Defense of the Poros RPG

[Imladris]

Jinan leaped over the shattered walls of the town and was at once confronted by the soldiers of Gondor. To think that that pitiful lot could stand against the Haradrim! Insane foolishness -- that was what it was.

The blades clashed, blood spattered upon the streets. Men, both of Harad and Gondor, fell together and lay prone in death. But Jinan battled on, confident that death could not touch him. He was one of Harad's best, more than a match for these rats of Gondor.

Later, he ceased his fighting and glanced about him. He wiped the sweat that streamed from his brow, and looked for the enemy. They must have fled further into the settlement to escape the Haradrim's killing blades. With an animal roar, Jinan sped down the city, and found himself plunging into a marching Gondorian cohort. Why were they not dead yet? With a cry, he raised his sword, driving it into any body that was in reach. The men circled about him, and he could feel the cold hand of death upon him.

[Orual]

Anhelm watched numbly as a Haradrim fell in front of him. All around him was chaos and warfare and blood, and his beautiful town was in the middle of it. What had gone wrong?

He looked around himself, his sword hanging loosely in one hand, a trickle of blood running from his forehead to his chin. The stench of death and fear hit his nose like a boulder, and he almost staggered from it. Out of his peripheral vision he saw another Haradrim coming at him, and he raised his sword. Half-heartedly he fought the enemy, winning with a lucky stroke and the good fortune of being naturally the better fighter. The 'warrior' had been little more than a boy. Anhelm wondered fleetingly how many of the Poros' settlement's boys were dying.

"Anhelm!" The young captain looked over, his sword at the ready, relaxing when he saw Astalder. "We must retreat. We must pull out of the settlement!"

"Stop saying that," Anhelm said, his voice cracking. He was ashamed of it. He was in no position to let himself fall to pieces. But how could Astalder say they had to pull out? They could not! Especially not now. His lovely city, his poor settlement, how could he abandon it? It was not what his father would have wanted.

His father...Anhelm snapped back into the vivid, red-tinted reality of war and let out a cry, running at a small group of Haradrim. Astalder called after him, but Anhelm did not respond. He cut down the Haradrim and turned around.

"We will not abandon the settlement!" he cried, laughing hysterically. He waved his sword in the air. "We will fight here until there is no one left standing to fight against! Or we will stand here until there is nothing left standing to fight for. This settlement was built with the sweat and blood of Gondorian men, and it will be defended by the same! We--"

Anhelm stopped abruptly, and looked down at his side. A sword jutted out of it, gleaming red in the sun, mocking him. He looked up at Astalder, confused. The world swam before his eyes. He watched Astalder as the man ran at him, killing Anhelm's assailant, but it was as though he was watching from a very far distance. He put his hands behind him, gripping the hilt of the sword. He pulled it out and fell to the ground.

"Captain!" Astalder shouted, though it sounded fuzzy and indistinct to Anhelm. Anhelm gripped at Astalder's sleeve.

"Don't let my city fall," Anhelm said thickly, coughing. "If I die, you are in charge--do not let my city fall!"

Astalder inspected the wound quickly. "You will not die, Captain, but we must--"

"We cannot retreat!" Anhelm cried. "We cannot retreat!"

"We must--"

But Anhelm was not listening. They would not retreat. If he was to die, it would be here...

[Novnarwen]

Soon enough, the frightened Haradrim soldier realised that running away was probably not the best solution he could have picked. As he looked around, desperately trying to excuse his action, he couldn't seem to find a hiding spot. He was in a middle of a field; men fell before him, next to him (on each sides) and behind him. How could he have possibly thought that it was a good idea to run away? Frôzhal shrugged. Again looking around, he could see a part of his platoon and the disgraceful face of Erfâzh. He stared at him. The other Haradrim was fighting like mad with his shiny sword. Frôzhal hoped he could see him die. Hopefully some Gondorian would kill him, making it very painful. However, as he had stood dreaming of Erfâzh’s death, he became aware of a Gondorian seizing the upper part of his arm. Before he could think twice, he had lost sight of Erfâzh. Trying desperately to thrust his own sword into the Gondorian who had come charging at him, Frôzhal looked for where the armour was weakest. With great effort, he managed to push the Gondorian onto the ground. Not wanting to kill him, he beat him unconscious; hoping that no one else of the Haradrims would find him and kill him.

