Defense of the Poros RPG

[Novnarwen]

Frôzhal had dropped dead. As he was about to grab his knife and end Erfâzh's pathetic life, he had discovered that it wasn't just a random Haradrim Erfâzh had been talking to, his mysterious friend was Jinan. The Haradrim's mouth fell open. He didn't even notice Jinan saying something to him, as two Gondorians were violently dragged and cast to the ground only a few paces away from where the three Haradrims were standing. Before the extremely surprised Haradrim was able to react, Erfâzh and Jinan had sprinted over to see the two prisoners. He cursed as he watched them. How could this happen? How could this happen to him? Was Erfâzh a friend of Jinan? What had they talked about? He let out a shriek, or rather he tried to, but his voice drowned in his own throat. He cursed again. By now, Erfâzh would have told Jinan everything, he could see it, by the fire in their eyes. "Traitor," Frôzhal muttered. However, perhaps he still had a chance of killing Erfâzh and perhaps the way of his clothing, but also the gash he had faked on his cheek, could make Jinan doubt what Erfâzh had possibly told him.

Disgusted by Erfâzh possible behaviour, (depending on whether he had told Jinan about how Erfâzh had been in charge during the attack or not,) he paced over to where the two Gondorains lay. He refused to give further thought to the situation he would find himself in, if this secret had been revealed; especially if the wrong people knew. Instead, he tried to enjoy the violence the two Gondorians went through. He laughed evilly, trying to get a glimpse of their grim faces. He heard Lan’kash growl, deciding that one of them should live. Frôzhal was amused by this. He wondered what the Gondorian, who would live, thought about this matter. He hoped, crossing his fingers, that the one who would be dead soon was a very close friend of the one who was going to live. Pain.. Pain.. he thought, his eyes sparkling.

As one of the filthy Gondorians was dragged by the Haradrim guards, Frôzhal used his opportunity to spit on the man. He didn't make a grimace, his face remained straight. Frôzhal didn't quite understand this reaction. Surely, it was odd. The Haradrim's, who were standing around the poor captive, had been showing him no respect whatsoever. Of course, the Gondorian couldn't demand it either, but why didn't he do anything; like spit back or curse? Was it not his character maybe? Frôzhal wasn't familiar with this kind of behaviour. Did all these Gondorian's act like this?

Frôzhal watched him, trying to read his mind. He didn't seem to be afraid of anything. His eyes were soft; humanly, greyish blue. He sent out this signal of being good, fearless, proud of his kind, and gentle. This, Frôzhal realised, was rare or unusual, at least among the Haradrim; who were hard, rough and proud but only proud of their own skills and accomplishments. Suddenly, out of the blue, he thought it stupid of him to spit at the Gondorian. It was out of place, it was gruesome. But even though he had done it, yet the Gondoiran kept his dignity by showing the Haradrim that he was different. The Haradrim's however, didn't realise this and continued their stupidity.

Frôzhal cursed. This Gondorian was bad news. He made the Haradrim think too much.

[Orual]

The heat of battle was all around him.

The thunder of horses' hooves.

The whistling of arrows overhead.

The shrill, primal cries of the warriors.

Radenan had not foreseen this when he volunteered to help guard the Poros settlement. He had expected excitement...but safe, contained excitement. Not life-or-death excitement. Not war.

He was eighteen years old. He wanted to be a blacksmith.

His keen, black-brown eyes stared wildly around him as he tried to calm his panicky horse. Where was Astalder? He was following Astalder. And...

"Adenain! Lieutenant Adenain!" Radenan dismounted and ran up to his superior, who had been shot in the shoulder. A small pool of dark blood lay around the wound, and Adenain was pale from the blood loss. The lieutenant coughed and tried to speak, but could not. Radenan lifted him with much difficulty and laid him across his horse's back.

"Astalder," Adenain gasped. Radenan froze. "Astalder...captured. Tell the captain!"

Radenan rode harder than he had ever ridden before.

***

"Captain Anhelm! Captain Anhelm!"

Anhelm, collecting fallen papers from beneath his desk, knocked his head on the underside. Rubbing it ruefully, he glared at the boy who had rushed into his office. "What is it?"

"It's Lieutenant Adenain and Radenan," the boy cried. Anhelm stared at him. "The lieutenant was injured. Radenan says they're surrounded! It's the Haradrim!"

Anhelm rushed to the infirmary. "Adenain," he said softly, ignoring Radenan as the young man saluted. "Adenain, what happened?"

"There were too many," Adenain coughed, wincing in pain from the effort. "They surrounded us. And Astalder...Astalder was captured. Captain, you have to help them. Send backup!"

