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Saurreg · 01-25-2005, 05:59 AM

Belegorn

An enormous missile streaked across the darkened sky and impacted upon the highest structure in the city of the grey-eyed sea lords. A low menacing sound of rupture emitted from the base of the king’s citadel – the seat of power of all Arthedain, followed by the distinctive snapping of mortar and paste. For a few moments nothing happened, and then the top of the slender tower seemingly twisted clockwise on its own accord before crumbling into bites and chunks of clay, concrete and stone which, plummeted swiftly towards the fiery inferno that was once the proud white city of Fornost.

Arthedain had finally fallen and with that, two thousand years of Dúnedain hegemony in the north came to a close.

Fornost itself, once the greatest and most magnificent city of men, second only to the old capital of Annúminas, was no longer recognizable. Its once gleaming white towers and smooth walls had been greatly reduced and those that remained standing were crumbling and stained grey by ash and soot, while its paved streets were caked in grease and dried blood. Fornost, once the capital of Arthedain was now the prize of Angmar. Its capture marked a milestone in the Captain of Despair’s victorious campaign.

Belegorn watched, almost mesmerized as the top of the king’s citadel came crashing onto the forum. He was filled with disgust at the misdeed that was done but at the same time felt a pang of envy for the assets and capability of the enemy. No one could deny the fact that those wretched orcs were exceptionally gifted siege engineers. Belegorn attributed that talent to their destructive nature.

The stalwartly Rearguard was now in the narrow confines of the north passage with the north gates a hundred or so yards to their rear. They had traded blood for time at the main gate of the third wall while women, children and the infirm made their escape out of Fornost. Like automated killing machines, the tough soldiers let the enemy bash themselves senseless against their broad shields before cutting them down skillfully with sharp swords or running them through with long spears and thus the Captain of Despair paid a high price for the barter of the gates. Only when the last of the non combatants had left the walls of the great city did the elite regiment continue its leap frog withdrawal into the inner sanctum with immaculate precision and discipline, brave lusty voices laughing and singing.

While the rearguard made its slow but steady retreat, a gang of feisty soldiers from the annihilated vanguard suddenly appeared out of nowhere before an astonished Belegorn and offered to fight to their last along side him and his regiment. Grateful for the reinforcement, the acting-captain of the rearguard ordered the leader of the troop to lead his men ahead of the rearguard and undo any ambush that the enemy might have planned during the chaotic fighting before finding mounts for themselves and to flee while they can. “Easily accomplished my lord Lieutenant! Rest assured!” replied the leader of the men, a man by the name of Euphranor and he was true to his word – no sooner had the first elements of the Rearguard entered the first building did it find decapitated orcs laying sprawled behind upturned tables and slumped against the dark corners of walls.

A feral cry filled the narrow but long north passage, sending echoes along the stone carved walls. A pack of iron-clad uruks launched themselves against the thangail of the Rearguard only to be knocked onto their feet by the mobile wall. The guardsmen parted their shields and dispatched the stunned orcs with ruthless efficiency before reforming the infamous shield fence again. These men were the battle-proven highly experienced men of the third line. The withdrawal was entering its most crucial phase and Belegorn wanted only the most capable men to hold the dark torrent that threatened to engulf them all. Already, companies after companies starting with the newer men were dismissed from the north gate via horseback and the Rearguard was down to its last element of veterans – men who volunteered to be literally the last line of defense. The regiment’s standard was amongst the first to be sent off – to its rightful captain lest the regiment be overran and the pennon capture. Only Belegorn’s ever reliable archers remained also and these were now busy at work – pouring a thin line of liquid fire incendiary from where the line of guardsmen stood, in the axis of the passage before turning in both directions and laying it across the with of the north passage so that the pattern of the powdered substance of pitch, sulphur, tow, pounded gum of frankincense and pine saw dust resembled that of an elongated tee.

The two archers finished pouring the connection, stuck the cock snuggly into the opening of the barrels and scampered off towards their mounts at the entrance of the north gate. The sergeant of the archers arrayed his men and one of them gave Belegorn a curt nod. He was sweating profusely and it wasn’t just due to the humility of the passage. Belegorn lifted his stained sword and ascertained that he had all the principal non-conmissioned officers’ attention and in another hand he held a flare. It was time to put his plan into motion – at best the rearguard lives to fight another day and the enemy is forced to seek another way pass the north gate to catch up with the refugees. At worst, everybody got to visit the Halls of Mandos. Belegorn began his series of commands,

“Frontline! Fall back! Normal pace!”

The command was echoed by the sergeant of the shield bearing guardsmen who started backtracking. Metallic soles marching in unison. The last defense of Arthedain was no more.

“Archers ready?”