He turned, anxious to get his eyes on Efâzh again. The treacherous little twit was still holding off a Gondorian, but seemed, to Frôzhal's disappointment, to be doing fine. Suddenly, as Frôzhal was about to go look for a hiding place, of where he could hide until the battle died away, he remembered something. Where had he put the Gondorian knife he had found on a dead soldier when the Haradrim army had attacked the first Tower? Clenching his teeth, sweating, he came to realise that it hung steadily from his belt. He grabbed a hold of it, now desperate to get it over with. With a grimace in his face, he gave a sigh as he flung it through the air. He saw the knife glittering in the dim light, getting nearer and nearer its target. But as Frôzhal had sighed, when putting all his effort into throwing it, Erfâzh had turned and spotted him. Casting himself aside, Frôzhal's flying knife hit Erfâzh's attacker instead. Realising his mistake, Frôzhal tried to make a run for it. But Erfâzh had spotted him once again, and came darting towards him with his sword firmly in his hand.

"TRAITOR!" he called.

Frôzhal, who was very surprised by Erfâzh's reaction, managed only just to draw his own sword and meet his attacker. Both of them tried to end each other's lives with the first hit, which only resulted in both getting wounded. Frôzhal looked at the side of his arm. The feeling of pain struck him and affected him more than he could ever dream of. Having no choice however, he lifted his sword again to give Erfâzh something new to think about. Knowing that he was much stronger than the other Haradrim, he knew that he stood a pretty fair chance of surviving when his opponent was wounded. Gritting his teeth, he gave another thrust but Erfâzh protected himself easily.

"I should have known," Erfâzh said loudly, as they both advanced towards each other; blades raised again. "You've been in the lead with Gondorians, but of course I knew that . . ."

Frôzhal didn't at all like the smile Erfäzh had on his face. It was a smirk expressing all the evil he possessed in himself. It was a highly uncomfortable situation Frôzhal found himself in. Both because, he wasn't in the lead with the Gondorians, but nevertheless; he had tried killing Erfâzh, who was one of his own. If this wasn't treachery, what was? Still, Erfâzh had it coming, and there was no way he could do anything about it now. If he didn't kill Erfâzh now, Erfâzh would certainly kill him. It was impossible to have it otherwise, now as Erfâzh had seen him throw a knife at him. Unfortunately, Frôzhal had failed..

There was a loud crack as another cannon had been fired. As any other soldier, Erfâzh got distracted (just like another Gondorian Frôzhal had faced,) but this time Frôzhal didn't run.

***

A scream. A scream filled with terror, a scream filled with desperation.

Frôzhal turned around. A few paces away, a group of Gondorians had gathered. What were they doing? Again, Frôzhal had tried looking around for a hiding spot, but he thought the loud screams were highly annoying and he found it difficult to concentrate. Turning again to see what was going on, he saw some familiar boots. He cast himself to the ground, looked in between the Gondorian's feet; and there on the field in the middle of a group with attackers stood Jinan. Frôzhal looked twice. Was it really Jinan? Smirking with pleasure, he laid still to enjoy the show.

Surely, after the last days, Jinan certainly deserved what was coming. Frôzhal had thought from the very beginning that the two of them were friends, partners. He didn't know at the time though, that he and Erfâzh would go behind his back and together make his life miserable.

With a crack, Jinan fell. One of the Gondorian soldiers had beaten him, and he had falled to the ground. Now, writhing in agony, he looked desperately around to find a saving angel. Frôzhal met his eyes. Not daring to blink, feeling that he was the only person who could save Jinan, he stared. He kept staring, and Jinan returned the stare. Knowing that he was moments from a gruesome destiny, he looked at Frôzhal questioningly. Jinan's eyes were red and bleary, and seemed to lack the spirit of life. His sword lay beside him, but he seemed to be unable to grab a hold of it. Pathetic, Frôzhal thought to himself. For a long time he had looked up to Jinan, respected him. He had always seemed to know what he was doing. His skills were of great value to the army, unlike Frôzhal's lack of skills. But guess who was crying for help? Guess who was lying on the sand floor, shaking with terror? Guess who was meeting his fate now?

