The last thing Boromir remembers is the comforting heft of his sword in hand, and Aragorn's face looming above him. The world had gone soft and dark around the edges, blood at his lips as the arrows he'd been shot with wrought their terrible toll. He'd failed, miserably, and the knowledge of his failures dragged him down, down, down; deep into the cold grasp of death.
He did not expect to wake up. Nor did he expect to wake up in a place so utterly different from the grassy slopes of Amon Hen, populated with a vast array of people more myth than not. But to some grace -- or curse, a punishment for the greed he succumbed to -- Boromir awoke. With the arrow wounds healed, and new clothes forced upon him, he stood upon a platform ready to dive into this newest quest presented to him.
It is enough to drive fear in the belly of any being, the dilapidated, horror of this place. But Boromir is -- was -- Captain of the White Tower. He bore his people's weight upon his shoulders, faced down the hideous, Mordor born scum without pause. His heart has long since been hardened towards the horror of war.
This is not that.
The gong sounds, and he lurches forward, eyes roving over the land before him, and the weapons lurking in the brass fountain. His own sword was not there, but a spear, a staff -- those he could use. Even if he was repulsed by the idea of attacking innocents locked in this place with him. Should someone find themselves at the mercy of one of the beasts in the water, he will help instead of leaving them to their fate.
Boromir, Son of Denethor | That one movie with the mind-control ring | OTA
He did not expect to wake up. Nor did he expect to wake up in a place so utterly different from the grassy slopes of Amon Hen, populated with a vast array of people more myth than not. But to some grace -- or curse, a punishment for the greed he succumbed to -- Boromir awoke. With the arrow wounds healed, and new clothes forced upon him, he stood upon a platform ready to dive into this newest quest presented to him.
It is enough to drive fear in the belly of any being, the dilapidated, horror of this place. But Boromir is -- was -- Captain of the White Tower. He bore his people's weight upon his shoulders, faced down the hideous, Mordor born scum without pause. His heart has long since been hardened towards the horror of war.
This is not that.
The gong sounds, and he lurches forward, eyes roving over the land before him, and the weapons lurking in the brass fountain. His own sword was not there, but a spear, a staff -- those he could use. Even if he was repulsed by the idea of attacking innocents locked in this place with him. Should someone find themselves at the mercy of one of the beasts in the water, he will help instead of leaving them to their fate.