“Ready!”

The thangail continued its steady withdrawal, it was getting closer to the top of the tee. Another feral cry filled the passage as another pack of uruks commenced their charge, hot on the heels of the guardsmen whom they though were cracking.

“Frontline down! Archers fire!” yelled Belegorn as he pointed his sword in the direction of the retreating guardsmen and charging uruks to emphasize his point.

Immediately the highly disciplined and alert guardsmen fell onto one knee and lowered their heads. Not a minute too soon a flurry of black feathered arrows streamed overhead and found their mark amidst the charging uruks, stopping that menace dead in its tracks. Time was of the essence and Belegorn wasted none of it,

“Frontline fall back! Archers fall back! Quick time!”

A cacophony of trampling feet filled the passage as the guardsmen came thundering towards the north gate and where Belegorn was. Despite the rush, Belegorn noted that each guardsmen was wary on where he planted the sole of his boot, especially where lines of incendiary were. The guardsmen continued their frantic retreat and did not stop even when they were clear of the incendiary. Joined by the archers, they continued retreating, streaming pass the first lieutenant. The enemy had recovered and had starting pursing. Bellowing at the top of their lungs with joy and wildly waving crudely shaped scimitar, axes and clubs in the air.

Belegorn sheathed his sword and pulled the cord of the flare, igniting the charge and threw the burning item onto the incendiary, turned tail and fled at breakneck speed. There was a violent white flash and the entire passage behind him was engulfed in an eerie hue of blue. Shearing heat engulfed him and his nerves screamed in pain over the extreme sensation he felt. But Belegorn ran on nearing the gate, because he knew that to stop then was to surrender to death. He could hear the death cries and howls of the miserable beasts as the liquid fire greedily consumed them. The heat was excruciating and even there so close to the gate, the air had turned into a superheated stream flowing towards the source of the flames. Belegorn faltered and felt his legs undoing beneath him. But then strong hands reached out and pulled him forwards, through the gate into the open.

Belegorn fell face first onto a moss covered ground. He could feel the vibrations from the shuffling feet about him and then cold water being poured all over him over and over again. Coughing and spluttering, he turned around,

‘Enough! Are you trying to drown your lieutenant!”

“No sir!”

‘Good, for I’ve had enough! Mount your horses and ride for the column. And someone help me up! I feel like a drowned rat!”

