Boromir - 01 - Going for a run

[doesnotsimply]

[[ooc: interested in both replies to his network query or in person replies in the park.

Since arriving, Boromir has been rather despondent.  The vastness of the Teuberg unnerves him and to get anywhere where he is told things are happening he has to take one of these metal carts that the natives call trollies.  The constant vibration makes him queasy and he does not find them at all pleasant.

While waiting for the powers that be to get back in touch with him regarding his application for military service, he's been filling his time with exercise and workouts.  He's become quite the fixture in his neighbourhood with daily runs, and today he's doing laps of the park at the renaissance centre.  Stopping by a water fountain for a drink, he ponders that though he's never been stronger or fitter (especially for a dead man, shudder), he hasn't engaged in proper combat practice or swordplay since arriving.  He takes out his communicator from a pouch and painstakingly taps out a message.

"Greetings, I am Boromir of Gondor.  Would anyone be interested in some sparring practice either with swords or unarmed?"  He beams with pride, sweat dripping off him from his run, he was at least getting the hang of the written messages on this piece of sorcerous machinery.

Comments

[senseandcecilbility]

Good heavens, where does the gentleman come from? The middle ages? Not that Kevin is a stranger to those facts of life, but it has been a while.

Looking up at the weak 'sun', he attempts to calculate the fleet's distance from the closest solar system. He has a sky map in the pocket contraption he was given, but it is not as if he remembers all the numbers by heart. Easier to stretch his long legs and feel how warm it really is. This, more than anything, can tell him how much damage he can heal today.

'Cuts and gashes are tractable, but please, sir, do not lose any limbs.'

[doesnotsimply]

"Oh that's unlikely, its much more likely to be deep cuts and bleeding wounds." Well, he ponders, unless the other person doesn't know how to be safe. "Nothing a heated poker can't cauterise with a moment's work."

[senseandcecilbility]

He lets out a startled laughter. Boromir of Gondor is medieval.

'There will be no need for heated pokers, sir. I can at least guarantee that, though I cannot promise it will be painless either.''

The worse the wound, the more painful the healing. Not that Boromir seems to be the type who cares about feeling pain. The man reminds him of a crusader minus the smell of horse sweat.

[doesnotsimply]

"Ah, I am used to the medicine of the battlefield." Boromir admits candidly, he hardly has the knowledge of a healer and he takes the laugh as it is intended as an honest surprise at his ignorance - though possibly not realising quite how ignorant. "The folk of the houses of healing can do wonders with their herbs and poultices, though I normally see conflict far from their halls."

[senseandcecilbility]

The medicine of the battlefield is a bitter one, Kevin thinks, but he doesn't say that aloud, for Boromir seems to have his own pride to keep. Instead, he goes back to feeding his 'pigeons':

'I use neither herbs nor poultices, I am afraid, but something similar to magic and even closer to prayer. I hope that does not offend you.'