The Ambassador's Son RPG - The Barrow-Downs Discussion Forum

Arvedui III · 05-07-2004, 02:59 PM

Battle fatigue was always something legendary and a bit dreadful to desk officers and orderlies. The rumored numbness and utter weariness made for good conversations on cold nights with a howling wind. Not just in Gondor, but it was a universally accepted truth that all support troops everywhere talked about it, probably because it was a means of distinction they would never get the chance to experience. And the only other truth about officers and men of the rear is that most of them either did something wrong or were poised for promotion.

Telson decided, staring out unseeingly at an ocean laden with bodies and flotsam that he must have done something horribly wrong to get to where he was. Everything he had whispered about in the warmth of a bar or garrison fire seemed grossly inadequate to the weariness he was feeling right now; And even more disturbing was the fact that he couldn’t really remember what he had said, nor did he care. The chains around his wrist rubbed against his skin, and the profanity of it made him want to scream. But instead he had to content himself with looking at an ocean strewn with debris from the deck; Alone, and awaiting more unfortunate souls to join him in the rusty multi-manacle contraption he was attached to. Was he not captured he would have found great interest in it, but at the moment it went overlooked, his vision refusing to see much of anything other than the images that kept flashing in his head.
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The din of battle seemed to be the only thing that had ever existed in the world. How could anything else be crammed into all the shooting and chaos and death? Telson’s arm, he noted grimly, was becoming more leaded with every stroke and party. Despite his concerted effort make his movements as small and precise as possible, he was beginning to make mistakes, and that, he knew, was the beginning of the end. Each corsair he engaged seemed now like only a variance in a ratty, gritty, coarse mold, and he failed to tell the difference between one and the other.

Quite suddenly, a swishing sound and a flash of silver made him roll to the right to avoid a second corsair who had decided to aid his long-breaded brother that Telson had pinned to the deck, about to kill. He wasn’t fast enough and a slight tickling sensation then a searing pain started in his cheek and ran into the rest of his face. He could feel the blood running down his neck, but it had not obscured his vision and so he lunged at his attacker. After his stroke went wide both corsairs were on their feet, Telson only having time to find his footing before they charged at him. Parry, repose, sidestep, backstep, parry again.

Telson bought enough time to make one lunge at the corsairs, and using his entire upper body he hurled himself into them and knocked them unto the deck. After running both his antagonists through, he was rewarded with a clear view of the aft-deck, a most unpleasant sight greeting him. He had thought well of himself for taking down two corsairs at once, but that was nothing to the ten or so corsairs Marx was holding at bay with naught but a jagged spar in his hands. The sheer awe of seeing what he was seeing left Telson literally numb, terror quickly replacing it when he saw about five corsairs drawing bows and taking aim. He took a step but released he could do nothing as he saw the arrows fly, watching horrorstricken as the shafts embedded themselves into the big man’s chest, the wild yell as the corsairs rushed him, the roar afterward of both death and triumph.

By the time Marx fell, nearly twenty bodies lay piled beside him.

Telson stood dumb for a moment, but only a moment. His rage properly inspired, he rushed all of pirates surrounding Marx, swinging wildly and maiming as many as he could. He didn’t know how long he slashed at the mass of bodies before he was slammed unto the deck and was kicked, punched, beaten, then put into chains.
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However much time had past, it didn’t seem like it has been enough to do Marx justice. By now a few other Gondorian survivors had been chained next to him, Callath and Calnan among them. Telson was too hoarse to say anything, let alone face the two boys. Well, they’re men now. He thought glumly. Damn shame, but they are. Devon more than any of them For a moment he wondered what had happened to Thrann, but the exercise was tiring so he stopped. It seemed that the corsairs had collected as many prisoners to be found and began forcing the unhappy group below. Quite frankly, Telson would have preferred belonging to the stack of bodies the corsairs were hurling into the sea.

Down below in the stinking hold, Telson wits began to return to him and the sheer anger and fear that came with capture began to impress itself upon him. For the first time in his life he had control over nothing and the feeling of helplessness was enough to make a man mad. But it was also enough to allow his brain to start working, albeit frantically, for a way out. A rusty lock, a piece of rotten wood, a discarded dagger or ever shard of glass, anything would do. He hunched as far away from the rest of the crew, who were speculating about casualties. He didn’t want to face them with the image of Marx falling in his head. He only began to think of any means to escape.

He had to get out, or die trying.

