Siege of Gundabad RPG

[Boromir88]

It was a dark and cold night and the sky appeared it was about to dump another storm upon the small settlement of Dale. Sjorging was lying on his bed, just about ready to call it a night. When suddenly, screams were being heard all around. Lancast, one of Sjorging's servants, busts through the door, in a frantic stammer.

"Sjorging, sir, the orcs....they're here.....ra-i-idi-n-ng and bu-r-r-rning the to-ow-w-n." Sjorging draws his sword and runs to the front door. He turns to the boy "Go to the tower, and sound the bell, we must alert the rest of the town, if they aren't already. Here," Sjorging tosses his long hunting knife to Lancast, "you'll be needing that."

The boy opened the front door, it seemed even before he could take a step outside Lancast fell to the ground. Sjorging collapses on his knees, and spots a thick, crude, black feathered arrow in his chest, he drags the boy's body in and closes the door, with a thud. Sjorging isn't even affected by Lancast's death at all, he simply takes back his hunting knife and puts it back at his side. Sjorging was often like this, doesn't remorse for the dead during a battle. He simply thinks, if he makes it through alive he can remorse later.

Sjorging here's a dull thumping on the door, he knows who is waiting on the other side, and...with a strike of fear he begins to smell smoke! The weak lock gives way to the constant jarring of the door. With a quick duck Sjorging avoids the orcs swipe, and thrusts his sword, through the thin leather and into his gut. He quickly kicks off the dead orc body and blocks another swing. Sjorging is struck in the back and falls to his knees, an orc fist..comes towards...closer...and....

Sjorging wakes up with a startle, panting, his breath could be seen in the air. "Sjorging...Sjorging....Sjorging," finally Sjorging realizes that Gelding is at the entrance of his room. "What is it Gelding?" Sjorging says in an annoyed, yet relieved tone.

"I have more word on the pursuing orcs." Gelding replies.

"Thanks for coming to inform me Gelding," then Sjorging starts to wonder, "Gelding, it's strange, the last thing I remember is this orc fist coming at my face, then I must have been knocked out. All I remember is waking up last night at your house...and I was just wondering..."

Gelding interrupts him, "Yes, wondering why you aren't dead? I was about to call it a night, when I see this bright, red, glare outside my window. I rush outside and to my dismay, the whole town was ablaze. This young lad here, Beluf, comes running up, in a frenzy, and explains the orc raid. There we no trace of orcs in the town, I spotted their tracks heading southward, I figured they had left not five minutes ago. I sent Beluf through the town to check for any survivors. That's when I spotted your house, just up aheah engulfed in flames. Luckily, there was time for me still to get you in and out, without the whole house going down, taking us with it. I did spot you on the floor, and noticed that there was only dark, foul, orc blood on the floor. I still didn't know if you were alive or not, until I got you back at my house, when you woke up. Only you and Beluf survived it seems, unless some others escaped before, but it's likely they didn't get far."

Gelding's house was an isolated one, on the outsirts of the town. Only townspeople, who have been up there before, knew about it. Surely raiding orcs, that weren't familiar with the area, couldn't spot Gelding's house up towards the mountains.

"Bless you Gelding, I never thought I'd say it, but bless you." Sjorging remarks with a smile. Gelding is one of the few people Sjorging respects greatly. "What do you know about this Beluf? That you speak of?" Sjorging can be very curious, especially if he's around people he doesn't know. Which means, if he doesn't know them, he doesn't trust them.

"He's a young lad, was the local blacksmith." Gelding replies. "Besides you, and I, he was the only survivor. I couldn't just abandon him."

"I understand Gelding." Sjorging says. "What news have you, of these....orcs?"

"It's to my understanding they are going across Dale, burning anything in their path. We fear they are drawing close, maybe within a days reach. Let's hope for the King's soldiers to arrive soon, we have word they are on their way."

"Nay, Gelding, do not put your hope in them. We must alert King Brand, he'll know what to do." Sjorging remarks. "I'm not so sure about this King...King Elessar. If his troops do arrive, then maybe he will prove me wrong. I have a feeling Elessar isn't taking this situation seriously, that's why we must make our way towards King Brand."

[Soredamor]

Grûglach paced, scowling at the ground in anger at his own nervousness. This was what waiting did to him sometimes. There was a certain anticipation, as well as a good deal of impatience. This was true particularly when he waited for news that he worried might put him in a situation in which he did not wish to be. He liked his position, and he liked the authority he had here. He was always ready to shed the blood of Men, but he was concerned with who else’s blood might be shed. What ‘they say’ had been on the Captain’s mind for some time now.

