Defense of the Poros RPG

[Imladris]

Stupid lietunant ordering the retreat... Jinan fumed. If they were going to attack, why not attack in style? These men could beat them if they all hurled themselves across the walls. He saw the men readying the catapults for firing, and then he understood why the lieutnant had pulled him back. They would batter down the walls and then they would pour in like a water from a broken dam. But why hadn't the leutnant ordered it in the first place? Jinan shrugged. And impossible question to be answered since he was not around to be asked.

Knowing the Gondorians, they would not let them hurl fire balls into their walls. They would try to stop them by shooting the men that operated them. Even as the the thought flitted through his mind, arrows plummeted from the sky, burying themselves into the joints of men's armor our glancing with a slight ping off the heavy chain mail. "Raise your shields!" Jinan shouted. The farmer oafs did not even know what to bloody do. He rolled his eyes. Incompetence.

Speaking of incompetence, where was that puppy Frôzhal. Cowering under a bundle of blankets, no doubt.

[Nerindel]

“The catapults!” Astalder cried, turning from his captain’s unspoken command. Fluidly the archers changed their target and rained a barrage of arrows upon the soldiers manning the monstrous war machines. The Haradrim warriors fell but where quickly replaced with others. Astalder realised that they would soon run out of arrows if their enemies continued to replace their fallen, which of course was providing the wall on which they stood did not give way first. He thought quickly, looking behind him as another flaming ball sailed over head and crashed into the stables of the Poros Crossing Inn. The settlement was a blaze; below he could see men frantically trying to put out the flames. The Main gate too was breached; the Roquen and a vast majority of the Poros Guards struggled to fight back the advancing flood of Haradrim warriors. The urge to leap down from the wall to help them was overwhelming, but his concern for now was the machines that hammered at their defences. Heat and smoke stung his eyes, and then it came to him, “Fight fire with fire!”

“Oil… I need oil!” he cried spinning round to face one of the Archers next to him.

The tall fair haired man crouched down behind the wall and looked at him, and then reaching for his belt he pulled away a dark coloured flash and thrust it into his hands, there was no time for explanations as the wall again violently shook under the Haradrims attack. Quickly he ripped the sleeves from his shirt and tore them into strips, Dousing them with the oil he then wrapping them about the tips of his arrows. Rising to his feet he knocked one of the oil soaked arrows, passing it briefly over the flickering flames of the torch that was mounted to his left. He pulled arrow and bow string back to his ear, narrowing his eyes and adjusting his stance to find his mark, then released. The fletching brushed his cheek as the arrow left his bow; he held his breath in anticipation as he watched it sail through the air to find its mark. The arrow as hoped imbedded itself in the arm of the nearest machine and flames began to lick up the wooden structure. He let his breath go in a resounding whoop of victory, then knocking another and another he continued to rain fire on the Haradrims machines. The other archers seeing his success followed his lead and soon the first Catapult was completely ablaze. A loud cheer rose from the archers as the structure finally gave way and crashed to the ground, but their victory was short lived, so intent were they in destroying the machine nearest them they had failed to see their enemy repositioning the second until it was to late!

“In coming!” someone cried and before any of them had a chance to react a volley of rocks and boulders hit the top of the wall on which they were standing, Throwing them back in a shower of dust and rock. Astalder landed with a sharp thud that temporarily knocked the wind from him, he struggled to his feet then gaped, the wall on which he had just been standing was now no more than a pile of rubble it was a miracle that any of them had survived and as the walked forward he saw that very few of them had. The bodies of archers who had just been celebrating a victory over their foes now lay half buried in the wall they fought to defend. Guilt washed over him, but he hardened his resolve.

“Their deaths will not be for not!” he muttered through clenched teeth. Then drawing his sword he gathered as many men as he could to him and charged over the wall.

“For the honour and glory of Gondor!” He cried as he charged headlong into the first wave of Haradrim warriors. His eyes glittered with fire and determination, his new home was ablaze and it’s defences in ruins, but he would fight, he would give the women and children the time they needed to escape. Even if it meant giving up his own life, if that was Eru’s will then so be it, he would die with honour.

His movements were quick, precise and his thoughts focused, the first few attackers, inexperienced in the art of battle fell to his sword like defenceless children, but all too soon he met the challenge of more experience warriors and then real battle began.

