Log:The Bridge is Lost

Template:Log Rubble. Waste. Filth. On the skies, dark clouds. And a constant downpour.

Thus is Osgiliath bereft of its former glory, a city where none dwell. Still, there is life in it. Covered in cloaks grey as the stones of the ruins, a handful of Rangers -Gurtir with them- conceal themselves amidst the broken rocks and crumbled buildings, though, extraordinarily, that's not their main objective right now: they move swiftly westwards, to where the contingent of Gondorian forces is fixed, unconcerned with the splashing their quick footfalls cause. Behind them, death looms.

Oh how the thunder calls to the orcs of Mordor, beating like a single broken heart. The only rythmic sound is of the rain upon the rocks and ruins of Osgiliath. The onset of lighting does well to blind the orcs of Mordor for few sparse seconds before they push onwards.

Ranks upon ranks, like ants of vile spawn, the orcs of Mordor come forth. Spears, shields, armor, and blades all in the slackened grip of the dogs of The Great Eye's army.

Amidst the orcs a behemoth pushes onwards, a once tall tower's pinnicle in his hands. The boulder seems to some complement the great olog, however something else seems amiss. Crawling on all fours, almost three feet infront of the troll, a small orc seems to be leading the way. The collar and chain about his neck, is held by Spunk, the olog from hell(well Mordor).

Among these scouts is Hanomir. This is his first form of combat in his life, serving for the scouts of course. He can't help but glance back at the shadows of Eastern Osgiliath as they progressed west. He hated the suspense and tension the silence of the city gave him, it is like the silence of death, or the silence before death. However, he looks back ahead as they continue moving, swallowing nervously.

The orcish army does not come quietly into this good night. Behind the troll they howl and scream an unearthly sound, spears and blades clashing together in time to the tramp of their steps. And along with it comes a steady cry: "Meat! Meat! Tonight we eat!" followed by raucous laughter. In the front line of this army of the foul is Smorc, drool dripping from his blackened teeth. "Heh heh heheh. Eat...yesssssssssss..."

The little orc looks up from time to time, all senses trained upon the tracks of the retreating men. Once the Gondorian position comes into view, however, the chain straightens taut as the orcling lurches forward menacingly. It grips tightly the long point stick clenched between its bony fingers and begins stabbing furiously in the air at the distant men. Failing to strike anything causes it to wimper.

"Ehrrmm," it shrieks, "Poke! Poke! Poke! Wanna poooooooke..." Its excitement cannot be contained, and it begins to shake like a spoiled, frustrate child.

Grey-eyed and gaunt are the sons of Gondor, the inheritors of a waning bloodline. They form a single line across the bridge, perhaps three or four rows deep, and stare fixedly ahead. A figure steps out from their center, young and tall, with a crimson cloak fluttering at his back.

"Filth," he mumbles under his breath.

"You will hold the line tonight, not because I tell you but because you must. It is simple. Past his fallen city is Minas Tirith and in Minas Tirith are your sisters, your brothers, your wives, your mothers, your fathers, your sons and your daughter. It is for this we fight. It is for this we die." Let them hear you."

And with this, spears are beaten to the ground and swords onto shields. It rings out across the battlefield. Gondor, to war.

Behind the troll, the line presses forward, cackling shrieking, laughing at the war cry of the tarks. "Come here and say that!" Smorc screeches. But though the orcs can smell and taste blood, even, they are not so foolish as to rush into the tark line first. No, the troll has that task.

Spunk howls as he catches small bits of the war-speech of Bor. With the roar of the thunder itself, Spunk launches the spear-like bounder at Bor.

Infront of him, the little orc begs for his time and Spunk pulls back the creature growling down to it "No, bad bunny-freak!"

Among the men of Gondor stand one bearing the sigils of Prince Imrahil - the silver swan and ship. He stands resolutely in the line, a grim expression on his countenance. Long black hair flows from beneath his helmet, tossed in the strong winds that scour the ancient bridge.

Eyes narrowed and hard watch the approaching hoard with calculation. "Arashen Telpekhor does not need words of courage. He has faced this throng before." The squire's dark gray eyes flicker to his crimsoned cloaked commander, waiting for a command.

The retreating group of Rangers mingles in the Gondorian lines as they reach them, though they do not join the clamor. They pant, they sweat, they silently prepare themselves for the battle ahead.

Gurtir wears a sour expression upon his face as he makes it to the last lines, where the archers and spear throwers are. At a signal from him, an officer of Ithilien cries "Ready!", Spunk's spear flies, "Fire!"

Their own missles fly.

