Siege of Gundabad RPG

[Novnarwen]

Ingemar

It was with heavy heart Ingemar watched the soldiers march away. He wanted to follow, but something stopped him. He was no longer curious about these men, who he’d met a few days ago. They didn’t interest him, and neither did their business. Everyone marched in straight columns. He felt the earth shake under his feet as they went and the sound of the steel that covered them, either fully or partly, rang in his ears. Soon the drumming of their feet ended however, and Ingemar was entirely alone, left to do whatever he wished.

Snow still covered most of the ground, but some places it had already vanished, revealing handfuls of blades of grass that in the meantime had hid under the white carpet. Ingemar found himself a spot, by a most steady tree trunk. Sitting down on the cold, wet ground, he cast off his helmet and looked up. For a few moments, he let his eyes rest on the pale, grey sky. There was something about this; something which he couldn't explain. It was a feeling; the feeling of loneliness. It was odd how firmly it had suddenly grasped him, especially as it had never in his life appeared before, and yet, he'd always been alone. All of a sudden this sensation struck him as the most obvious in the world, the most natural, like he’d never felt anything else in his entire life. Could it be? He was alone, he realised this, but had he always been? Restlessness came over him, as it had so often before, while being a child and as a grown up man. He bit his lip; the columns were really gone; there was no man within his eyes’ reach.

As he sat there, he felt his bottom getting colder and colder by the minute; why was he here at all? He missed his cottage. He could in fact see it, in his mind, right in front of him; the cosy little cottage.

His entire body shook as the coldness of the wet snow crept upon him. The frost seemed to have no mercy on the poor man, and was biting him eagerly in his face, in his hands and on his feet – yes, it was taking bits of him all over his body. To comfort himself, he started humming silently, first tearing his lips apart from one another as they seemed to have been glued together by the cold. It was a sombre melody, which reflected the life he’d lived. Yet, Ingemar was not aware of his life during childhood or even his life the last couple of years. In addition to being one who was completely unaware of his mental situation – him being only about eight to ten years in mind – he had also a very short memory. On his best days, he could remember what had happened two days earlier. Other than that, only specific events and situations were printed in his mind. Norna, his sister, a well known figure to him, were one of these ‘things’ he could remember. Gladly, the times he had shared with her were stored as happy memories. One could dare to argue though, that his lack of memory was a good thing; when thinking it through thoroughly, due to the life he’d lived, it certainly was. It was fortunate however that the few memories he indeed possessed were of the happy kind.

**

In his early childhood, his parents had discovered that there was something different about their dear firstborn son. Ingemar was not like everyone else. He was far from it; one ting was that he hadn’t learned walking when he passed his fourth birthday, another thing was that he didn’t talk; he could not. It seemed that his tongue was stuck in his mouth and he couldn’t move it. Then, when they realised that Ingemar was terribly absent–minded, his parents never being able to get in contact with him no matter how long and how desperately they tried, they knew that they had been given a son who would not fit into society - their society. This discovery of what they called a ‘very serious defect,’ made them realise that Ingemar was not after all so dear to them. The thought of having a son who was not ‘normal’ was horrifying. At last they concluded, after almost ten years after his birth, that they were to send him away. After building a little cottage in the outskirts of Dale, they left the boy there to bring up himself and live on his own.

Ingemar can’t remember his parents. They too, seemed to have forgotten about their son a long time ago, almost before they even started visiting him in his cottage after they had left him there. During his childhood and his adult life, here speaking of adult as in bodily, not in mind, as Ingemar never grew to be an adult in mind (and would not either), only his younger sister, Norna, came visiting him frequently. These were happy visits, (that is why it’s good that Ingemar is able to at least remember them) where both of them, Norna knowing the story about Ingemar and how he was not normal, played and had tremendously fun. This is how he learned how to hide, how to not be found, as he often played such a game with his sister. Through all these years, Norna had been nearly the only person he’d seen and he loved her as a mother. She however, was torn. She was struggling with bad conscience about her parent’s doings, but when both of them passed away, she had the chance to something about it. However, seeing how Ingemar loved the forest where he lived, how he climbed the trees, how he spent hour playing in the snow in winter and noticing his devoted passion and fascination for birds, she could not take him away to live with her in Dale. The differences between Ingemar and herself were too great. Ingemar hardly spoke; he mostly imitated animal sounds, he’d hardly been around others; his whole world was centred on this little, dilapidated cottage. Could she take away the only thing he knew?