He could not remember when he had ever felt like this. It bordered on fear, this feeling. Grûglach’s anger grew at the thought of him ever feeling fear, and he quickly disregarded the thought. It still burned in the back of his mind, unable to be completely settled or ignored. Neither could the feeling in the pit of his stomach be fully ignored. Realizing that it was a familiar feeling, and assuring himself that it was of no importance, the Captain decided it would easily be quelled. What would not be stifled was the concern he had for what the orders he knew were coming. Mainly he was concerned with what they would mean for him. And he expected that he would not like what he discovered when they arrived.

Gorurk seemed to sense his Captain’s anger. Luckily, he sensed only the anger, and not the uneasiness or the nervousness. Grûglach was pleased to see that the lieutenant still cowered and sniveled. It lightened his mood…barely. His breath no longer rushed out of him in a growl every time he exhaled, at least. A bitter smirk seemed to permanently adorn his face, any differences between it and a scowl or a sneer unnoticeable. And so all approached him with caution, and were afraid to leave his sight, though they hated to feel his eyes on them. Gorurk seemed to be having this trouble. The orc lingered, uncertain and afraid, always so afraid, fearful of his uncertainty. Grûglach was tired of seeing him out of the corner of his eye.

“There has to be something you can do around here, Gorurk. If not, I’d be happy to give you something to do for me.”

“And I would be happy to serve you, Captain, sir.” Grûglach gave a grunting laugh. The lieutenant smiled uneasily as his Captain turned to look at him. It was hard to tell if it was a good thing when Grûglach laughed. And normally it was not.

“Then take a walk through the barracks, would you? I’ll skip an inspection of my own for today.”

Gorurk’s nervous smile had been wiped from his face as soon as Grûglach had said ‘barracks’. What replaced it was a look of shock, and clearly of fear. He blinked several times and worked his mouth a bit before he could speak. His throat sounded dry. The Captain felt a smile grow on his lips.

“Ye-…” Gorurk swallowed, and Grûglach could hear him gulp. “Yes, sir.” The lieutenant turned and wandered away in a daze, his mind going over with growing fright what he was about to do. Gorurk had never gone into the barracks without Grûglach for a reason. And Grûglach knew this very well. The Captain would wait a little longer, just to see if the lieutenant returned from his walk, but he would soon take a look into the barracks himself. He felt the troops had been settled in there for far too long. It was time to get them moving. He knew what his orders would be, and he had waited long enough.

[CaptainofDespair]

A howling wind had arisen during the night, and now it was steadily growing in strength. The cold of the North was enough for most soldiers, but the wind drove through what that deathly cold could not. Uther sat quietly in his small field tent, going over the plans for his march, and listening to wind whipping about beyond the confines of his leather and fur shield that encased him, protecting him, from what nature could throw at him. He felt quite distant from his men, who would be languishing in their makeshift homes, cursing their luck, and cursing him for bringing them to the North. But at least he was warm, within his shell, watching the firelight of the torches outside dance about.

Yet, he had more important matters to attend to. He needed to prepare his men for battle, and he needed to get them on the march. Thus, after his solitude of many hours, he broke silence, and summoned his chief commanders and sergeants to him. Whilst he waited, he gnawed on a piece of salted pork, something that disgusted him, but that he would eat nonetheless. The taste of the meat was not as bad as some of the cram that he would eat while on his long journeys to Eriador, but he disliked it still. But he was saved from his meal, when his summoned commanders arrived, shivering with dread, of the cold, and of what was to be uttered by their lieutenant.

They slowly situated themselves about the tent’s interior, arranged in semi-circle around the seat of the outfit’s commander. Many of them muttered to themselves, speaking inwardly, of what might come of this meeting. Finally, Uther, with his map laid before him, rose from his creaky, wooden chair, and spoke to them.

“As you all know, we have few troops, but that cannot hamper our duties. We are under the orders of the King, to sway these Orcs, with whichever means we must.” He paused, letting the agitated centurions take in his words. “Thus, we must set out for Gundabad. Muster the soldiers, and prepare them to march before the morning sun rises. You are dismissed...” With that, the summoned men turned about, and strode out of the tent, some of them mumbling incoherent curses on the way out, seeking what rest they could gather before they were to depart.

Again, the aging Uther was left to himself, save for his ever-present hounds. He quietly drifted into a dream-like state, slowly petting his beloved dogs. His mind would not settle though, for thoughts of battle, and the screams of those long-since slain, arose from the blackest chasms of his mind, playing with his thoughts, as if they were a child’s toys. Sleep would not come to him this night, for with the bloodshed on the horizon, his mind could not rest. Thus, the weathered, war-weary commander rose from his bedroll, and wandered out into the cold air of the night, seeking some form of solace.

