[center][img]http://txt-dynamic.static.1001fonts.net/txt/dHRmLjQ4LmY0ZjBmMC5VR1ZzWlc1dWIzSWdSbWxsYkdSei4wAAAA/aniron.regular.png[/img][/center] With each step of the great beast, the ground trembled. Lady Nesrine took great satisfaction from this. Her party had just argued their way through the fortifications outside the Rammas Echor, and it took no little persuading before the guards of the wall finally allowed the Haradrim through. Nesrine's letter of invitation, signed by the King himself, wasn't accepted until a rider had been sent to Minas Tirith and returned, out of breath, with confirmation. Nesrine's smile was queenly in its austerity as she waved off the guards' muttered apologies, and commended him for his commitment to Gondor's security. The smug smirk she reserved for after they had passed the gates, and were marching the Pelennor Fields. In the distance, the White City sat like a jewel in a crown, gleaming brightly even under the gloom of the clouded-up afternoon. "Have you ever been to Minas Tirith?" Nesrine asked the attendant on her left. "No," said the attendant, Nira, whose status as Nesrine's personal spy did often take him deep into Gondor territory, though his fear of people, crowds, loud noises, and aggressive haggling generally kept him away from the populated cities. "It's quite a sight," said Nesrine. "In an ideal world we would be here as victorious conquerors. But I can settle for tourists." Nira didn't know what visiting as a tourist was supposed to feel like, but he doubted it was anything like what they experienced making their way up southern Gondor. Pellargir, Harlond, and several others—in each city, Nesrine met very graciously with the city's lord, and had her soldiers scatter gorgeous red cactus-flower petals as the mumak marched down the central streets. Politics, Nira reasoned, was a rather showy affair. There were six of them in the curtained red platform mounted on the titanic mumak's back. Nesrine sat at the rear of the enclosure on a mound of decadent pillows and carpets. In the old days, they say, the Haradrim mounted massive war towers on the backs of the mumakil, and carried forces of over twenty armored soldiers. Since then, however, the great tribes have become quite strict on the treatment of their legendary beasts, as the creatures have become rare, expensive, and notable cultural symbols, and wearing out their spines for ostentatious towers had become distinctly unprofitable and unpopular. Nesrine's royal platform was an elegant, crimson structure, armored with polished wood, the banner of Erdir flapping high above the tent. It was comfortably spacious for her small procession, and had all the trappings of a large, homey bedroom. To Nesrine's left, the ranger Nira, and to her right, Basima, captain of the guard. Around them, four royal Erdira soldiers, tall, dark, and glittery-eyed. Every once in a while, their mumak would raise its massive head, and its trunk would make low trumpeting noises that rustled through the grass of Pelennor like ghosts. "Lady Nesrine, if I may ask," said Nira, "why a mumak?" "Why?" "I mean, it seems excessive, doesn't it? Slower and much less convenient than horses." "My Nira, we are going to be among statesmen, politicians, and heads of country from every corner of the map. You can be sure that each person there will have their pants undone and their privates out on the table. And when that happens, it helps to have the biggest one present." She made a rather crude jerking motion with her hand, and laughed at Nira's flustered, "Oh, um, of course." "The view is quite pretty up here," said Basima, who, lost in thought, had removed her helmet and was gazing out an opening on the side of the platform. "That too," said Nesrine serenely. With great gray footstep after great gray footstep, the mumak neared the city.