Archer’s Aim was an old inn. The barkeep claimed it was as old as Minas Tirith itself, a sturdy building that had remained the same while the city around it grew and changed. It was situated on the lowest level of the city, where nobles and other citizens of high stature dared not venture.
Tucked away behind a few plain buildings, swathed in the shadow of the inner wall, it was a hot spot for passing travelers who had no time to wander into the higher levels of the city, and for those who wished to remain anonymous, and pass unremembered by the watchful eyes of the city guard. The citizens that frequented the spot asked no questions of strangers. It was a good place for those who minded their own business and wanted others to do the same.
Bowen had chosen the inn for that very purpose. He didn’t need suspicious guards or pompous soldiers asking questions. They were useless men, and they would only get in his way.
He passed through the front door of the building and pulled his hood back, ruffling the dark waves of hair that fell in a mess about his brow. Cold water slid from his dark cloak, an unwanted gift from the miserable drizzle falling outside, and pooled at his feet.
The common room was warm and dry, with a good sized fire popping and crackling in the fireplace by the longest wall. There weren't many patrons yet, but those who were there were enjoying dinner and tall mugs of frothing ale. Bowen had expected it would be so. It was still early, and the common room usually filled up after sunset.
Days ago, he had sent out word that he was looking for a small party of able warriors, a group small enough to sneak along the land undetected, but large enough to fend off the obstacles they would be sure to encounter. He was certain that word had gotten around the city, especially the lower levels, and even beyond the walls of the city. He had offered pay, and with even the whisper of promised gold, the news was sure to reach as far as the bay.
He did not like the idea of traveling in a group. Strangers were a burden, and were sure to get in his way. But traveling alone into enemy territory, outside of Gondor’s borders, on the tail of vicious Haradrim thugs…
He couldn't do it alone. Not even he was that good.
Scowling, he stalked into the common room and plunked himself onto a bench at a long, empty table at the far side of the room. A candle burned at both ends of the table, and the smooth wood was slick with spilled ale. He was one of very few patrons in the common room, but he knew there would soon be more. Those who were interested in joining his foray into danger knew that the gathering place was at Archer’s Aim.
Outside, the sun was setting and drizzle still fell. Bowen waved down a serving girl and ordered a hot meal and a mug of ale, and settled in with his arms folded on the table, watching the door for anyone who stepped into the building.
((Alrighty guys, be patient with me, I'm terrible at starting posts.
I hope I wrote the setting well enough. If you are unfamiliar with Minas Tirith, it is the capital city of Gondor, and is built on seven levels. You can get a good idea of its layout here. If you have any questions or are confused in even the slightest, just let me know! 
Also, I apologize for the lame-o title. ;_; I promise to come up with something better, soon... ;_; ))
Tucked away behind a few plain buildings, swathed in the shadow of the inner wall, it was a hot spot for passing travelers who had no time to wander into the higher levels of the city, and for those who wished to remain anonymous, and pass unremembered by the watchful eyes of the city guard. The citizens that frequented the spot asked no questions of strangers. It was a good place for those who minded their own business and wanted others to do the same.
Bowen had chosen the inn for that very purpose. He didn’t need suspicious guards or pompous soldiers asking questions. They were useless men, and they would only get in his way.
He passed through the front door of the building and pulled his hood back, ruffling the dark waves of hair that fell in a mess about his brow. Cold water slid from his dark cloak, an unwanted gift from the miserable drizzle falling outside, and pooled at his feet.
The common room was warm and dry, with a good sized fire popping and crackling in the fireplace by the longest wall. There weren't many patrons yet, but those who were there were enjoying dinner and tall mugs of frothing ale. Bowen had expected it would be so. It was still early, and the common room usually filled up after sunset.
Days ago, he had sent out word that he was looking for a small party of able warriors, a group small enough to sneak along the land undetected, but large enough to fend off the obstacles they would be sure to encounter. He was certain that word had gotten around the city, especially the lower levels, and even beyond the walls of the city. He had offered pay, and with even the whisper of promised gold, the news was sure to reach as far as the bay.
He did not like the idea of traveling in a group. Strangers were a burden, and were sure to get in his way. But traveling alone into enemy territory, outside of Gondor’s borders, on the tail of vicious Haradrim thugs…
He couldn't do it alone. Not even he was that good.
Scowling, he stalked into the common room and plunked himself onto a bench at a long, empty table at the far side of the room. A candle burned at both ends of the table, and the smooth wood was slick with spilled ale. He was one of very few patrons in the common room, but he knew there would soon be more. Those who were interested in joining his foray into danger knew that the gathering place was at Archer’s Aim.
Outside, the sun was setting and drizzle still fell. Bowen waved down a serving girl and ordered a hot meal and a mug of ale, and settled in with his arms folded on the table, watching the door for anyone who stepped into the building.
((Alrighty guys, be patient with me, I'm terrible at starting posts.
I hope I wrote the setting well enough. If you are unfamiliar with Minas Tirith, it is the capital city of Gondor, and is built on seven levels. You can get a good idea of its layout here. If you have any questions or are confused in even the slightest, just let me know! Also, I apologize for the lame-o title. ;_; I promise to come up with something better, soon... ;_; ))
It wasn't uncommon for Sylvryth to her word of outside news, beyond the bounds of Rohan. In fact, she searched specifically for those things--odd jobs, escorting people, and even full-out adventures. While resting at an inn on the south border, she heard news of an adventure: a rescue mission in Gondor. The idea thrilled her, especially since she may very well meet the Gondorian she helped only but a year or two before-hand. If they ever happened to meet, she doubted he would remember her--their travels lasted but a few weeks at most--but she strongly remembered him. He was a strong fighter and good company, in and out of doors. Any chance to visit his homeland was an invigorating idea for her, and so she went.
On that rainy evening, the woman walked into the inn. She had the slip of parchment on which the location and day of their meeting was written stuffed inside the leather of her chestguard; hopefully she was at the right place. She shook herself slightly before knocking back her hood and brushing stray water droplets from her face and hair, which, as always, was pulled tightly back in a neat bun. Her inquisitive eyes scanned the tavern as she stepped inside, searching for the man who had put out the offer. But perhaps, at the moment, she was paying more attention to the warmth and dryness of the tavern rather than looking for her employer... Gondor's rain chilled her much more than Bree-land's ever did.
{Ach, it's short... Ah well}
On that rainy evening, the woman walked into the inn. She had the slip of parchment on which the location and day of their meeting was written stuffed inside the leather of her chestguard; hopefully she was at the right place. She shook herself slightly before knocking back her hood and brushing stray water droplets from her face and hair, which, as always, was pulled tightly back in a neat bun. Her inquisitive eyes scanned the tavern as she stepped inside, searching for the man who had put out the offer. But perhaps, at the moment, she was paying more attention to the warmth and dryness of the tavern rather than looking for her employer... Gondor's rain chilled her much more than Bree-land's ever did.
{Ach, it's short... Ah well
}
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