Hanomir sighs with relief when they finally reach safety. He turns in time to see something dark pass through the air. Looking to the knights with a worried, expression, he is about to ask what happened when suddenly he heard the order to fire. He quickly wields his longbow, notches an arrow and sends it flying towards the approaching enemy.

The rain continues to pour...

Bor turns to face the oncoming rush and is greeted by the sight of a falling boulder. He moves aside, as do some of the men close to them, but there are still those at the back who are not so lucky. The Knight grimaces. "Hold the line!"

Enemy arrows and spear now fly through the air, and in the ranks of orcs, there is a clattering as shields are raised overhead. Some of the projectiles hit home, piercing shield and armor or helmet, but many others bounce harmlessly off the shields and the Mordain army roars its jeers once more. For those like Smorc, who do not have a shield, finding shelter against the incoming arrows involves punching the orc in line next to him and stealing his shield. Which he does. Still, the orc army has not charged yet.

As the boulder comes hurtling towards the crimson-clad knight, Arashen starts, as if to rush forward - not away, but towards the man as if to defend him. But the Squire does, not leave his position, keeping in check his quick reflexes and obeying his orders. He draws his sword calmly and does not look at his fallen comrades.

The little orc is stopped short by the massive tug on his collar, sending it sprawling backward. It bites at the chains furiously, clueless as to the source of his restraint. A tooth breaks and the orc goes mad with anger. That was his last tooth. But anger is best directed at the Enemy. Speaking of which... Crunk's memory is quite short, but thankfully a barrage of arrows serves to remind him of the tarks' presence. One such missile slides easily into the Uruk's tough hide, biting him hard on the posterior. It howls in pain, and whimpering, it retreats to the safety of its troll and scurries up onto Spunk's shoulder. Hiding behind the troll's massive head, Crunk peers out toward the Gondorians and sticks his tongue out.

It still holds the pointy stick in its hands, and gazing at it with a momentary look of sentimentality, Crunk hugs the spear before lofting it toward Hanomir's position. Almost instincitivly, the Uruk lurches forward to fetch the stick, sending itself tumbling down to the ground and again bringing the chain to a taut stretch.

As the spire misses, Spunk revels in his own blood thirsty howl. Both rows of yellow-brick-teeth as exposed as the troll pulls from behind him, a crude but large axe. Letting the chain of Crunk go he spits "Go play!" and lets the beast free as the sound of thunder comes with each foot fall of the troll who charges 'the line'.

As the men of Ithilien prepare for their next volley, Gurtir is already well placed in line. He holds a spear up, tests its balance as the archers notch, twists his body as the archers pull their strings, throws it at the largest target he has in sight just as the darts are released.

The Ranger tries to harm Spunk with his puny javelin.

Hanomir could not see if his arrow had hit in the dark, but he did hear numerous screeches from the opposing side, probably meaning that a good deal of the arrows struck. While trying to examine the enemy force through the darkness, he failed to see a spear heading towards him. He suddenly cries out in agony as it pierces his left arm, and accidentally drops his bow. He crouches to his knees and tries with all his strength to pull the spear out. It took all his effort to stop himself from crying out in pain. But finally, he manages to pull it out, leaving his left arm in agony. He retrieves his longbow and returns to his feet, gritting his teeth at the pain. He readies his bow as best as he can, and notches another arrow.

His eyes widen to see a troll headed towards them. He aims at the beast, and lets the arrow fly, lowering his left arm as soon as the arrow had left his bow, trying to ease off the pain.

The troll stepping forward and unleashing its pet seems to have been some sort of signal for the troops massed behind. With a blood curdling cry, the army of orcs now rushes forward, weapons drawn. For the front line, it is a suicide charge into Gondor's line of knights, and Smorc is among them. The creatures beady eyes are red with blood lust, and he howls incoherently. His charge is taking him directly toward the Squire Arashen.

Bor stands out from the line, his longsword still slung at his hip. "Get your shields up!" And finally, his own blade glitters in the night.

The chain's slack does not go unnoticed by the little Uruk, and Crunk shrieks with delight as he runs scampering full speed for his pointy stick. Retrieving it, he raises it into the air triumphantly and immediately turns - having never slowed his pace - toward the nearest tark. "Wanna play! Wanna plaaaaaaaay!" Stabbing furiously again into the empty air, the orc finally comes within the proximity of some fleshly meat to stab at: Hanomir. The thrust comes quickly for the scout's stomach, and with relish.

Even as the command is given; the Squire Arashen is hefting his shield into a defensive position. He grips his sword tighter and focuses his attention on the orc bearing down on him. Calmly, he steps forward slightly to give himself room and lowers his glittering blade in the guard position.

