(Archive) Bay of Belfalas Battle

Weather: Clear
Time: Midday
Season: Summer
Date: Trewsday - July 8, 3021

Real Time: Mon Oct 09 15:42:12 2000
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*Note - log supplied by Drenlyn*

Bay of Belfalas
High, foamy white waves smack against the hull as you enter the Bay of Belfalas. A driving wind from the southwest makes the ship unwieldy but manageable. The great Anduin River to the east cuts deep into the continent while to the northeast the Blackroot and Ringlo Rivers merge to form the sheltered Bay of Edhellond. To the north lies the trading and refitting port city of Haerlond along the Cape of Andrast. The City of the Corsairs, greatest trading port of Middle-Earth lies to the southeast. The mighty, tumultuous waves of the open sea, the Belegaer, enter the bay from the northwest. 
Contents:
Imrahil
Doran(#16967POVeA+cm)
Jakar
Muti
Nakht
Thorondur
Khazamr
The Torath
The Hyarmentir(#17103Vae)
Obvious exits:
North leads to Haerlond: The Docks.
East leads to Mouth of the Anduin.
NorthEast leads to Bay of Edhellond.
NorthWest leads to Belegaer (The Open Sea).
SouthEast leads to Bay of Umbar, West.

Finally one of the archers notices the little guy up in the rigging doing his best to bring down the mainsail. He nocks and arrow and lets it sail. It breezes mere inches from the Haradrim's face, sending him reeling backwards. His free hand reaches out and grabs one of the ropes as he falls. Instead of plummeting to his death he slides down the rope to the deck of the Hyarmentir, opposite the side of the battle. He gets to his knees and quickly glances around himself, making sure no one's ready to decapitate him.

The Prince's blade cuts only thin air in the dark, grim night, as the Corsair Lord's feet bring him back and to the side. As soon as the blade of Gondor has moved past him, the black clad Lord steps forth and lets his Scimitar reach at Imrahil. "You are cursed!" hisses the Dread Corsair as he attacks.

Eyes wide, taking in the chaotic frenzy of battle at sea, Doran gives his head a shake. He barely brings his slender longsword up in time to deflect the vicious strike of a Southron scimitar. No blood spilt as of yet, but the blow is more than enough to send the inexperienced swordsman sprawling back out of the main fray. He rolls up off the deck, into a crouch, a few paces from where the Corsair just dropped from the rigging.

To either side and now before him, the foemen lurk -- they dart and duck and lunge, nimble and slippery Men of Umbar. One scores a slash across his greaved thigh as he turns -- it tears the white silk of his surcoat. But fair and fell, the Lord Girithlin fights the marathon, not the sprint.

Turning aside with a ring of steel the assault upon his left -- Muti -- by bringing his gold-faced shield to bear, this scion of ancient princes brings his own steel down overhead with chill and terrible vengeance against Jakar.

The dark form of Muti comes upon the Gondorian he sought with such cold eyes, and his well-polished blade is brought to bear against the fiend suddenly. The steel streaks through the air towards Drenlyn swiftly, singing with the whistling of the air.

Not without reason is Imrahil the Fair renowned as a matchless warrior -- back, to turn aside the crimson scimitar with his shield, and forward again to hew at the Dread Captain's sword arm. And no reply is given to the Corsair Lord's taunt this time -- rather, not one made of words. It is a song of steel which answers him, swift and cruel.

Nakht spins the knife in his hand to a position better suited for stabbing as he watches the inexperienced Gondorian roll in front of him. His sinister grin returns as he prepares to pounce on the young man's back. Suddenly he's lunging at the young man, a hiss of hatred the only sound escaping his lips as he brings the knife back beside his head.

Jakar attempts to dive out of the way of the Knight's swing. For the most part, he succeeds, the blade running down his back and leaving a long but light gash. Grimacing in annoyance more than pain, Jakar immediately launches into another attack, never giving Thorondur a moment to recover. This time he moves to the other side, trying to push the knight off balance and again going for his legs.