[Novnarwen]

He awoke. Or so he thought. He felt like he had dozed off for a couple of minutes, or hours even. Shaking his head, gazing around, he found himself in the middle of a battlefield. How had he got here? Frowning, he realised that this was the attack the Haradrim Army had waited for, for a long time. This was the Poros Settlement, which the Haradrim soldiers were ordered to destroy.

Looking confused and being rather pale, he got a glimpse of Jinan. His fellow companion had thrown himself into the battle, fighting alongside with the other soldiers of the army. Frôzhal, on the other hand, stood motionless amongst a group of men who hesitated to attack. Some looked questioningly at Frôzhal, and he realised why. It was the members of his platoon. They stood waiting for him to dart forwards and into the masses of Gondorian soldiers. But how would someone in their right mind do that. The swords, the sound of metal, made him shiver. Although he was an experienced soldier, and not too bad when it came to handling a sword, all of this frightened him; so much blood, pain and despair. So many lives.

There was a loud crack. A canon had been fired, and the smoke lay thick ahead. Screams of horror rang in his ears. "This is madness," he muttered dryly to himself. Desperately, he looked around once more. He would have to get out of this, but how he would be able to get away; he did not know. Seeing that his men were getting inpatient, (some had already charged forwards by now), he drew his sword valiantly and sprang forwards himself. Shaking with fear, his mouth going dry, he thrust his sword into the first Gondorian he met.

"For the honour and glory of Gondor!” he heard someone cry.

Where was the glory in this? he thought to himself drawing his sword out of the Gondorian. It was a young man, a lad by the look of him. His face was filled with pain, and the sweat was trickling down his forehead. Being cold, knowing that his time had come, he sighed and muttered: "For Gondor."

The platoon followed closely behind, but was scattered as by the wind.

Fiercely taking another Gondorian by the first thrust, he continued to dart forwards facing more of the opponents. With gritted teeth he put all his effort into the first hit, but this time the opponent was stronger and probably more experienced. Blocking Frôzhal's hit, he took a step forwards and made the Haradrim step back. Advancing from side to side, the two of them stared into each other's eyes as both of them tried to thrust their swords into each other. The Gondoiran he was facing was much skinnier, and smaller than himself. However, Frôzhal knew that the minute he thought and was convinced that his size was an advantage; he would be dead before he could say the word 'Haradrim'. Once more there was a loud crack, another canon had been fired. The Gondorian was distracted for a second, and it was then Frôzhal seized his chance. Being fully aware of the fact that he was now able to kill his opponent with a hurried hit, he turned and darted away.

[Orual]

The catapults were coming down. Anhelm's lips parted in a savage smile; his breathing was ragged, and he gripped his sword tightly in his hand. "For the glory of Gondor!" he cried as he felled another Haradrim soldier.

The stench of battle was thick inside the walls of the Poros settlement. It smelled of sweat and blood and fear and excitement. The heat plastered Anhelm's fair hair to his face, and blood glued his sleeves to his arms. None of the cuts were deep enough to stop him. There was no cut deep enough to stop him.

"Away from the walls!" Anhelm snapped out of his daydreams when he heard the panic-stricken cry. "Away from the walls! The walls are about to--"

The sentance was left unfinished, but the point was driven brutally home. Before the last word, one catapult let loose a boulder that crashed right into the walls, bringing them down. Men fell from the barrier that Anhelm thought would hold, to their deaths. The Gondorian troops retreated into the settlement while the Haradrim poured in.

Anhelm gasped in utter shock. How could this happen? The walls should have held. What had gone wrong? He had enough sense left to cut down a Haradrim before the enemy was about to stab one of his soldiers, but he was still dazed. Sweat now stung his eyes, and his wounds throbbed. The reality of the battle was now upon him. They were all going to die.

"Astalder!" he cried, a note of desperation in his voice making it sound like a wail. "Astalder! The women and children!"

"The last are being evacuated, sir!" Astalder said, gripping Anhelm by the shoulders before the young captain could fall. "Stay together, Captain. We need you."

"The walls..." Anhelm said, letting the words fall from between his barely-parted lips. "They..."

"They fell. You have to stay together. We may not be able to turn this into a victory, but we can keep innocent people from dying. Tell the troops to fall back, sir. Order an evacuation!"

"Not yet!" Anhelm cried, stepping back from Astalder and swinging his sword wildly. "Not yet! We have more in us than this, Astalder. We are Gondor!"

