Defense of the Poros RPG

[Imladris]

With the dull echo of his men behind him, Jinan marched toward the fortress. The foolish Gondorians would put up a useless, bloody fight that would end up killing more of their own men than the Haradrim, the fortress would fall, and then the slaughtering would begin. Jinan's face stretched into a toothless smile.

He hoped that the remaining Gondorians would put up a good fight at the end, just so that he would not feel as if he was merely killing an annoying insect. That's what men became when they did not fight at the end. A withering, shuddering insect that fouled the ground. He would much rather kill a brave man.

Why did they not just flee? Was their pride worth their blood? Would Jinan if he was in their place? He smiled. He would not be in their place -- that was impossible -- but if he was, would he run, turn tail and flee so that he could fight another day only to die another day? Yes, he would. The later one died, the more one could accomplish. The Gondorians were throwing their lives away.

The arrows fell upon them, and he raised his shield. The fight, the blood bath, had begun.

[Manôphazân]

Jinan’s company began to draw the fire of the Gondorian archers. He had his men them to within range of only the strongest bowmen, and relatively few arrows met their mark. Only one man was actually injured, an arrow piercing his left shoulder and protruding from his back. His comrades dragged him quickly back to the waiting surgeons. Lan’kâsh allowed the skirmishers to remained exposed in the clearing until it became apparent that the Wingers intended to stay behind their walls. He signaled for Jinan to retreat and shouted for the catapults to be brought into range.

Only two of the machines had survived the quick march through the forest, but he thought they would be sufficient for the night's task. The settlement was smaller than reports had claimed, and he would only need to bring down one wall to make it vulnerable to his warriors. The catapults were lethal at a distance three times what any archer could shoot, so they were safe from harm, but he still ordered Frôzhal’s company into a screening formation in front of them in the unlikely case that the Gondorians did attempt a counterattack. Gimilzôr’s group split into two lines, one to the left of the catapults and one to the right. Everything was ready.

The catapult crews eagerly winched their buckets into place and men loaded them each with a huge ball of woven straw that had been soaked in tar. A torch was laid against each and they quickly began to burn. When the flames began to lick the edge of the bucket, the trigger was pulled, and the fiery objects were thrown high into the air. They traced a bright arc through the sky and plummeted into the settlement like a falling star. After two more rounds of burning shot, flames could be seen flickering above the wall in several places. Poros Crossing was on fire and the shout of its frantic defenders could be heard as they fought the growing inferno.

The crews made several adjustments to their machines and winched them into place again, this time loading the bucket with large boulders pried from the local countryside. The thick twisted ropes howled as their released tension sent the projectiles flying skyward, but the men groaned when the stones landed several meters short of the wooden palisades. More adjustments were made, and the boulders soared over the walls and fell into the settlement with a crashing noise.

“That’s better!” shouted Lan’kâsh with an ugly grin. “Now put a few into the walls so the rest of is can get into the fight.”

[Orual]

The wall rocked as the boulders from the Haradrim catapults slammed into the outer barriers. Anhelm stumbled and fell back hard onto his elbows, scraping both of them badly. He watched as blood pooled on his arms, and then grabbed an arrow from his quiver and pulled his bowstring tight.

Anhelm's eyes scanned the gates quickly, and just as he looked away something caught the corner of his eye. It was a Haradrim footsoldier, sneaking through the gates in the confusion while the boulders crashed against the walls. Anhelm turned and loosed the arrow, catching the Haradrim in the chest. He cried out and fell to the ground.

Anhelm smiled grimly and took another arrow from his quiver.

"Astalder!" he shouted. The soldier looked at him. The captain gestured over the walls toward the attacking Haradrim forces. "Aim for the soldiers manning the catapults!"

[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!"