Ducking, Drenlyn raises his shield to fend off the attack, staggering back slightly at the force of the blow. Taking a quick side step, Drenlyn raises his sword and lets loose a quick thrust at his foe.

The dark form of the Umbar priest moves with an uncanny grace, his large form like that of a leopard as he spins to avoid the short thrust of his foe. As his spin comes around, the twisting blade descends towards the Gondorian, blurring with its speed toward the man's shoulder.

Doran turns at the distinctive sound of footsteps thumping on the wooden deck, behind him. Biting back a fearful exclamation, the yeoman rolls back, ploughing into the would-be back-stabber's knees as he lunges overtop of him, the knife skimming lightly enough to scratch through his thickly padded shirt. Wincing, Doran struggles to his feet, bringing his sword up in front of him as he awaits the next move of his agile foe.

Indeed, the Prince of Dol Amroth is a warrior of his name. With bold determination does his blade find its mark as it brutally thrusts straight through the Lord's leather armour like a Gondorian needle piercing the soft unen of Harad. A monstrous cry fills the air indeed, the Lord is shocked in pain and surprise as he looks down at the shining blade reaching into his abdomen. He staggers back, the blade pulling out from his flesh, and presses his black palm against the wound.
But it is not for nothing that the Dread Corsair is said to have a strong Will. He steps forth, bending over across the burning pain in his wound, and prepares for an attack. But alas! His feet are uncontrolled, and his attempt to remain in battle results in a foul collapsing on the deck of the Gondorian Swan-ship.

A wave of emotion, Haradrim gasps of shock and Gondorian cheers of victory, spreads across the decks of the ships, reaching far into the night, like a typhoon on a calm lake.

Raising his shield again, Drenlyn prepares for the blow. Glancing of the edge of the shield the Priest's sword glances Drenlyn's shoulder. A red warmth flows down his shield arm as Drenlyn lets out a yell and brings his sword about, swiping swiftly at the man's legs, as he jumps forward closing the gap between fighters.

The Lord Girithlin has a fair face, and young -- but in the true sons of Numenor, such things are far from telling. Could any foe guess at the years of experience behind that ageless visage? Thorondur keeps his balance in the face of Jakar's pushing, and it must be this -- yea, and again, as he uses the Corsair's momentum against him -- which upholds him against the Enemy.

A pivot on the left foot, with solid purchase on the deck -- a longtime swordsman, a fighter at Sea then -- and Thorondur is around the rushing Jakar, slashing for the Corsair's head ere the man can stop him --

The little man overshoots his target but manages to bring his knife down in time to at least connect with the yeoman. His shoulder connects with the deck and causes him to roll a few times before he gains his feet in a crouching position. Nakht holds the blade before him and notices the trace of blood on the tip. With a grin he brings it up to his lips and licks the blood from the end of the knife. His eyes dart over to where his captain has fallen and he puts his hands under the blanket he wears as a robe. With a wink to Doran he makes for the rigging again.

The priest's blade spins swiftly down, perhaps a second too late, and the longsword scrapes a tear across one leg. With a curse, Muti takes the heavy shield of the man in the chest, but spins deftly, placing a foot out to trip the Gondorian, and swinging his blade about the catch the man in the back.

No amount of agility in the world will keep Jakar from stumbling this time as the sword bites deep into one shoulder, sending him crashing to the deck. Pushing himself up before he can be trampled by friend and foe alike, a wild look of pain and determination enters his eyes. As the Corsair Lord falls, there is a shift in momentum...some of the corsairs begin to lose their courage, but Jakar steels himself for another attempt, determined to take Thorondur's head.

Lurching forward, Drenlyn falls to the deck twisting around in mid air to face his opponent. Raising his sword to parry the coming blow Drenlyn kicks at the mans nearby legs. Feeling the weight of the man coming down on him Drenlyn feels as the blade strikes a stud in his armor. Rolling away as he kicks Drenlyn quickly begins to rise.

