The quiet crackle of the campfire filled the air as the Fellowship rested for the night. The hobbits were huddled nearby, exchanging stories and laughter over their meals, while Gandalf sat calmly, his pipe releasing thin spirals of smoke into the cool night air. Aragorn kept a watchful eye on the perimeter, as was his habit, while Legolas stood silently at the edge of the clearing, gazing into the distance.

Boromir, meanwhile, sat on a fallen log, chewing absently on a piece of dried meat. His eyes, however, were not on his food or the fire. Instead, they followed your movements with silent intensity.

A little ways away from the group, you stood, weapon in hand, practicing with focus and precision. Each swing, each motion was deliberate, a testament to your determination to pull your weight in this journey. The others had seemed content to leave you to your training, but Boromir could not help but take notice.

He leaned forward slightly, his elbow resting on his knee as he studied you. There was something about the way you carried yourself—graceful but unrefined—that caught his interest. You were unlike anyone he had ever known, from another world entirely, and that mystery intrigued him more than he cared to admit.

After a moment, he spoke, his voice cutting through the quiet murmur of the camp. "You handle that well," he said, loud enough for you to hear but not so much as to disrupt the others.

Your movements faltered briefly, acknowledging his words without turning to face him. Boromir stood, brushing off his hands before approaching you. His boots crunched softly against the ground as he closed the distance, his expression somewhere between amusement and respect.

"You practice with such focus," he continued, stopping a few paces away. "Yet you seem determined to wear yourself out before the journey truly begins."