Greatly pained, she decided to let the matter be. She knew that society would not accept him. She had grown, like everyone else, he had not.

**

His cottage was just another vague memory. A hot, sparkling, coloured carpet had been threatening enough to suppress even Ingemar’s curiosity and forced him thus to keep at distance. Still humming his melody, this particular memory seemed to influence him as he pronounced, rather weirdly, yet if one listened carefully, they clearly were ‘fire’ and ‘orc’. This is what he’d seen the day his cottage had disappeared, but he’d never realised it before. Who knows, maybe he didn’t realise it now, even though his song consisted of only those two known words.

The wind breathed extra roughly now. It was whipping him around the face, making him shake uncontrollably. His voice trembled, but faded slowly away, choked by the firm iron grasp of the winter day.

[Soredamor]

Grûglach was beginning to feel the pressure of command more than he ever had before. It had never been difficult for him to lead any rabble of Goblins, and during the War, before Sauron, his supposed Master, had died, he had led orcs from Mordor on one occasion. But never had he had to face the possibility – no, the probability! – of defeat. He would not admit it, but he was scared, afraid out of his wits that he might lose his life. His well-being was the only thing on his mind as his eyes scanned the line of Gondorian soldiers who stood, seemingly unwavering, though the fortress had been under orc control for as long as most there could remember. Maybe it had not been such a good idea after all to join the forces at Gundabad, nor to act so boldly. Grûglach certainly would have done better on his own.

Around him, the orc ranks were tense and restless, growling and screeching among themselves, nervously. Most of the orcs that surrounded him were those who were of Mordor, sent to hold the fortress of Gundabad by the Eye to bring his torment farther West. Though the Misty Mountains was the home of this fortress, Grûglach felt no allegiance to those sent from Mordor. Mordor and Sauron were no more, and he intended to never see an end such as the one the Dark Land behind the Ephel Duath saw. The Goblin captain glanced around him once more. How many of his Goblins would be left after this charge?

Somehow, their gut instincts led the orcs to the charge, with no orders given or regarded, and threw themselves into attack with a great roar. They were able to ignore their own mortality as they met sword and spear, and focused rather on their enemy’s mortality. These Men, though they stood tall and proud in their shining armour and high helms, bled and died just as Goblins and orcs did, and the holders of Gundabad desired greatly to see this. It was not in the conscious mind of the orcs that they saw so many of their kind fall even before they reached the Gondorian lines, and so they took no notice of the failing orc forces until they too were dead. Grûglach, however, was aware of where this battle was going, and was beginning to feel the dread of just how inevitable the end was.

What had carried him this far was a boldness that he would face the possibility of failure and easily over come it. But now that he saw what failure was, so vividly in the prowess and fitting pride of these Men, he knew that he never really had known success as a commander. Now he did not curse the Eye for his foolish concern with rings and magic, but wished for Sauron’s will to return to Middle-Earth so that he may bow down and call him Master. How foolish he had been to believe that the Dark Lord was overbearing in his command over the Goblins of the Misty Mountains, so many miles away from him in Mordor. Sauron had almost crushed the world of Men, particularly these of Gondor, who were horrible in their valor. It had been Grûglach’s place to serve the Eye, but he had not. But now, not only was the Dark Lord’s will gone, but the remnants of his forces were fading away. Gundabad was a remaining strength for the orcs, and now it was ready to fall. But Grûglach was not ready.