Anger at his attacker's scorn and disgusting mannerisms flashes across Doran's face. He swings clumsily at the smaller Corsair, gritting his teeth against the sting in his shoulder. The knife-wielder is soon out of range, however, and with a tired grunt Doran makes off after his swift adversary.

Muti falls to the ground roughly in a short roll, his back thumping against the railing of the deck. With a sour grunt the priest begins to get to his feet, cold, black eyes gazing over the Gondorian warily.

Now the first wound, the first blood of his leg is long forgotten -- now the Lord Girithlin wades among the invaders like an avenging white angel of death. "Lacho calad," he cries, and "Drego morn!" The Elvish words, and the ancient lifting of spirits -- where he turns, his countrymen's hearts sing.

And now he turns again, and steps and again, the intricate dance too much for poor Jakar. The swordarm raised in Gondor, trained in the North, tried on the bridges of Osgiliath rises again -- falls again -- a shining brand of doom for the puppets of Shadow.

As he makes his way up to the mast, Nakht sheathes his dagger in one of the hidden sheathes at his side. He bounds up into the rigging, not even watching to see how close Doran and his longsword are behind him. His eyes scan the battle below him as he scurries up the ropes, searching for a loose one to swing back down on. As he finds one, his knife is redrawn and clasped tightly in his hand.

His shoulder blazing with a sharp pain, Drenlyn's deep, sea-grey eyes, stare grimly at his foe with a deep anger. Lightened by the words of his lord Drenlyn moves quickly forward, feinting a thrust, and bringing his Longsword around with his spin at the Priest's neck yelling, "For Ethirrogel!"

Short as a summer storm, and as bitter, was the clash between the Prince and the Dread Lord -- for Black Khazamr lies helpless at Imrahil's feet, stricken down by his wrath.

Terrible indeed is the fire in the Prince's eyes, such that no foe dares to come against him. Fell and grim, he stands thither, a hero of old from tales of the Elder Days, and Umbardacil trembles above the Corsair Lord -- driven by a terrible oath, held back by honour which will not yield.

Which will triumph?

Like a shadow creeping among the dead of the night there stalks a darkened figure, one cloaked in blackness and concealed entirely from view save for the two fierce eyes penetrating from beneath a deepening hood, "The blood of Umbar runs thick this eve'" The voice remarks, pulling back the hood to reveal many features, and indeed showing this man to be Vrael of Seaward, Captain of the Suleiman. "I will have to rectify that..." With a blade already stained red and dripping with the insides of some defeated enemy, Vrael stares forwards into the fray to where Khazamr lies and he sighs. Forcing a shield to bear the brunt of many attacks, the Captain lunges onwards to see what further assistance he may be to this already terrible battle.
The final blow from Thorondur finishes off Jakar, effectively putting the man out of the fight, though still clings to life. Bleeding badly, Jakar stumbles backwards, preferring to live and fight another day. He utters what could only be a curse towards Thorondur in his native tongue, then limps away, choosing shame over death.

The blade of the Gondorian meets the curved steel of the Umbar priest with a harsh ringing, and the cold, dispassionate eyes of Muti stare dimly at the man before him. With a savage grunt, he raises his foot, moving for a kick at the Tark's groin.

Doran cries aloud in frustration as his nimble attacker quickly scales the ropes high above his head, "Curse you, sea-rat! Would that my blade was a few inches longer!" He shakes his sword-wielding fist at Nakht, who is safely out of reach. As he foolishly glares up, unheeding of what passes about him, he is crashed into and born over by a grappling pair of combatants.
Slowly, the Corsair Lord begins to push himself up. "Idiot..." he mutters to Imrahil, his Mask showing the expression that is as challenging and mocking as ever. "What honour is there in not slaying an opponent who you have sworn to kill?" With that, he springs up, his Scimitar in his hand. Before Imrahil has a moment to reconsider, the Corsair Lord strikes him, his wound spitting black blood at the stress, his unseen mouth groaning in pain.