Gurtir tries to follow the course of his first javelin as he picks up another one. He fails miserably and thence cries, "More light!". Behind him, scouts soak rags on oil and start the tiny conflagrations. Some even dip their arrow tips in oil and light them up on the torches before firing.

Behind the knights, the Men of Ithilien let another volley go forth.

The troll steam plows through one javelin as it flies towards him. Striking the troll right above his nipple, Spunk howls again and makes his way straight for Gurtir. Like a demon bent on destruction, Spunk tries to cleave Gurtir in two with a single stroke of his fell-blade.

As Hanomir prepared to notch a third arrow, when all of a sudden a dark, small, figure suddenly appeared in front of him and a burning pain coming from his stomach. He cried out in agony as he dropped his longbow, leaving it to fall to the wet ground. He quickly draws his longsword and sends a stab with quite some force at the small orc in front, still somewhat crouched down.

Hanomir slides the Dragon Blade from its sheath. Ferocity shines forth from its glimmering edges.

Together with the Ithilien men is one Scout, green clad amongst the many with bows or spears. Lithial too, has a bow in hand, and draws it at the newest command. Tiny fires whizz past him as others let go of arrows tipped with oily cloth.

The scout lets go of his own arrow over the frontline, though it is lost in the volley.

The front line of Mordain orcs crashes heavily into the tarks, and soon the work is close and deadly, weapons dripping with bloods. The orcs howl as they kill, and the front line, when they fall, are replaced with fresh orcs from behind, Sauron's minions enemy pressing ever forward.

Smorc spits as he rushes toward his black-haired tark, his own scimitar blade flashing with the firelight that has now been lit. "Dinner it is!" he hisses as he swings a two-handed stroke at the Squire's stomach.

The Gondorian steel bites into the ork-pup's belly and leaves a wide cut. Crunk, however, is far too lost in the moment to either notice or care. Stabbing still repeatedly, some stabs even failing to be considered traveling in a straight line, the Uruk aims for the tark's head. "Gunna stab out your eyez!"

As soon as he withdrew his sword from, the orc, he quickly backed away slightly. But that did not take him out of range, and soon he felt nothing but absolute agony as the orc's sword stabbed in and out of his upper stomach, even though intended for eyes. His vision faded, and he felt nothing but pain. He felt himself fading, and with all of his last effort, swung for the orc's head. He then collapses unconscious

Schmorc' blow is deflected with Arashen's shield and his sword comes up and from under quickly behind the parry, searching for the gap between chest armor and vambrace. "Filthy beast!" snarls the young Telpekhor, his eyes flashing.

The troll bounds across four lines of Gondorians!

"Dol Amroth, to battle! Gondor, to battle!" calls out Bor, but his attention falls back to the troll. His shield up, he charges back across through the lines.

And as the lines are closed up behind him, he comes upon the fell beast. No words are exchanged, only a flash of steel as he brings his sword to bear upon the beast's leg.

Bor attacks Spunk with his Longsword and mildly wounds him!

Spunk growls and looks at the Gondorian infront of him, the one smashed by the troll blade. However a small nic of pain as his knee is cut open. "No! Bad!" Spunk yells and smacks at Bor with his axe now, fury turned to the man.

"Sssss..." Schmorc's war cry is turned into a hiss of pain and anger as Arashen's sword finds a gap in his armor, slipping into the flesh of his shoulder, blood flowing down the Gondorian's blade. Still, though, the orc fights on, hissing. "Tark. Filthy tark...." And with that, the orc steps forward to close the distance to his enemy, a dagger flashing in his left hand and then its streamlined blade seeking a way between and into the Squire's armor and thus into his flesh.

One moment, Gurtir is celebrating a hit. The next, the hit is turning against him. How? It simply happens, the troll's fowl axe lands heavily on Gurtir like a sudden lightening, sending the man sprawling backwards.

Blood drips from his mouth as he slowly stands, his hand going for the sword at his hilt even as his eyes inform him of his new surrounding and search for another spear.

Yet what he does find is Hanomir and his foe, "Filth! You! Over here!", he taunts the little orc, trying to distract it.

Gurtir draws a finely crafted longsword from its impecable white scabbard, making it shine beautiful and terribly.

The swing manages to slice off a bit of the Uruk's flappy ear, earning a low growl. Then, his opponent collapsing before him, Crunk sets about to dine on the poor fellow's ears.. until the bellowing of a Ranger catches his attention. Crunk looks up from his would-be meal and clenches his spear again. "You're loud! Shut up! Shut up shut up shut up I'm eating!!! it screams, lunging for Gurtir, spear tip aimed for the Gondorian's neck.