Frôzhal rose slowly, turned his back to the Gondorian soldiers who hadn't spotted him, and walked quickly away. Now and then, he offered his ear to listen to the voice that gave the loudest cries at the whole battle field.

[Imladris]

The sword whipped across his face, gashing his cheek. All around him the Gondorians crowded him, sticking him as if he was a mean boar among a rabble of hunters.

He remembered his own wild pig hunt. The boar had turned his tusks upon him.

He brought his sword down upon the Gondorian swine

and it had gored some peasant boy.

and plunged it into the heart of one soldier, ripped it out and slashed the head off of another in the back swing.

Then what had the boar done? It was so long ago....he had been wounded, but he had fought with all his wild animal intinct.

A soldier swiped his dagger, gashing him on the cheek. Blood dribbled down his chin. (Just like when a brat baby tried to eat his first meal.) Distantly, he felt cold steel in his middle. With a roar, he gripped the sword in both hands and plunged it into their midst.

The first thing the boar lost was the roaring rage. It had sunk to a shrill squeak.

Wine. That was what he needed. A cool glass of Harad wine. His voice choked and died in the desert of his throat.

Then the boar had staggered to the ground. He had screamed. Then died. Blood pouring from his numerous wounds.

There was a crack. A scream ripped the air -- his scream -- his protest -- his terror ripping from him. Jinan toppled to the ground, his sword beside him. Why couldn't he feel his legs? Why couldn't he stagger to his feet?

Then the men had carved the boar up, dividing the meat, allotting each portion the hunters.

Except that the soldiers wouldn't carve him up and degut him. They weren't barbarians. Was this how it felt like to die? This great emptiness -- the sense that the ladder to fame had toppled under his wait? The sense that time had slowed? Jinan peered around the legs of the mulling Gondorians, and saw Frôzhal. Puppy Frôzhal.

The boar had no one to help him.

Surely Frôzhal had honour enough to help a fallen comrade? Surely that still remained in his measley heart?

He would not cry out. Honour demanded that such an action would be cowardly. But he could look. His eyes could cry out in wordless agony. So he looked at Frôzhal, and saw him walk away and Death walk to him.

Just as well. Who would want to be saved by a puppy?

[Nerindel]

“We must fall back the Poros is lost, but its people are not our duty is now to them!” Astalder pressed, but Anhelm was no longer listening, his gaze fixed on the battle surrounding them and his mind stubbornly made up. He shook his head in anger and frustration, then ripping the cloth of his shirt he tightly bound the young captains wound in an effort to staunch the bleeding, then remembering the small dark bottle that the healer had given him he scrambled for his pouch, relieved to see that is was still intact. Pulling the stopper he quickly pressed the bottle to his captain’s lips. As he did so several Gondorian soldier’s seeing their stricken captain formed a protective ring about them.

“Will he live?” one of the soldiers asked as he fought to keep the Haradrim from their captain and the Roquen officer tending him, Astalder recognising the deep voice looked up to see the tall opposing figure of the innkeeper of the Poros Crossing, but no longer was he the hearty Inn keeper with the warm and welcoming smile, He’s features stolid and cold like stone, several minor wounds marked his face and arms, but none enough to slow his fierce attack. Slowly looking around he saw that four men in all encircled them, to this left though heavily stained with blood and grim, he made out the uniform of a Roquen and as the young knight turned to deflect his attacker blow he saw that it was Khalad, his once innocent face now twisted in deep concentration as he battled to protect his captain, the other two men wore uniforms of the Poros Guards and one looked no older that sixteen, his eyes wide with fear but fighting on determinedly.

“Astalder, will he live!” the innkeeper asked again through clenched teeth.

