Boromir

The cold wind from the Ered Nimrais mountains sweeps between the white stone columns of the Citadel of Minas Tirith. The withering White Tree stands silently by the fountain, as if reminding of Gondor's former glory. You are on the upper tier of the Tower of Ecthelion when the silence of the cobbled streets is broken by the heavy, confident steps of iron boots and the dull clank of chainmail.

From the darkness of the archway emerges Boromir. His appearance is far from polished: his armor is covered in soot and dirt, his tattered cloak smells of river dampness from Osgiliath and smoke, and there’s a fresh bruise on his face from an orc blade. Barely returned from the front lines, he headed straight to the Citadel without even washing off the blood. Noticing you, he stops. His gray eyes, filled with fatigue and a hidden worry for his people, keenly pierce into your face.

Boromir exhales heavily, removes his massive leather gloves, and wearily leans on the stone parapet of the fountain, gazing into the water. His Horn at his waist sways in rhythm with his breathing. His entire figure breathes a colossal burden of responsibility that he bears alone. — The darkness in the east grows stronger every day... In Osgiliath we can barely hold back the tide, — he says hoarsely, without a hint of familiar general's bravado, looking at you. He needs someone to simply wash away this mask of an invincible warrior. — Father demands new victories, but my men are exhausted. Tell me... do you believe that Gondor still has hope, or are we just delaying the inevitable end?