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Captain Vórimandur strode upon the deck in shining armor, reflecting the red rays of the western sun. Across the river stood Pelargir, now grimly smoking. Several Corsair ships prowled the waterfront. The Captain summoned a spyglass, and, leaning over the railing of the ship, peered at his adversaries. His eyes recognized those crimson sails, but this was the furthest he had seen them from the sea. His spyglass turned toward the city, where Corsairs stood on the shore, drinking and gambling or roving through the streets and looting the homes of Gondorians. A silent fury welled up in Vórimandur's heart. He fondly remembered his visits to the city and his strolls along the piers where ships from up and down the Anduin laid anchor. The ships at the piers were now either looted and burnt or captured. And what hurt Vórimandur's heart most was to see a small group of young lads loaded onto a xebec, to be forced to labor at the oars, or worse as rumor in Gondor's cities told. They would spend their lives aboard those ships, and only to eventually be killed by a drunk Corsair one night.
Vórimandur's wandering spyglass paused upon a handsome xebec. It was an elegant ship. It's red sails, unfurling at the moment, were like cascades of crimson water, and Vórimandur could easily imagine them filled with wind and speeding the ship across the sea swiftly and smoothly. And he hated the Corsairs even more that they should own such a ship. The spyglass moved onto the banks of oars, propelled by slaves, and the opulent stern, where the rich masters lived in luxury with their Gondorian slave-boys. It would've seemed almost comical if this were not a time of war that the few masters easily took up a majority of the ship's space while the many slaves were packed together as tight as bricks in a wall. And neatly across the stern was painted the xebec's name: the Fame and Fortune, a most enticing name to a man such as Captain Vórimandur.
Captain Vórimandur handed the little spyglass to a nearby sailor and turned to face his crew. Before him stood Sergeant Nillendion and his soldiers in a squarish formation, bearing swords and spears. Around them stood the sailors, armed mostly with little bows and knives. Above Vórimandur's head, the best archers had hidden themselves among the sails, ready to fire upon the enemy. All eyes were on the captain. They wanted a before-battle speech. So Captain Vórimandur cleared his throat and in a loud voice said:
"Almost two-thousand years ago, Elendil and his sons escaped the Downfall, and they landed in Middle-Earth, and established kingdoms where the people of Númenor could live in peace and never fall to the sins that drowned Mar-nu-Falmar. But our nation, our kingdom, our peace is under attack by these rebels," he gestured toward the Corsairs and raised his voice, "These pirates do not deserve to be counted among the Númenoreans! If Elendil lived today, he would bury his face in shame at a single glance at Umbar, that city of thieves and beggars! They have dishonored all those who claim descent from Númenor, including our just king and our kings from the past! So, let us reclaim the honor of the Númenoreans, and show Elendil that not all of his sons have strayed down the path of Tar-Calion!"
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