"It's sent," Anhelm said, squeezing Adenain's hand. He turned to Radenan, still stiff at attention. "Good job, soldier. Consider your tour of duty done." The boy broke into an unintentional smile and ran off.

"Activate all the soldiers we can spare," Anhelm ordered. "We're mounting up and going to the battlefield."

They were there as soon as possible, not having wasted a moment. Anhelm was done playing games with the Haradrim. It was time to end this.

[Imladris]

Jinan followed the guards who dragged the Gondorian soldier away. He was disgusted with the physical torture the soldier had withstood. Physical torture was rather easy to withstand. All you had to do was to think of something else, separating yourself from the pain that was inflicted upon you. Jinan himself had done this many times. It was a game with him and his cronies.

The soldier was dragged to a tent where the other Haradrim tied his hands and feet. and left him. Jinan remained and stared at the soldier. His face was battered, his soft eyes were hardened, blood dripped from his mouth.

Jinan paced in front of the soldier, wondering how they could get information from him. Emotional torture was much more effective, but ten times more delicate to withstand information. With a snap of his black eyes, Jinan stopped short. A scowl flickered across his face as he realized with disgust that the Haradrim lieutnant had just been inflicting pain for the sense of blood lust joy that accompanied such an action, not for the information the Gondorian might possess. With a snort of disgust, Jinan once again thought how utterly foolish their stupid lietnant was. What happens if the Gondorians had an ambush? And her was a perfectly good Gondorian soldier ripe for interrigation. Well, if no one else was going to do it, he would.

Crouching on his heels in front of the soldier, Jinan said, "I suppose you are very thirsty from the beating and the fighting and the journey." He sighed and continued, "We have some very cool water in the saddle packs." He cocked an eyebrow suggestively. "You do realize that you have very little hope of surviving. The Haradrim like to play with their victims -- the journey could be quite painful for you. Then there is the issue of food -- have you ever starved? You become hungry, and then the pain drifts away with time. You begin to feel lightheaded, your strength is sapped, and then you die." Jinan stared at the soldier. "How many men are garrisoned in the Poros settlement?"

[Nerindel]

Astalder eyes followed the steps of the young Haradrim warrior who now paced before him; there was confidence in his steps that denoted that he was no mere guard set to insure that he did not attempt to escape. Outside he could hear his enemies making ready to break camp and make their final advance, if he was going to escape he would have to do it soon, but with both his hands and feet bound that was not going to be an easily task. As the Southerner continued to pace he surveyed his surroundings looking for something that he could use to loosen his bonds.

There was nothing particularly remarkable about the large canvas tent he now found himself in; However the folding table littered with papers, drew his attention. Several large pieces of parchment rustled with the breeze blowing through the waving flap of the tent entrance, Maps… he silently mused; this must be an officer’s tent. But before he could inspect his surrounding more closely, the young Haradrim Warrior stopped his pacing and crouched before him, the warrior’s dark eyes levelling with his.

“I suppose you are very thirsty…” his new interrogator began, it was true he was thirsty be he would not give his captors the pleasure of knowing so, so his gaze remained steady and his features impassive. The man sighed and continued cocking his head suggestively to were he had earlier seen two sets of saddle packs, but he did not follow the mans gaze, choosing instead to stubbornly keep eye contact with this man.

Without so much as a flicker of irritation the southerner went on to describe his chances of survival, describing in detail how one died of starvation, but Astalder was no inexperienced ohtcar and knew that a man could go at least three days without food, and with the Poros only a days hard ride away, his usefulness to Lan’kash would have ended long before he had the chance to die that lingering death. However water he did need but now he knew were that could be found, he just had to wait for the right opportunity to arise and he hoped that it would come soon.

“How many men are Garrisoned in the Poros settlement?” The southerners question brought him from his musings and he saw that the soldier was now staring at him intently waiting for an answer. Slowly leaning in Astalder whispered his reply into the ear of his interrogator.

“I do not fear death!”

Then remaining impassive he leaned back against the main pole of the tent, reciting his name and rank, he had no intention of giving these savages any more advantage than they already had, nor the satisfaction in knowing that they greatly out numbered the Poros garrison. He held his head high and tensed his body waiting to accept the blow that he was sure would follow.

[Imladris]

Blast it . Jinan realized he had made a fool of himself and he swore under his breath. The Poros was a day away -- of course the man would not starve to death by then. He shook his head.

“I do not fear death!” the soldier whispered in Jinan's ear.

