Messenger

Osgiliath: Gondorian Fortification, War Room

The damages of war and fire have been repaired in this room, though still some scars are visable. However, one is hard pressed to find reminders of the ruins. A large table stands as the most prominant feature of the room. Strudily crafted, yet crude and unadorned, one is reminded that here is a land of hard and bitter struggle in which luxuries serve no purpose. The walls bear no device or ornamentation save a large and detailed map of Osgiliath and the lands surrounding, and in one corner there is set a small table well laden with glass and decanters containing a variety of drink. A single window there is, facing outwards into the inner courtyard of the fortress, and it is heavily paned with thick shutters that may be pulled down for privacy.

[Bor(#30834)]

The clouds are thick and heavy over Osgiliath, a menacing portent for times ahead. Everywhere there is activity, and it would seem to the heavens that orc and man reside together in a bluster of harmony. But closer still, the scene changes and it is not harmony that one would see, but chaos. Chaos.

Though the walls of the fortification in the fallen city are thick, they do not shelter the men inside from the screams and cries from the out. Squeals of man and beast are ever heard, a battle ranging that knows no time or space. Bor looks at the map, as do the men around him: Hostmen and Ranger alike. The picture is ravaged, not unlike the city which it depicts.

Amid the chaos there is another sound, strange perhaps: the sound of hoofbeats and the creak of wagon wheels. Somehow, several wagon loads of supplies have made it through to the fortification. The guards that man it jump down, starting to unload the cargo, while one Scout, Ceredir heads into the war room, drawing up short as he sees the conference in progress there.

[Bor(#30834)]

The sound of hoofbeats does not go unnoticed, and the men around the map turn at once to face whomever comes through the door, whether it be man or beast. There is a sigh of relief when it is the former, yet all eyes remain riveted upon the Scout, hard and wearied all. Bor speaks:

\"What?\"

Ceredir stares back blankly at Bor, as if he is surprised to find the man here. Then, remembering what he is here for, he reaches inside a pouch at his waist and draws forth a piece of parchment. \"Supplies. From Minas Tirith. Arrows, mainly, but oil, too. Other things.\"

[Bor(#30834)]

Bor takes the parchment from Ceredir\'s hand swiftly, and reads it over himself. Little emotion flickers over his face as he scans it and less so as he passes it off to a Ranger at his side. His eyes then come back to Ceredir.

\"So, it is you.\"

And that is all he says for the moment, to the Scout at least. The parchment passes back and forth between them, before the Knight speaks again.

\"This is all we will get. I would send our message now, but let it come to a vote. We must all be together in this if it is to be sent.\" There is no reluctance, only nods all around. From the folds of Bor\'s cloak comes a parchment, bound by a seal. He extends it to Ceredir.

\"You must bring this back to Minas Tirith. The lanes between Osgiliath and the city will be closed soon, for this position will soon be lost. But this, this must arrive. Swear to me now that you will deliver this to a ranking authority in Minas Tirith.\" His eyes are resolute, steely.

\"Swear it.\"

The paper that Ceredir carries is nothing more than a list of the supplies, paperwork to be signed and countersigned and filed somewhere. The Scout watches as it travels from hand to hand, and then, as Bor speaks to him, he keeps his expression blank--a careful neutral.

\"Closed? Where will you fall back to?\" The question is out of the Scout\'s mouth before--from the expression that now covers he face--he perhaps realizes it was inappropriate.

\"I swear it. It will get through.\"

[Bor(#30834)]

Bor narrows his eyes upon Ceredir, and then laughs.

\"Where will we fall back? Nowhere, man of Ithilien. We will delay them here, as long as we possibly can, until relief comes or until we die.\"

Bor reaches around his neck and loosens a jeweled necklace from its resting place. He extends it to Ceredir, folding the chain so it may rest easily in his hand.

\"Deliver this with the message, and tell whomever it is that receives it this: that I will come to retrieve it from him personally...\"

\"...or to bury it with my corpse.\"

What is there to answer to that? Ceredir takes the necklace silently, looking at it once before his hand closes over it and he tucks it in the pouch at his belt. The sealed parchment follows this, also carefully tucked away.

And then Ceredir lets the silence fall for a moment as he waits.

\"Anything else sir?\"

[Bor(#30834)]

\"That is all,\" says Bor simply. His eyes linger upon Ceredir for but a moment longer, and then they go the table in front of him.

A sword is there, his sword, and he picks it up as the men beside them unsheath theirs from their waists. \"No map or strategy will benefit us today. We must fight through the night at least, and if day breaks and we are still alive, then we will plan.\" And together they walk out slowly.

But one last message comes from the lips of Bor:

\"Make haste!\"

\"Yes sir.\" Ceredir watches Bor and the other men leave, frowning after them for several long seconds before he, too, makes his way out of the war room.

Outside, he seeks out one of the horses that just drew the wagons to Osgiliath, then sets about getting ready to make the journey back while he still can.

--Bor\'s letter:

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Mail Message Number 60 (Message ID #: 9571) - <>

FROM:    Bor - Wed Dec 17 20:45:47 2008

SUBJECT: From Osgiliath, With Love

TO:      Ceredir

MESSAGE: ---------------------------------------------------------------------

Let it be known that there are still men who fight and die within the city of Osgiliath and let it be known that their valor is unquestioned, against an enemy with vastly superior numbers and no pity.

I can give no concrete numbers on their forces, but they are upon us the likes I have never seen before. It is thus that I, and the men of the Hosts and Ithilien with me, recommend to you that whatever muster you bring be complete and exhaustive. No less will only cost more lives and delay the recapture of the city. Come only with numbers that will guarantee victory.

And so I say to you, reader, one simple statement: Osgiliath will hold. I am surrounded on all sides by an enemy that I can not only hear, but smell too. They are rank, pitiful, and wretched and this city must never be theirs. I am but one man, but there are others like me too: brave and strong, with hearts that never falter. And we fight here with one message upon our lips, a message that I beg you heed: Osgiliath will hold.

Thus I say,

Sir Bor Bragollach

Knight of Imrahil

Servant of Gondor