He turned back to the battle. "For Gondor!" he screamed, and his cry was echoed over the battlefield. For Gondor!

Behind him he heard Astalder whisper, "For Gondor." He turned back to his second, and smiled.

"For Gondor!"

[Manôphazân]

As if by an invisible hand, the smoke parted in front of Lan’kâsh, revealing the tall wall of the fortress just as it toppled inward. A great plume of dust and flame climbed into the burning sky, and men screamed in fear and agony. The dark colors of Harad swarmed forward again, but they did not yet cross the perimeter of rubble and corpses. For as they charged, several blood-smeared, armored Gondorians rose from the ashes to meet their advance. The two forces shouted in fury as they met in a ferocious metallic clamor.

Lan’kâsh walked slowly forward, searching in the melee for a specific target. He had no doubt that the escaped officer would be among the last defenders of Poros. His spear swung left and right, creating a line of focus for its owner to sight his prey. Back and forth it went as the lieutenant approached the skirmish, until it finally stopped, pointing to the far left of the Haradrim line. There he was, slashing away at the pitchfork wielding Harnen farmer. The man’s dark sword stabbed out, and the unlucky conscript crumpled to the ground. Three others quickly replaced him, and the Winger was forced to step back.

“Oh no!” bellowed Lan’kâsh as he began to run. The officer was his to kill, and there was no way he would be allowed to fall to anyone else. He pushed his way among his troops and met the eyes of his opponent, but he did not stop. Without even a polite nod of acknowledgement, he sprang forward, driving the tip of his spear in a violent lunge at the Gondorian’s stomach.

“Go kill the rest,” he shouted to his men behind him. “This poor fool is mine!”

[Nerindel]

Sweat and blood clung to Astalder’s hands and face as he battled on plunging his sword deep into the stomach of another pitchfork wielding soldier, but even as he pulled his blade from the dying farmer, he was replaced by three others, forcing him to step back as they advanced trying to encircle him. These were no newly trained conscripts but seasoned warriors; he was forced to take another two steps back as he furiously defended against their timed attacks. His mind raced trying to find a weakness in their unified attack that he could use to gain an advantage, but suddenly their ranks broke and Astalder’s eyes met that of the Haradrim leader, Lan’kash but the officer did not stop he was coming right for him, spear thrusting for his midriff. Quickly he twisted his body to avoid the full force of the attack; the metal tip ripped though his tunic and glanced off the metal rings of his armour. As he twisted to avoid the blow he swung his sword above his head and brought it down heavily on the wooden shaft of Lan’kash’s spear, snapping it clean in two.

Astalder raised his head, the blue grey of his eyes meeting Lan’kash’s dark ones with a mocking grin, already the officer had discarded the broken shaft and was bringing his sword to bear, He met steel with steel and the two weapons clashed violently. Each man pushing forward trying to unbalance the other, there was silence between the two officers their eyes locked, each taking the measure of the other as they turned in intricate circles, looking for a suitable opening? The sounds of the battle around them dimmed to a dull murmur as all focus was given over to the battle at hand.

The seasoned Haradrim warrior took the offensive first, right, left, forwards, coming fast with the fury of a winter storm, Astalder worked his sword hard in a flood of defensive parries, gradually turning them and shifting his body into a more offensive posture, forcing the Haradrim warrior back.

“Well done,” Lan’kash congratulated mockingly, as he stepped back over the legs of a fallen comrade. Astalder said nothing but returned the jibe with a grin and a slight incline of his head. furiously he working his blade, left, right, left again lunge, the blade rushing for Lan’kash’s head, the Haradrim warrior picked it off with an up raised blade as expected. He turned his sword under the others blade feigning a disarming moves, but with his left hand he thrust forwards with his dagger.

Lan’kash caught the glint of the second blade just in time, accepting the cunning turn of the Gondorians blade, he turned right, driving his sword forward, pushing the winger’s sword across and forcing him to shift and alter the daggers thrust.

“Good but not good enough,” The Haradrim warrior scornfully laughed as he was once more forced the Gondorian to take up a more defensive posture.

