzle of the early morning which was rapidly turning into a full blown thunderstorm. Not downpour though, with this wind, he thought abstractly. Maybe…sidepour. He smiled grimly to himself and continued to squelch on through mud until his feet met the more even land of a path.

Atharen looked down at the path and smiled wanly, before raising his eyes to his right, squinting against the rain and the wind. After a few moments of battling with the rain, he gave up, having been rewarded only with a face full of water instead of a glimpse of the city he looked for. But no matter; he could find his way to Minas Tirith blindfolded. Or, failing that, through enough rain to drown a small oliphaunt. Atharen made it his business to visit the citadel at least once every two years – he had friends there, and one of his mother’s uncles now lived there with his wife and daughters. Atharen smiled slightly, recalling that detail – Merien always gave him a fine welcome. A lady, she was, a fine lady; even though she was the daughter of a soldier and a seamstress, the young woman proved that it was not only high birth that could make a lady...

Distracted in his musings and memories, his hearing muffled by the rain, the man did not hear the hooves until they were quite close, and then they seemed amplified, the hooves of a mighty stallion. Whirling around, he pulled the two dirks from his belt and his back in his hands (the sword had the irritating habit of sticking somewhat in the rain, and until he could get warm and dry, getting it out would probably be rather ill-advised if he ever wished to get it back in again), and stood against the approaching horse, left hand in front so the blade was easily visible, the right held to one side, ready to help with the attack if need be. A crack of lightning striking the tableau would have given it a rather menacing look…

…if the horse had not been a rather small, plump mare, upon which was seated a young woman. Because of the rain now coming in sheets against his face, despite his deep hood, Atharen did not realise his mistake until it was too late; the horse reared, panicked, and it’s rider fell with a cry. The ranger sprung lightly to the side as the horse’s hooves started to come down, ducking underneath them and coming to rest by it’s left side, one dirk held to the throat of the fallen rider…and his eyes widened in shock as he realised who the rider was a young woman, in her twenties he guessed, her blonde hair streaming with rainwater, sprawled on the ground. Hastily sheathing one dirk, he held out a hand to the woman, bending slightly. “My lady, I apologise – I did not realise.”

The woman glared hostilely at the ranger and got to her feet herself, gracefully considering she had just fallen. She was some inches shorter than Atharen, but her hazel eyes were fierce. She looked at the ranger with a mixture of scorn and fear, and seemed to be scrutinising him; a man who looked only a few years older than herself, his blonde hair darkened by the rain and falling in bedraggled curls to his jaw, his skin pale from the cold with a scar standing out on one cheek. His eyes kept her gaze and after a moment he felt prompted to make a move; it was freezing cold and wet, and Atharen wanted to make it to the city before the full light of day was upon the city - already the first tendrils of light were appearing over the horizon. “This is a dangerous road for a young woman to be riding on at such a late hour.”

The woman gave a small, angry snort before turning and re-mounting the mare, who glared at Atharen quite as hostilely as it’s owner. “It is not dangerous unless madmen with two swords are lying in wait to terrorise young women.”

Atharen blinked at the comment, then smiled slightly despite himself. “I was not lying in wait. I was attempting to get to the city of Minas Tirith, coming from Rohan, although the weather has not been overly kind.” The woman was watching him again, and she was getting wetter and wetter still. What’s more, she was unarmed. Ever since he was young, Atharen had been raised to be courteous, and had always resented and acted against the way men often tried to treat his mother in the Inn when her brothers were away. In this case, it was partly his fault that the woman had been waylaid, so it would only be polite to…

“May I escort you back to Minas Tirith, lady?”

She stared at him. “Why do you think I am going to Minas Tirith?”

Atharen smiled slightly, but not patronisingly, the night-shadows on his face making his eyes seem even darker and more mischievous. “At this time of night, I hardly think you’d be going this way and travelling anywhere else. Please, you are unarmed, and this is not a safe road – after all, there could be all sorts of madmen with a pair of swords lying in wait.” He grinned and waited for her reply.

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 1:53 PM January 26, 2004: Message edited by: piosenniel ]