Shaking himself Astalder answered, “Yes, but I will need help moving him.” Quickly finishing off his opponent Talfas came and took the weight of the captain upon his broad shoulders.

“We will fall back to the rear gate!” Astalder ordered the others.

“No!” came a defiant groan from the semi-conscious captain, the others hesitated looking at him questioningly, gently holding his captains chin he forced him to look at the burning building and the dying men.

“Look around you my friend the Poros is loss; we defend not but rubble and burning timbers. Listen to me during my stay with our enemy I was given the distinct impression that this attack was only a small part of a much larger plot, something darker and more sinister, think about it! Minas Ithil falls, Orcs infest the northern borders of Rohan and now the Haradrim grow bolder, something is stirring and Gondor must be prepared. What purpose will it serve if we die here, without warning the Steward of the approaching storm?”

Anhelm stared at him not believing what he was hearing, Astalder features softened and he sighed wearily “I swear to you that justice will be sought, but not here and not now. I promise you that when the Steward sends his army to drive the Haradrim back I will be there at your side and will die with you if that is Eru’s plan for us, but I will not stand here and allow what we have learned to die here with us, our duty is to the people of Gondor and they must know of this threat! So court marshal me if you wish but I am ordering the retreat!” with that Astalder took his captains other arm and ordered the retreat.

Reaching the rear gate they found that horses had been left, with Talfas he helped Anhelm on to one and mounted behind him, supporting his captain as he slouched heavily forwards. Looking about at the glum faces of the retreating soldiers he realised the severity of their losses, he counted but thirty of the one hundred and eighty men now remained and it was with a heavy heart that he lead them from the rear gates of the settlement, Talfas to his left and Khalad to his right and without so much as a backwards glance he hurried the company forwards.

The Poros was lost but he was determined that Gondor would be ready, looking down at the silver chain that hung from his neck he realise with irony that to convince the steward and his council of this new threat he would have to accept the title he was born into, a lord with no lands and no real title, but it would have to do, it was all he had…. That was if he was not court marshalled first?

[Novnarwen]

Hidden in the shadows of a green bush, some paces away from the where he had ended the poor Haradrim's life, Frôzhal lay quietly and listened to the battle continue. He watched the sun make its way downwards. Hurriedly it went, making the sky reddish all over. Wonderful, he thought grinning to himself. Yes, for it was with great satisfaction he laid here. After a successful murder and seeing Jinan being left to his poor fate, he could do nothing but smile. Little did he know, however, that the sound of the last breath Erfâzh made in this life, and the cries of pain Jinan let out, would haunt him forever.

**

It was a fact, the Gondoirans had lost, and the Poros Settlement was theirs. By this, seeing the Gondorians retreating, he finally realised that he and the Haradrims had successfully accomplished their goals. He had seen Erfâzh die, or rather, he had killed him. Jinan had been screaming to the very end, and the Poros settlement was theirs! What more was there to do now? He thought, shaking with joy. After a few minutes though, he couldn't help feeling just slightly sorry for the Gondorians, but thinking it through he realised that he was a Haradrim. He was supposed to be their enemy. Moreover, he hadn't killed many of them, so it didn't matter. After this whole affair, who knew, maybe he would get another position in the army, a better position. Collecting his sword and his other belongings and putting on his armour, he went and joined the rest of the celebrating Haradrims. All the emotions he had kept inside of him for so long, all the emotions that had arisen inside of him due to the troubles that had evolved during the last days, were surprisingly just released. He sighed, smiled and waved to Gimilzôr, who didn’t actually offer him a look. This sudden feeling of freedom, the sudden feeling of finally being in control of his own life again, made him absolutely aware of his situation. He grabbed the hilt of his sword and held it high over his head as he fell to the ground on his knees. He sat silently watching everything and everyone.