The Haradrim smiled and looked at the Gondorian. Jinan did not doubt his bravery, but he also realized the foolishness of it all. The soldier was going to die, sooner or later, a painful death. The soldier himself must realize that. But Jinan wanted information from him before that time came. "Whoever mentioned death, brave Gondorian," Jinan said.

He called for a glass of wine and stared at the soldier. When the soldier/farmer returned, Jinan took a deep sniff and swished the wine in the crude goblet. The fresh scent of the liquor wafted from the cup. Jinan took a small sip, twirled the cup in his fingers, and said, "I suppose you have family in the Poros settlement. They are going to die you know, so you might as well tell me what I want to know."

The soldier lifted his head and replied, "Then why should I tell if you are going to kill them any way?"

"Death will take them. We Haradrim would merely hasten their deaths," Jinan answered. "You will have to see your loved one's die in either case. Again I ask, how many people are garrisoned in the Poros settlement."

The sound of men breaking camp drifted through the tent and Jinan cursed. Why was the Gondorian being a mule, so strong under physical torment and the beginnings of mental torture? He drummed his fingers on his knees. He might have to finish his interrogation on the road.

[Novnarwen]

His naïvety took over. Erfâzh had to be loyal to Frôzhal, no doubt about that. There was nothing Erfâzh could possibly do to harm the other Haradrim in any way. Without Frôzhal, who had been given a platoon when they set out to destroy the Poros settlement, Erfâzh was nothing other than a soldier, who had absolutely no power in the army at all. If he, nevertheless, proved or had proven to be disloyal who would their superior believe; a simple soldier of a low rang, or Frôzhal, who happened to be in charge of a platoon? Surely, it would have to be the latter. With this conclusion, he wasn't very pleased about the fact that a certain Haradrim slowly approached him.

"Where were you, during the attack?" Erfâzh asked, curious about how Frôzhal had got the gash in his face, and why his clothing was badly ripped.

It was important, in these kinds of situations, to keep ones mask. After all, Frôzhal didn't know whether this man's intentions were good or not. Frôzhal repeated the question silently, avoiding the piercing look from the soldier. What was he supposed to say? He frowned, thinking hard, meanwhile watching Erfâzh getting more and more impatient.

"What do you think?" Frôzhal asked, taking his sword halfway up from the sheath to show the blood at the upper half of the sword and to the hilt, (which was intentionally done; to put a fright into the young man's heart). Erfâzh looked at Frôzhal with surprise, as if all doubt, whether his superior had fought in the battle or not, was gone.

"But you said that you were going to watch . . . "

Frôzhal interrupted. Grim-faced and eyes narrowing, he told Erfâzh it had been a test. By this, the other Haradrim's eyes lit up, but he didn't seem to fully understand though.

"Well . . . Did I pass?" he asked, not even knowing what this so called test was about. Both of them stood motionless for a while, Frôzhal again thinking; being afraid to say something wrong, which could be used against him later, if Erfâzh indeed was disloyal.

At last Frôzhal grinned. A feeling of satisfaction embraced him, as he understood that Erfâzh, surprisingly enough, had believed him. However, to Frôzhal's surprise, Erfâzh hadn't even bothered to ask what this test was all about. This was perhaps for the best, he thought.

"You passed . . . " There was a long pause, before Frôzhal stepped forwards, reminding himself of the Gondorian knife he had taken from a fallen soldier; and of which he had been tempted in using. He whispered in Erfâh's ear:"But only just . . ."

[Orual]

"They are disciplined and well-prepared, Captain. It will take more than a simple ambush to regain our men."

Anhelm's steely eyes were fixed on the camp that lay just before them. He heard the warning of his current second-in-command, Sarandros, but did not heed them as perhaps he might. He scanned the camp, and his gaze fell on one tent in particular. "There," he said, pointing to it with a mud-caked finger. They had ridden hard and had not stopped, and they all showed signs of wear. "That is where they are keeping Astalder."

"Permission to speak freely, sir?"

Anhelm glanced at Sarandros. "Granted."

"There's no way you can know that."

Anhelm frowned. "I just know. I can tell."

"Sir--"

"I need a diversion," Anhelm snapped, changing the subject. "Take twenty of your men and go around that way." He gestured in the opposite direction of the tent. "I will take ten and we will get Astalder." He put a hand on the sheath of his sword. "Give me an hour."

Sarandros knew the question that Anhelm wanted him to ask. "And after an hour, sir?"

"Leave, and start the evacuation of the settlement." The young captain stroked his horse's neck. "I'm going to go down with this ship, but the civilians don't have to. One hour, Sarandros. That's all I can take. One more hour."
He rode towards the tent.