Astalder gritted his teeth in restrained anger and pressed forwards. Their weapons rang against each other repeatedly, a blur of motion, an invariable sound. Right, left, parry, feign right, lunge, Astalder scored a hard stab against Lan’kash’s right side as he move to block the right feign. For an instant the Haradrim warriors eyes went wide with surprise, but he recovered quickly, pulling back and slashing out to his right, knocking Astalder blade wide and coming round again to score across the Gondorians midriff, But recovering quickly Astalder jumped back his opponents blade catching only his hip as he twisted to deflect the blow he kicked out clipping Lan’kash’s right knee, The warrior grunted in pain as he stumbled back a few steps.

“One for one,” Astalder grinned menacingly, his breathing heavy and ragged, his dark hair soaked to his face, he could feel the warm seep of blood leaking from his side, but took satisfaction in knowing that his opponent would be experiencing the same feeling. He rushed forwards and again their weapons clashed, matching blow for blow as they continued to vie for dominance over the other.

“Why do you bother to still fight winger?” Lan’kash hissed. “The battle is already lost. Look! The settlement is ablaze and it’s people dead or dying,” he taunted forcing Astalder to move round so he could see the devastation for himself. Flames licked at the walls from within and the cries of the dying reaches his ears, his eyes welled and stung as he realised his enemy spoke the truth, but he forced back the despair knowing with pride that this would be a short lived victory for the Haradrim, the Steward would send his armies to crush this insolent rabble and put the Haradrim firmly back in their place and he would be there with them when they did. He continued to press the Haradrim lieutenant, his sword working furiously as he remembered the cold way in which the officer had taken his young co-conspirators life, denying the young man the honourable death he deserved.

“We fight for honour, something the Haradrim clearly have no concept of. You may have gained a victory this day but you have won nothing, the might of the Gondorian army will send you fleeing back to the desert to hide under what ever rock you crawled out from!” Astalder spat back venomously.


“Pah! Honour, pride what use are they if you are dead, winger?” Lan’kash retorted with a snort of disgust, “Your people hide behind walls of stone hoping for the return of a king that will never come, how long will the stewards of your city be able to hold, what allies do they have? No winger they will fall, already they have lost one city,” the Haradrim lieutenant grinned cruelly, driving his sword left and deliberately slicing through the fine embroidery of the emblem of his house to the flesh below. With a winch Astalder drew back, his eyes narrowing to meet the knowing look of his opponent.

“How did your family escape Ithilian? Did they run screaming in terror, do you have coward’s blood winger? Is that why you fight so hard, to prove yourself, eh is that it winger do you hope to restore your families honour!” Lan’kash taunted, grinning menacingly.

“No!” Astalder shouted furiously, driving forward hard, knocking Lan’kash to the ground, “you know nothing,” he spat pinning the haradrim to the ground.

“I may be all that is left of that once noble city but I am still Gondorian and as such I will fight, like my father and his father before him. I fight so others may live, that is honour, Haradrim! Something you shall never know!” But as he raised his dagger to his enemy’s throat, Lan’kash kicked, knocking him off.

“Then you will die winger!” The Haradrim officer promised. “

“If Illuvatar deems it is my time to die than I shall die, but honour will be mine.” He retorted defiantly as he forced himself to his feet, raising his sword before him, both men where tiring but neither would back off. Astalder struck with wide-reaching blows, coming in from the left then the right, keeping Lan’kash before him. Right and left again, and then he turned suddenly catching his opponent of guard, spinning and slashing as he came round.

The victory was his, his sword drove deep across Lan’kash’s side, tearing flesh, bouncing of ribs and tearing through a lung, then cutting back out across the front of the Haradrim’s chest. The stunned warrior stumbled backwards staring at his chest in disbelief, the metal of his plate torn open like tin. Tripping over a fallen soldier’s corpse he fell hard to the ground, one lung collapsing and his lifeblood running out freely. Astalder leaned over the dying man his sword held limply at his side, his breathing deep and heavy. he stretched out his free hand and retrieved the silver chain that hung from the Dying Haradrim’s belt, “I believe this is mine!” he said dryly as he fastened it back around his neck and walked away from the dying leader of the Haradrim’s army. Several of the haradrim soldiers around him shied away in fear and disbelief, but some one soon filled Lan’kash’s vacant position and the battle raged on.

Astalder cut a path back towards the settlement trying to locate his captain, he had to convince him, forcibly if necessary, and that the time had come for them to fall back. The settlement was lost, but the war had just began and if they where to be part of a greater victory they first had to admit defeat. As he drew back to the city he called to others to do like wise, it was madness to continue this fight, he had to make Anhelm see this.

[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.