Indeed, despite the pain, it is his Honour that prevents him from fleeing in such a way.

Swiftly Drenlyn releases his attack as he spins to the side, the Priest's fierce kick finding not but air. Continuing his spin Drenlyn grimaces with renewed hatred at this dishonoring attack, and brings his shield about aiming for the man's head.

And the victor is honour.

For the Prince steps back, and does naught to stop his foe from rising. When Black Khazamr strikes, then -- only then -- does he bring his shield up, to turn the other's blow aside.

"What value does an oath fulfilled through dishonour have?"

That is his question, then -- one accompanied by flashing blade -- and the Dread Captain must reply to both.

Another swarthy raider has fallen to his blade -- and even now amid the blood and rancor of battle, the White Knight glides like a pale ghost, unsullied and bright in the starlight. Jakar is not the first to fall back -- the clash is tuning to Gondor's favour, and the sleek Hyarmentir burns not.

Yet the press is still thick by the rail, and the deck slick with blood -- no! A cry of dismay goes up, for a lurching wave and a misstep topple the Lord Thorondur! His steel flies from the shock, from his hand, and of a sudden the champion is unarmed and unmanned, laid on his back not by foe but by nature and ill chance...!

A fine target for some enterprising backstabber....

Muti dodges the heavy shield, lightly, his back still to the railing. As the shield crashes against the wood of the deck, barely missing his body, the priest moves deftly, leg and arm pushing the man, attempting to use his momentum to send him flying over the wooden guard and into the unforgiving sea.

The swell also sends the thief in the rigging on a swing sooner than he expected to leave his perch. Nakht's knife drops to the rail and flips over into the dark water. Nakht himself swings out over the water, one hand perilously clasped around the rope, the other reaching under his robe to pull another knife from its small leather scabbard. As he reaches the apex of his swing, he comes back around to face the fighting on the deck. His path is directed to the back of the Gondorian prince.

Again does the blade from Gondor strike straight and true - and it connects in a terribly straight way. Sparks does it strike as it connects with the black Iron Mask on Black Khazamr's brow! The strike is by no means lethal - merely a scratch from the sword's tip. But, considering what it causes, no other strike would have triumphed over the Lord of Corsairs than this struck by Prince Imrahil the Fair of Dol Amroth.

For as soon as the sparks have died away, a black burst of blood strikes out through the single eyehole of the Mask, and droplets of the same liquid shoot out from the mouthpiece as well. "Curse and Death!" screams the Lord of the Corsairs, "I am blinded!" Indeed, blood has burst all over the interior of the Mask, and the Dread Corsair has been disabled perfectly.
The stout black boots of the Lord clapping against the deck of the Gondorian swan-ship, occasionally stumbling over a corpse or slipping in a pond of blood, the Corsair Lord flees - he does not retreat, but simply flees from his foe. Down there, among the blood within his Mask, he curses all of Gondor.

Again.

"From the fiery pits of eternal hatred do I stab at thee!" The Captain of the Suleiman can be heard to cry, his long and jagged scimitar gliding high into the night sky before returning again to sever the neck of a rather unlucky Northman blood once more spilling out onto the decks followed thereafter by an ominous thump. Pushing away from the railing Vrael continues to charge onwards, in vain perhaps, to reach the beleaguered Lord of Umbar. Though in his march the Captain pauses to look down upon Thorondur some few feet distance, and to this he smiles, a great opportunity to be had indeed! Vrael instantly closes the distance between himself and the fallen Gondorian only to hesitate once more in the thick of fell fighting, "Curse you all!" He shouts before raising his wicked blade high once more and bringing its full form down to bear upon the man who lays, by his own misfortune, upon the ground.