The sky was dull, brimming with the shadows of night, and only brightened by the twinkling light of a few meager stars. But, the lieutenant had not the time for the beauty and grandeur that often came with the presence of night. Instead, he was bent on shaking off the bloodlust that threatened to overrun his mind. Still, the cries of a battle long since passed, could be heard haunting the depths of his soul. He meandered his way through the small Gondorian camp, listening to the quiet that came with a soldier’s sleep, and he watched from the firelight, as the guards patrolled the perimeter, ready to defend their brothers-in-arms. He was pleased with these sights, and the soothing silence of sleep. After a short stint of his aimless wandering, he forced himself back to his abode, to make another attempt at sleep, while he remained as relaxed as he was. Now, he could only hope of not being disturbed from his rest, which would be needed in the trials that awaited him in the darkness.

[Alaksoron]

Barak lay outside, snoring. He was the only soldier outside of his tent that night, aside from the sentries. For most soldiers, it was much too cold to sleep outside, but Barak liked to look at the stars. It reminded him how small he really was, kept him humble. His father had taught him that, years prior.

Besides, he liked to be ready. His horse was tethered nearby, and his weapons lay beside him. A quiet footstep beside Barak's head woke him. Before he could look up towards the man's face he recognized Lieutenant Kahir's boot. Barak waited til Kahir moved on before twisting in his blankets to regard the man. Uther Kahir seemed to be wandering aimlessly, pausing every few steps. Normally, Barak could read man's faces, but his face was blank. An odd one, that.

Barak dismissed the scene and closed his eyes. Looking up at the stars, he fell asleep thinking of his wife and children, and how long before he could return to them.

[Novnarwen]

Smoke surrounded him; it came from the big black mark in front of him. For more than an hour he had been standing silently watching his cottage disappear behind the reddish curtain. Now, there was hardly anything left of the little house. Yet, the man from Dale stood giggling as if he was waiting for a big treat. When at last the colourful curtain disappeared, and when only the grey mass was left, he walked forwards, approaching it slowly.

The smoke made his eyes smart, and he felt his throat immediately going dry. The wind was driving the smoke; it was passing him, gently touching the top of his head. He tried grabbing a hold of it, the smoke, but it only flew right through his fingers and out of his hands. He coughed slightly, as he found himself standing in the middle of a cloud of smoke. Realising that he couldn’t quite see, he clapped joyously his hands together. “Inimcible!” he tried to cry out loud, but his voice failed him. Ingemar was of course under the impression that if he couldn’t see anything, no one could see him either. This, naturally, was great fun to him, and he started to run around in circles; round, round, round in a circle of less than one yard in radius. One can only imagine how it looked like, but the Man from Dale thought it extremely fun. Being invincible meant that he could do whatever he wished, when he wished and how he wished. It did not take long however before he almost fell over by dizziness and he reeled out of the circle and away from the black mark; he wasn’t surrounded by smoke, thus not invincible anymore. He sighed, being exhausted, dizzy and the same time very cold.

It was first at this point he actually felt the biting wind getting colder as the night fell. It was torturing him where he stood, making his limbs numb. His lips and fingertips had turned blue. His face had frozen completely. Making grimaces and such was suddenly turning rather difficult, as his cheeks had stiffened. When touching his hair, it was hard and wet. Ingemar did not quite realise what was happening however, as he had never experienced this before. The feeling of being cold had never reached to this extent earlier, and therefore he did not know what it meant. He only knew that being in this state was unpleasant, and he longed for something to make him warm.

[Firefoot]

Adranel awoke shivering after a long night of restless sleep and dark, dimly remembered dreams. The first thing she was aware of was the cold. Had she been more alert, she may have been surprised to have survived the night. Her body temperature was dangerously low, and her wet clothing provided very little warmth. Subconsciously she knew that if she stayed there much longer she would likely freeze, and had to find another source of warmth. As she sat up a groan escaped her mouth; her muscles had stiffened up during the night, and her back was sore from sleeping on the hard ground. She was able to stand with some effort using the tree she had slept near as a support.

A pale rim of light stretched along the eastern horizon, the only sign that morning was near. Still, she could see better now than last night. She saw that she had left the thickest part of the forest, and was now in a lightly treed area. She turned to face the direction Dale was in, and tested her legs by taking her weight off the tree against which she was leaning. They supported her, and some of the feeling was returning to her toes. Gingerly she leaned over to pick up her bow and quiver of arrows and swing them around onto her back. Those, a short knife, and the soaking clothes on her back were the only things she owned, now; everything else had been burned.