05-07-2004, 02:59 PM	#15
Arvedui III Ghost Prince of Cardolan Join Date: Jan 2003 Location: In Rohan, with Carolina on my mind Posts: 629	Battle fatigue was always something legendary and a bit dreadful to desk officers and orderlies. The rumored numbness and utter weariness made for good conversations on cold nights with a howling wind. Not just in Gondor, but it was a universally accepted truth that all support troops everywhere talked about it, probably because it was a means of distinction they would never get the chance to experience. And the only other truth about officers and men of the rear is that most of them either did something wrong or were poised for promotion. Telson decided, staring out unseeingly at an ocean laden with bodies and flotsam that he must have done something horribly wrong to get to where he was. Everything he had whispered about in the warmth of a bar or garrison fire seemed grossly inadequate to the weariness he was feeling right now; And even more disturbing was the fact that he couldn’t really remember what he had said, nor did he care. The chains around his wrist rubbed against his skin, and the profanity of it made him want to scream. But instead he had to content himself with looking at an ocean strewn with debris from the deck; Alone, and awaiting more unfortunate souls to join him in the rusty multi-manacle contraption he was attached to. Was he not captured he would have found great interest in it, but at the moment it went overlooked, his vision refusing to see much of anything other than the images that kept flashing in his head. -------------- The din of battle seemed to be the only thing that had ever existed in the world. How could anything else be crammed into all the shooting and chaos and death? Telson’s arm, he noted grimly, was becoming more leaded with every stroke and party. Despite his concerted effort make his movements as small and precise as possible, he was beginning to make mistakes, and that, he knew, was the beginning of the end. Each corsair he engaged seemed now like only a variance in a ratty, gritty, coarse mold, and he failed to tell the difference between one and the other. Quite suddenly, a swishing sound and a flash of silver made him roll to the right to avoid a second corsair who had decided to aid his long-breaded brother that Telson had pinned to the deck, about to kill. He wasn’t fast enough and a slight tickling sensation then a searing pain started in his cheek and ran into the rest of his face. He could feel the blood running down his neck, but it had not obscured his vision and so he lunged at his attacker. After his stroke went wide both corsairs were on their feet, Telson only having time to find his footing before they charged at him. Parry, repose, sidestep, backstep, parry again. Telson bought enough time to make one lunge at the corsairs, and using his entire upper body he hurled himself into them and knocked them unto the deck. After running both his antagonists through, he was rewarded with a clear view of the aft-deck, a most unpleasant sight greeting him. He had thought well of himself for taking down two corsairs at once, but that was nothing to the ten or so corsairs Marx was holding at bay with naught but a jagged spar in his hands. The sheer awe of seeing what he was seeing left Telson literally numb, terror quickly replacing it when he saw about five corsairs drawing bows and taking aim. He took a step but released he could do nothing as he saw the arrows fly, watching horrorstricken as the shafts embedded themselves into the big man’s chest, the wild yell as the corsairs rushed him, the roar afterward of both death and triumph. By the time Marx fell, nearly twenty bodies lay piled beside him. Telson stood dumb for a moment, but only a moment. His rage properly inspired, he rushed all of pirates surrounding Marx, swinging wildly and maiming as many as he could. He didn’t know how long he slashed at the mass of bodies before he was slammed unto the deck and was kicked, punched, beaten, then put into chains. --------- However much time had past, it didn’t seem like it has been enough to do Marx justice. By now a few other Gondorian survivors had been chained next to him, Callath and Calnan among them. Telson was too hoarse to say anything, let alone face the two boys. Well, they’re men now. He thought glumly. Damn shame, but they are. Devon more than any of them For a moment he wondered what had happened to Thrann, but the exercise was tiring so he stopped. It seemed that the corsairs had collected as many prisoners to be found and began forcing the unhappy group below. Quite frankly, Telson would have preferred belonging to the stack of bodies the corsairs were hurling into the sea. Down below in the stinking hold, Telson wits began to return to him and the sheer anger and fear that came with capture began to impress itself upon him. For the first time in his life he had control over nothing and the feeling of helplessness was enough to make a man mad. But it was also enough to allow his brain to start working, albeit frantically, for a way out. A rusty lock, a piece of rotten wood, a discarded dagger or ever shard of glass, anything would do. He hunched as far away from the rest of the crew, who were speculating about casualties. He didn’t want to face them with the image of Marx falling in his head. He only began to think of any means to escape. He had to get out, or die trying.