Dropping his shield, Drenlyn grabs at the man's tunic while smashing the hilt of his sword into the mans head. A crack sounds in the railing as Drenlyn's weight crashes into it. Releasing his foe Drenlyn grabs for the railing, pushing himself back onto the deck, away from the broken rail.

Doran struggles to his feet once more, an endeavour that is made twice as difficult by the tilting of the great deck. His head, black hair matted down by cold sweat darts about, trying to get his bearings. But all of his attention is once again focused on the acrobatic Corsair in the rigging just over his head. Whipping his sword to the ready, the yeoman charges into the very midst of the fray, ducking and dodging scimitar and ill-aimed sword of Gondor alike.

The hilt of the sword smack against Muti's face, a superficial blow, but a painful one, and those dark eyes seem to glitter with their cold intensity. With soft words spoken under his breath in a dark tongue, the priest sends a strong kick for the man's face as he attempts to climb back onto the deck, red blood slowly dripping from the cut on his cheek.

Triumphant yet again, the Prince follows his sworn foe -- unstopped, unchallenged. The Champion of Umbar has succumbed to him, and who else among the black horde dares to brave his might in arms?

But in that instant -- a step behind the Black Captain, no more -- he halts, stayed by a single voice rising above the clamour of battle, "The Girithlin has fallen!" Irresolute for a single moment he stands -- and then, he draws back his arm and throws Umbardacil over the press!

Mighty blade forged in the fires of old when Arda was yet young, a shimmering, glittering sliver of ice, it flies through the air to land by the unarmed Thorondur.

Oath or Herald -- the Prince has chosen.

Staggering forward, the Priest's kick catches Drenlyn in the mid section. Dropping to his knees stunned and gasping for breath Drenlyn peers up at the face of his enemy with intense hatred, his eyes running red with anger.

Twisting to the side, rolling left, the Lord Girithlin struggles to avoid the strike of Vrael, down upon the deck amid the bloody crimson drek. Yet the going is too slick -- black steel grazes his shoulder.

Upon on a knee -- in motion fast and fluid -- and extending a hand to the heavens, he catches the hilt of Umbardacil thrown by Imrahil his Prince.

And in one fluid turning, the true steel of Numenor slashes the very air betwixt Thorondur and Vrael, a terrible arc of death and justice as the knight's eyes shine anew with glory.

"Aure enteluva!" Day will come again!

Cursing, swearing for revenge, the worn-out Dread Corsair of Seaward is helped back onboard the Torath. With this great loss in morale, the Corsairs of Harad are beginning to fall back, their thirst for victory already died out in their eyes.

Khazamr has left.
Khazamr walks up the gangplank and boards The Torath.
Nakht's eyes watch as the Prince gives up his blade to help out his fellow Gondorian, and the grin on his face gets just a bit larger. He readies the knife in his hand to slash open the back of Imrahil. His swing accelerates towards where the Prince is standing with a deadly silent arcing motion.
Forcing his way through the still deadly turmoil of the receding battle, Doran emerges to stand at the flank of the Prince. Eyes wide with horror as he espies his leering foe, the young man lunges forward with a great, nearly impossible leap. The small, maliciously wielded blade slashes deep across his exposed side, as he shields Imrahil with his lightly clad upper body.

Surprised by the intrusion of Prince Imrahil's blade of old the Corsair of Umbar falters in his defense, the nimble and adept motions of Thorondur carry the ancient weapon to slice thinly into the arm of Vrael, his cloak now bubbling over in a darkly liquid, "Day may come again, but at its end there is always night..." At this the Captain shifts down low, the battered shield of fine leather facing forward while the blackish blade arcs down in an elegant manner before assailing the very air that divides the two combatants it's slick form moves with a great speed and an even greater strength to sweep across the midsection of Thorondur.