He cursed the foolishness of his own kind, knowing that they had failed their Master terribly, and had today worse than ever. Grûglach felt ashamed, and angry. The disgust that had always been there for the orcs under his command, particularly those who did not come from the Misty Mountains, rose up in him greater than it ever had. Gundabad would fall because those who had held it had failed, and nothing Grûglach or his forces could do would stop the end from coming. It seemed the Goblins felt the same way as their captain did, or it was simply in the franticness of the losing battle they fought that drove them on, but they began to draw the blood of both orcs and Men, regardless. There was no doubt that the orcs would succumb to slaughter, whether by the sword of a man or of a Goblin. It was time for those responsible for the fall of Gundabad, who disregarded Grûglach’s power and fought without the fervor that should have been present in this battle for their lives and the dominion of the orc, to die. Though it was time too for Grûglach, he would take many he despised with him. And so amid the death and blood, orc, Goblin, and Men corpses intermingled regardless of who brought them their death, and Grûglach, Goblin Captain and servant of Sauron, met his end.

[CaptainofDespair]

A blood-red mist clouded the atmosphere surrounding the melee-bound Gondorians. It was the haze of bloodshed, the mask of death. Many corpses now littered the field of battle, and dead unnumbered were stacking up behind the battlements. The vast majority of the dead were orcs, but it was not enough to subdue them, for the Men of the West had suffered far worse. The cold winds of earlier, had transmuted into a warm, gory sauna. This was the nature of battle, and Uther understood this well.

Goblins and Gundabad Orcs fought each other, out of hatred for their brethren, and of the Men. The Gondorians saw their chance, and took it. Hastily marching to the gateway, they found their would-be opponents embroiled in a bitter feud, decimating each other’s battle lines, leaving little resistance for the well-armored, and disciplined Westerners. Hacking their way through droves of orcs, they separated contingents of orcs from the main lines of each faction, and annihilated them.

While the infantry lagged behind, to ensure the orcs were routed or killed, Uther and his remnant cavalry rode up upon the first section of battlements, and began to eliminate the resistance there. The paltry archer groups and their minute guard were easily overcome by the Gondorian cavalry, and pushed from the ramparts. Calling out to his troopers, Uther mustered them, and prepared to invade the middle tier of Gundabad’s defenses.

Sjorging came forth to meet Uther, before the last portions of the assault were to come underway. He meandered his way through the ranks of soldiers, until at last, he came upon the commander, perched upon his horse. “Uther!”, Sjorging shouted. “What are you doing waiting here? The orcs are disorganized. We should kill them now!” The lieutenant chuckled, pausing before responding to the Northmen’s comments. “Yes, and we will. But the infantry need to rest, and then we will attack.” Both of the men sat in silence for a time, until Uther interrupted. Pointing to the second tier, he gave his order. “Rush the defenses, and take them quickly!”

The soldiers shouted, and poured forth into the second tier. Rushing forward, they found no resistance. The entire middle defense system had been abandoned. Even the halls leading into the mountain were void of the hated orcs. Nearly all stared on in bewilderment. None could tell what had gone on. But one thing was certain, the orcs had vanished from their positions. Cautiously, the Gondorians moved forward, to the last ring of defenses.

------------------------------
Various pieces of debris, as well as the bodies of the dead, were used to barricade the final section of the ramparts. The bulwark of the defenses was in this region, but they were not as was expected. They were collapsed in many parts, as orcs had apparently fled over them, in a vicious attempt to save themselves. Ever so slowly, the cavalry and infantry marched forward, into the finally hold. And there, the host found a bloody scene. Orc bodies were littered everywhere, strewn across the floor of the hall entrance mounted near the summit. And in the middle of the carnage, was the King of the Mountain. His bodyguard had been involved in an attempt to usurp power, in an effort to strike a deal with the Gondorians. But, they had failed. All the orcs were dead, save the King. He sat, hunched over in the middle of the entrance, mumbling to himself. Uther went forward to strike the death blow, and end the battle. But as Uther approached, the chieftain spoke up. “I have been bested, by my own minions. I am lost. I implore you, to slay me now.” Uther, without speaking a word, left the chieftain. Sjorging came forward, on his own initiative. Standing at the head of the beaten ‘King’, he spoke to him. “You have caused me, and my people great pain. For this, you will die, foul orc.” And thus ended the chieftain’s life, and with it, the Siege of Gundabad.

[piosenniel]

~*~ Finis ~*~

[piosenniel]

~*~ To Elvenhome ~*~