There was a dead look in her once bright eyes as she set off for another day’s march. There was nothing left to keep her moving; only a strong, determined force from deep inside drove her on. She had to reach Dale. She didn’t know anyone there, but surely she could find someplace to stay in the time being. Adranel frowned, trying to remember why she had decided to head for Dale. Because... because there is safety there. But why do I want to find safety? Why could I not have died with the rest? Then words came unbidden to her heart: get away from here, my love.

“Hergon,” she whispered. Fresh tears came to her eyes, but she brushed them away. This would never do. She had to stop tearing up all the time. Frustrated at herself and angry that everyone she had cared for had been taken from her, she locked all of her memories of family, friends, and home away in the far recesses of her mind, never to be recalled. She hardened herself against all tenderness, hope, and love, never to be so close to anyone again. Life would be easier, and less painful that way, she decided.

Within only a couple hours, the sun had risen and Adranel left the thinning woods behind completely. Having little resistence, the snow had drifted more here, but it still wasn’t terribly deep. In the distance she could make out a small settlement. She began to steer wide of it, because she had no desire to meet with other people. At any rate, she had no reasons to enter a strange town. She still had no desire to eat anything, and movement combined with the weak light of the sun had warmed her some. Then, of course, her lack of money would be a problem even if there had been something she needed.

As she continued her trek through the snow, Adranel’s steps became heavier. She had not gotten enough sleep, and by not eating she was starving herself of the nutrients her body needed. Still, she forced herself on faster. It was a long way to Dale, and she would not get there by resting.

[CaptainofDespair]

Move Out!

The muddled sounds of burdened movement in the darkness, nearly overpowered the voices of the commanders, who were vainly trying to get their men mustered in the gloomy twilight. Their shouts could be heard rising above the clanking of metal, and the beating of horse hooves. Many of the troopers, hungry, tired, and shivering from the cold, were on the verge of mutiny. They grew more and more agitated with each passing day, angry at their commanders, the King, and the Orcs. A few had even deserted the host, choosing to live a life of exile, rather than suffer what was their duty. But Uther was determined to take Gundabad, and he suppressed the mutinous thoughts of his soldiers at every corner. He himself was already becoming the heinous, feared leader of his past years, and it was prevalent in the eyes of his men.

Yet, the troops managed to drag themselves into marching columns, with a small baggage train of fresh supplies from Esgaroth, trailing in the rear. Many of them were still half-asleep, and the initial command to begin the march was not well received, and the soldiers took their time in moving forward. But eventually they moved, whether out of fear, or out of duty. What lay before them, was a vast stretch of empty, snowy wastes...

************************

The march had not gone well, thus far. Only on the second day of their last leg, they had already met quite a few obstacles. Early in the morning, the pack animals had decided to break from their train, and attempt to run off, possibly from the faint reek of death that hovered in the winds. They were eventually recovered, and brought back into place, but not without a hassle. This required the entire column to halt its march, which was a welcome relief to the soldiers, who were forced to trod through the snow, seemingly without end. Uther however, was not pleased, and thus ordered the soldiers either to stand in the light snow, and slowly freeze in the cold, or go out after the pack animals.

But, finally, the march began once more, and the column slowly churned up the energy to press forward into the barren landscape. Uther rode at the head of the column, atop his horse, which was one of the few that was brought along for combat purposes. Many of his sergeants and other junior grade commanders stuck with their assigned deployment units. As the march trickled on, Uther began to review the small units under his command. Only one, the “Black Gate Garrison”, as it was often referred to, for its continued watch of the Morannon, was anywhere near combat ready. The other units were either conscripts, or hastily gathered segments of local garrisons. These units were obviously not the pride of the Gondorian Army, and that irritated the aged commander, who was accustomed to larger, better equipped outfits. But, he would not retreat. He knew he must accomplish his task, or die trying. Retreat was not an option, even against larger, more experienced foes. Against the orcs, it could only lead to humiliation.

Before long, Uther had sent out scouts, to survey a spot that would be suitable for camp, and he awaited their return with his normal impatience for such a small task. He had hoped it would not take long, for he was growing weary, and the rest of his “soldiers”, were already starting to complain of the harshness with which he forced them on. At last, he could stand it no longer, and had given into the demands for rest and food, and sent out his scouts. To pass the time, while the column carried on at a steady, yet slow pace, he drew out his maps and poured over them, as he straddled his horse, while it meandered along the faint outlines of what might have been a path or road of some sort. A few of his forward most soldiers could hear vague muttering emanating from the lieutenant, and they chuckled inwardly to themselves, at his apparent lunacy.