The White Horse

Unnoticed, Maros An Doramor stepped into the inn. The journey from Minas Tirith had been harder than expected, a result of the bad weather over the plains.

Wearily, he walked over to a pew in a far corner of the room. Here, he lay his pack, and his fathers beloved sword, before taking a seat himself. The smell of pipeweed and ale hung around him, surrounding him in a musty, yet not unwelcome, odour. The smoky mists and joyful singing in the Inn reminded Maros of the inns in the White City.

However, this was not Minas Tirith, but a distant land, with borders he had not stood in for over ten years. He remembered the day his father Gorlan brought him here. How he had loved the flocking of the horses on the far-reaching fields, and the sun setting behind the Golden Hall.

But now Maros was no longer a child. At twenty-one, he was not accompanying his father on some diplomatic trip. No! Maros was here for a purpose, and as a solier of Gondor he would fulfil that purpose.

Maros noticed another individual in the inn looking at him, sitting alone in the corner. Not liking this feeling of being watched, Maros spread a tattered map on the table and lowered his head.