For a long while he sat there, finding comfort in his great personal victory. The two he had learned to fear during this time, were gone. They were simply gone, gone, away! He had nothing to worry about, not even his conscience; as it was quite clean. For the two of them had deserved it, so it didn't matter that he had killed one of them and left the other to be tortured to death by the Gondorians. He stood up again, but to his great surprise he found himself struggling to control his limbs. They were weak. No, just stiff. After all the effort he had put into this last battle which had finally freed him of all fears, he felt nevertheless that a big lump had found its way into his throat. Suddenly, he had difficulties swallowing. An ocean of sweat ran down his forehand and down his back. His veins turned as red and bloody as the sky was when the Sun was on its way down. A feeling of being a helpless creature, made him realise that he had got it all wrong. No matter how he turned it, he had made a terrible mistake. Again his naivety had fooled him, but he was yet to realise how he had been fooled. He stood silently, staring into the air, looking utterly miserable. Feeling the wound on his arm being filled with pain, he realised that that pain was only a fraction of the pain he felt inside of him. Why did everything he had accomplished during the last hours or so suddenly feel like a downfall to him? Being rather confused by the mixture of his feelings, which he figured he had no control over, he tried searching within himself for a satisfying answer.

You've done wrong, when thinking you've done right. Unjustly, you have taken what is not yours . . . Treachery, you have committed of the worst kind, but still you are satisfied over your deeds. Who are you really? A Haradrim in mind and heart, or a Haradrim by looks but someone else in heart and mind? For nevertheless, the deeds you have committed suits none. Treachery is not supported by any, neither Haradrims nor Gondorians.

It became clear to him what he had done in the hour of sunset. At that time, the Haradrims started looking for more survivors. Searching the battlefield, Erfâzh was found; naturally dead. Not daring to approach the body, Frôzhal went with some of the others to search for others. Time passed slowly, and few were found. Frôzhal was not at all aware of whom they were approaching now, lying on the ground. He was too caught up in his thoughts and the question, whether he ought to regret his actions or not. Killing Erfâzh had felt so good. It had felt right, and now a voice in his head, which he had never heard speak before, told him otherwise. Yes, for he had figured it out, the riddle. He walked with stern steps, looking downwards when a horrible sight met him. There, just by his very feet was the man he had respected, until Erfâzh had joined him. There he was. The smell of the dead body made him sick and he turned away in disgrace for a few moments to digest what he had just seen. There was blood everywhere, a limb or two were gone; simply cut off, dirt and sweat mixed with the smell of dried blood. He wanted to leave instantly, but it would only cause suspicion if he did. After all, he was partly guilty of this soldier's death. But he did not at all regret it, he thought to himself, still not offering the body another look.

The other Haradrims Frôzhal had followed to look for wounded soldiers, had gathered around the stinking body. A few minutes passed by when suddenly Frôzhal heard a whispering sound coming from below; the sound of something moving in the sandy ground. He wasn't able restrain himself as his curiosity arose inside of him. With a hurried movement, he turned to face the man on the ground he thought had been dead.

[Orual]

The young Captain Anhelm sat in his room in the Houses of Healing, his left arm bandaged and completely out of use, but his right arm still functional. In it he held a pen, and a blank sheet of paper was in front of him. He touched the pen to the paper, but did not write anything. Not yet.

How could everything have gone as wrong as it did? His village was in flames. His career was ended. The healers were not sure whether or not he would ever be fit for service again. Gingerly he touched his abdomen, which was also wrapped in a bandage, and bit back the pain. He was lucky to have survived, said the healers. He wasn't so sure.

Lucky to survive when so many of his men had not. Lucky to hear the endless reports of their losses. Lucky to be stuck in this healing room day after day, waiting for his wounds to knit and his pain to recede, and suffering while neither happened.

His family had been supportive, but he could tell that his father was devestated. He was a disappointment: a failure. His first mission. And it should have been so simple. If only he had listened to Astalder, and retreated when it was prudent. But he had to be the hero, the pioneer, the captain going down with his ship. Well, he had gone down. And now he was at the bottom.


Are you happy now? His father had not asked him that question, but it had been implied. Was he happy? Was he satisfied? Was he proud of what he had done? No, no, and no. He had ruined his life. He had ended others.

And thus the story of the ill-fated Poros settlement ended.

And Captain Anhelm sat at his desk in the Houses of Healing, and wept.