Alone in the midst of the swirling tide of men, save for those Knights who strive ever to guard his flanks, the Son of Adrahil stands unmoving, seemingly unaware of the peril which threatens --and is turned aside -- from behind. Fey, unscathed, proved yet again to be a champion in arms -- the bards will sing songs of this day, and the clash between Imrahil the Fair and Khazamr the Black.

Yet, it is a bitter draught he drinks -- for as he gazes after the retreating Corsair Captain, in the Prince's eyes is something akin to despair.

You paged Muti with 'Staggering forward, the Priest's kick catches Drenlyn in the mid section. Dropping to his knees stunned and gasping for breath Drenlyn peers up at the face of his enemy with intense hatred, his eyes running red with anger.'.

"I am always amused," quips the Lord Girithlin, the chill fire and cold fury of battle upon him once more, "by Southron philosophy." As Vrael's blade catches upon the steel of Umbardacil, it slips downward to slice at his gauntlets, bruise his fingers -- he only smiles wryly.

Thrusting the blade aside and stepping forward into a swift and deadly overhand stroke, the White Knight remarks as his bright blade descends, "Always so terribly optimistic...."

The backstabbing thief bounces off of the unexpected arrival of Doran, and he looses his grip on the rope in the process. He rolls over the dead bodies of two sailors before coming to a stop on the bloody deck. His clothes are splattered with the blood of both Doran and the fallen seamen. Nakht's dark eyes watch as the Corsair Lord makes his way onto the Torath. His feet slip as he begins to scurry toward the Torath himself.

Muti wastes no time with pleasantries, his sword rising in the air quickly, only to fall once more, twice as fast upon the intended victim, his eyes harboring not hatred, but no emotion, either.

The Corsairs of Seaward finally begin to flee openly. They let their enemies have their victory. There will be another day - and they are still paid for the trip. Some of the Corsairs already onboard the Torath have moved into the galleys, to whip up the slaves who are their key to getting away from the fast Gondorian vessel.

Raising his gaze in the last moment, Drenlyn rolls on the blood slick deck, narrowly avoiding the blow. Cursing at the pain in his shoulder Drenlyn jumps to his feet as his opponents sword delves deep into the wood, grazing part of his shield arm once again. "Miserable Dog, you shall pay for that," jumping forward, Drenlyn thrusts his sword at the mans mid section with force to skewer a wild boar.

Coughing up fresh specks of red onto the blood soaked deck of the Hyarmentir, Doran's head twists up to follow the movements of his adversary, Nakht. Grey eyes flash like the lightning-lit clouds of an ominous thunderstorm, as he reaffirms the grip on his slender sword. But the unscathed Corsair is now far beyond his reach as Nakht makes his way towards the safety of his own vessel. With low grunting noise Doran hoists himself to his feet, his white tunic stained red with naught but his own blood. He sways there on unsteady feet, and makes as if to cry out, but he only coughs, his breath sticking in his constricted throat.

But the tide of his people is retreating, and there is no passion in this dark man. Muti's parry is well executed, steel ringing on steel, and the man deftly leaps to the railing, grabbing a rope and casting his ebon eyes back for a last look upon the deck, soaked with the blood of Tarks and Umbar. And then he pushes off, swinging through the night air towards the Raider.

The sheer force of the Lord Girithlin's fell blade tears asunder the meager shield that Captain Vrael had used for his defense, it's tight bindings coming loose, it's matted slivers of leather falling to the ground before the man of Gondor only the handle remains. Cursing his opponent, Vrael staggers backwards to regain what composure he may have left, the left hand still grasping the withered remains of his shield continues to shudder, "Where would man be were it not for optimism? Pessimism is the tool of cowards, men who cannot find the clarity in a moment of seemingly boundless loss..." Suddenly the Captain of Seaward takes his blade, casts a glance off to where Imrahil stands and then tosses the bloodied metal off in his direction, its twisted form spinning in a deathly manner straight for the Prince's head. Vrael then takes this moment to turn and release himself of the deck of the Gondorian vessel, flying back to salvation and the safety of the Torath.