[Amanaduial the archer]

Having been roused by the boatswain from his quiet musings downstairs, happily swimming in a glass of fine red wine, Rakin sprinted through the corridors of his ship and up to deck, pushing aside the hapless messenger as he emerged onto the deck - and saw the fiersome sight before his eyes. Gondorian vessels, a small fleet of warships, broad and sturdy, perched boldy astride the water, a hundred eyes on each watching his ship and the two other corsair vessels, the Tarkos between his ship and the fleet, the Castamir nearer to Pelagir. Two fine ships: together with Fame and Fortune, these were three of the largest vessels boasted by Umbar, making them a matched attacking force on this enemy fleet - or, Rakin added mentally, grim faced, an immeasurable prize for the Gondorians should the battle not go their way.

Striding across the deck, Rakin started to bellow orders left, right and centre, every word clear and steady with the practised confidence of a man who was all-so-used to commanding battle - after ten years as Captain of one of the finest ships on Ulmo's domain, he couldn't afford to let any amount of wine dull his brain, and his wits were wolfish and ready.

"Get every man on deck, now! Takad, is every man equipped? How many have we lost in Pelagir?"

"Less 'n a dozen, Cap'n Rakin, from a crew of four and a half score-"

Rakin cut off the boatswain sharply, nodding curtly in approval. "How many do the other ships have? Tarkos...that's Parataan, isn't it? Close to a hundred hands...?"

"Just over, Cap'n, and the Castamir the same, although I reckon Captain Parataan's losses in Pelagir were a little more than our own - still the better ship, aye, Captain?"

Rakin grinned quickly at his boatswain, raising an eyebrow, the adrenaline and excitement beginning to kick into his veins as his crew scurried around preparing the ship. "Aye, you can be sure the Fame and Fortune will always have that title, Master Boatswain - and let's prove it now. Or at least we could," he continued, his voice rising once again to a roar as he jumped up to the forecastle to survey the ship, "if only these scurvy dogs would get themselves moving and act more like the crew they are than a bunch of nit-ragged street-urchins! Archers: a score of you-- or would you say a score and a half, Takad? Right then - a score and five of you into the rigging, double sharp, be prepared to watch for my orders in case we need...alternative ammunition. The rest of you: I ain't anticipating a boarding, and I want to avoid one. Get as many of them as you can from here: we're aiming for casualties, and we're aiming to take at least one of those beasts down, right? Fire, gentlemen, reel out the fire!"

A roar of approval granted the last statement and Takad bared his yellow teeth. "Fire, Captain? What about-"

"Stick with fiery arrows for now, Takad, I want to save the wildfire." He smiled briefly, clapping his boatswain on the shoulder briefly. "Save the wildfire for later, eh? Give 'em a real fright when we need it."

As the boatswain darted away, calling out his own orders and details, sending the crew running hither and thither above and below deck, from the slave deck to the topmost rigging in a fashion of chaos perfectly engineered from a thousand attacks before, Rakin turned to face the boat across the waters, one hand twisting in and out of the ropes that fell from the sails. Confidence he could project, and had done every day since he was born, so that the brashness and boldness he claimed had become a very part of the Captain - but watching the Gondorian fleet, he couldn't help but feel a twinge of worry: ten years of battle on the seas against one of the most powerful nations in Middle Earth was a helluva lot of luck, even for the most skilled of Captains. And Rakin's whole life had been governed by luck, having risen as he had from a street urchin, an illegitimate orphan...

...to the Supreme Commander of the Corsairs.

The fact and his earlier conversations with Sangalazin steadied Rakin. Watching the ships across the waters, he gave a small smile and lifted his chin in small defiance against them. Aye, maybe he only had so much luck - but see if he couldn't make it last the day. His fingers tightened fiercely on the rope wound around them, squeezing so the blood pumped around his knuckles warmly. Then, with a last look, he was gone, belowdecks to prepare himself for the battle ahead, leaving the Gondorian ships, as alive as his own, seething across the water that, in the dying light of the sun, flashed as bright and red as the finest wine - or the darkest blood.