01-25-2005, 05:59 AM	#39
Saurreg Shade of Carn Dûm Join Date: Oct 2002 Location: In self imposed exile... Posts: 465	Belegorn An enormous missile streaked across the darkened sky and impacted upon the highest structure in the city of the grey-eyed sea lords. A low menacing sound of rupture emitted from the base of the king’s citadel – the seat of power of all Arthedain, followed by the distinctive snapping of mortar and paste. For a few moments nothing happened, and then the top of the slender tower seemingly twisted clockwise on its own accord before crumbling into bites and chunks of clay, concrete and stone which, plummeted swiftly towards the fiery inferno that was once the proud white city of Fornost. Arthedain had finally fallen and with that, two thousand years of Dúnedain hegemony in the north came to a close. Fornost itself, once the greatest and most magnificent city of men, second only to the old capital of Annúminas, was no longer recognizable. Its once gleaming white towers and smooth walls had been greatly reduced and those that remained standing were crumbling and stained grey by ash and soot, while its paved streets were caked in grease and dried blood. Fornost, once the capital of Arthedain was now the prize of Angmar. Its capture marked a milestone in the Captain of Despair’s victorious campaign. Belegorn watched, almost mesmerized as the top of the king’s citadel came crashing onto the forum. He was filled with disgust at the misdeed that was done but at the same time felt a pang of envy for the assets and capability of the enemy. No one could deny the fact that those wretched orcs were exceptionally gifted siege engineers. Belegorn attributed that talent to their destructive nature. The stalwartly Rearguard was now in the narrow confines of the north passage with the north gates a hundred or so yards to their rear. They had traded blood for time at the main gate of the third wall while women, children and the infirm made their escape out of Fornost. Like automated killing machines, the tough soldiers let the enemy bash themselves senseless against their broad shields before cutting them down skillfully with sharp swords or running them through with long spears and thus the Captain of Despair paid a high price for the barter of the gates. Only when the last of the non combatants had left the walls of the great city did the elite regiment continue its leap frog withdrawal into the inner sanctum with immaculate precision and discipline, brave lusty voices laughing and singing. While the rearguard made its slow but steady retreat, a gang of feisty soldiers from the annihilated vanguard suddenly appeared out of nowhere before an astonished Belegorn and offered to fight to their last along side him and his regiment. Grateful for the reinforcement, the acting-captain of the rearguard ordered the leader of the troop to lead his men ahead of the rearguard and undo any ambush that the enemy might have planned during the chaotic fighting before finding mounts for themselves and to flee while they can. “Easily accomplished my lord Lieutenant! Rest assured!” replied the leader of the men, a man by the name of Euphranor and he was true to his word – no sooner had the first elements of the Rearguard entered the first building did it find decapitated orcs laying sprawled behind upturned tables and slumped against the dark corners of walls. A feral cry filled the narrow but long north passage, sending echoes along the stone carved walls. A pack of iron-clad uruks launched themselves against the thangail of the Rearguard only to be knocked onto their feet by the mobile wall. The guardsmen parted their shields and dispatched the stunned orcs with ruthless efficiency before reforming the infamous shield fence again. These men were the battle-proven highly experienced men of the third line. The withdrawal was entering its most crucial phase and Belegorn wanted only the most capable men to hold the dark torrent that threatened to engulf them all. Already, companies after companies starting with the newer men were dismissed from the north gate via horseback and the Rearguard was down to its last element of veterans – men who volunteered to be literally the last line of defense. The regiment’s standard was amongst the first to be sent off – to its rightful captain lest the regiment be overran and the pennon capture. Only Belegorn’s ever reliable archers remained also and these were now busy at work – pouring a thin line of liquid fire incendiary from where the line of guardsmen stood, in the axis of the passage before turning in both directions and laying it across the with of the north passage so that the pattern of the powdered substance of pitch, sulphur, tow, pounded gum of frankincense and pine saw dust resembled that of an elongated tee. The two archers finished pouring the connection, stuck the cock snuggly into the opening of the barrels and scampered off towards their mounts at the entrance of the north gate. The sergeant of the archers arrayed his men and one of them gave Belegorn a curt nod. He was sweating profusely and it wasn’t just due to the humility of the passage. Belegorn lifted his stained sword and ascertained that he had all the principal non-conmissioned officers’ attention and in another hand he held a flare. It was time to put his plan into motion – at best the rearguard lives to fight another day and the enemy is forced to seek another way pass the north gate to catch up with the refugees. At worst, everybody got to visit the Halls of Mandos. Belegorn began his series of commands, “Frontline! Fall back! Normal pace!” The command was echoed by the sergeant of the shield bearing guardsmen who started backtracking. Metallic soles marching in unison. The last defense of Arthedain was no more. “Archers ready?” “Ready!” The thangail continued its steady withdrawal, it was getting closer to the top of the tee. Another feral cry filled the passage as another pack of uruks commenced their charge, hot on the heels of the guardsmen whom they though were cracking. “Frontline down! Archers fire!” yelled Belegorn as he pointed his sword in the direction of the retreating guardsmen and charging uruks to emphasize his point. Immediately the highly disciplined and alert guardsmen fell onto one knee and lowered their heads. Not a minute too soon a flurry of black feathered arrows streamed overhead and found their mark amidst the charging uruks, stopping that menace dead in its tracks. Time was of the essence and Belegorn wasted none of it, “Frontline fall back! Archers fall back! Quick time!” A cacophony of trampling feet filled the passage as the guardsmen came thundering towards the north gate and where Belegorn was. Despite the rush, Belegorn noted that each guardsmen was wary on where he planted the sole of his boot, especially where lines of incendiary were. The guardsmen continued their frantic retreat and did not stop even when they were clear of the incendiary. Joined by the archers, they continued retreating, streaming pass the first lieutenant. The enemy had recovered and had starting pursing. Bellowing at the top of their lungs with joy and wildly waving crudely shaped scimitar, axes and clubs in the air. Belegorn sheathed his sword and pulled the cord of the flare, igniting the charge and threw the burning item onto the incendiary, turned tail and fled at breakneck speed. There was a violent white flash and the entire passage behind him was engulfed in an eerie hue of blue. Shearing heat engulfed him and his nerves screamed in pain over the extreme sensation he felt. But Belegorn ran on nearing the gate, because he knew that to stop then was to surrender to death. He could hear the death cries and howls of the miserable beasts as the liquid fire greedily consumed them. The heat was excruciating and even there so close to the gate, the air had turned into a superheated stream flowing towards the source of the flames. Belegorn faltered and felt his legs undoing beneath him. But then strong hands reached out and pulled him forwards, through the gate into the open. Belegorn fell face first onto a moss covered ground. He could feel the vibrations from the shuffling feet about him and then cold water being poured all over him over and over again. Coughing and spluttering, he turned around, ‘Enough! Are you trying to drown your lieutenant!” “No sir!” ‘Good, for I’ve had enough! Mount your horses and ride for the column. And someone help me up! I feel like a drowned rat!”