"Shut up and fight," says Bor simply, his eyes burned by fury. And stepped aside the troll's heavy blow, he brings yet another of his own. This one comes swiftly to bear upon Spunk's same knee.

"Bunny!" Spunk croons and then looks down at Bor who chops again at the small wound on the troll's kneecap. "I SAID NO!" The troll roars as spit, and odor travel with the message at the little man, Bor, infront of him. As BOR dodges his attack the troll grows frustrated and arcs a large swipe at him.

As the first wave of Uruks and trolls reaches the Gondorian line, the scouts of Ithillien begin to put away their bows. Flashes of steel shine in the gloom, as swords are drawn in the dark.

As Lithial, who he had recently sworn in, catches his eye, he yells at the scout, "Get your fallen fellow away from here least he's to feed these beasts". He motions with his chin at Hanomir.

Gurtir makes no fancy motions as the uruk charges at him. A pained side step to the left is all he does-- and all it takes for him to dodge the mad creature. From this new position, he quickly releases the sword from its scabbard and, continuous motion, sends it slashing at Crunk, "I will be as loud as I want, cur!"

Bor's passage sends a ripple through the lines of men, like a stone that parts the waters only to be swallowed. Jostled by his nearest neighbor, Arashen fails to parry the dagger properly and it skitters down the length of his blood soaked blade to cut across his knuckles. He winces and slams his shield hard into the orc's body - or at least attempts to.

The Knight feints to his side, avoiding the blow despite such cramped quarters. There is no urgency in his own strike, only patience. He circles the beast until he sees the glimmer of an opening, and he lunges then.

It is, again, brought upon that same knee.

Schmorc takes the blow from Arashen's shield, and though the orc staggers back a step with the force of it, he uses that momentum to put space between himself and the tark. Then the scimitar is there again, sweeping through the night air, the black blade trying to slice Arashen open down the length of his belly. Over the din of the battlefield Lithial could only catch Gurtir's gestures, yet that is sufficient for the Scout to understand. Blade in one hand, he runs as fast as he can towards Hanomir, prone a short distance away.

"Can you walk?" He shakes Hanomir, though it appears that the Scout is in no position to move by himself.

The slash hurts, and Crunk retreats from the Ranger, scampering once again for the shoulders of his troll. But out of nowhere, the swing of a sword, unintended for himself but all the same painful, smashes into the Uruk's belly; effectively complimenting the previous slash there to make a well formed 'X'. It cries in pain and crawls onto Spunk's shoulders where it licks its wounds. Bloodlust takes over, however, and sitting atop its tower, Crunk pokes at the tarks below; namely Bor's head.

"You attack my bunny-freak?!" Spunk howls, rage slowly building as another arc'ed swing comes from Spunk. Slowly he lifts the blade before releasing his pent up rage into a single shot at BOR.

But the pain has been managed and Arashen parries the orc's attack with his blade and disengages with a ring of metal. He brings it swinging in from Schmorc's left to slash at his arm.

Gurtir motions as if to chase Crunk, yet he sees that the creature is yet again hit... then it's out of his reach. He simply shrugs, picking up a random spear fallen on the floor and glancing around at a closer foe to engage... but he sees way too many, and his men backstepping or dragging wounded comrades away... a dire scenario for Gondor.

A deep frown creases his brow and he belows, the Dunadan voice capable of steading the hearts of men for a charge now commanding that they retreat.

"Fall back, men of Gondor! Fall back!"

As a farewell gift, he sends his spear once more at the olog's general direction.

As the troll is struck by the spear throw, Spunk looks down at the haft of the weapon and snaps it in half. Lifting his axe up Spunk launches it at Gurtir, letting his last attack with the axe send the men of Gondor running.

There is a sickening thud as Arashen's sword cuts through armor and flesh, and then more blood spews onto the Squire, though this time it is from Schmorc's arm. Still the orc kicks at the Squire and spits toward the man's face, all the while his scimitar comes flying about to try to sever the tark's head. Behind the orc now, more of Mordor's soldiers come rushing forward, emboldened by the call of retreat that has gone up. And perhaps that call has given the bleeding, weakened Schmorc more fury, too, for he does not give up the fight.

One hand clenching Hanomir's shirt, Lithial moves to retreat at Gurtir's call. "Come on, help me here." He grunts with effort as he pulls Hanomir away from danger.

Another scout must have seen or heard Lithial, for his load is suddenly lightened as a green-clad figure helps Hanomir up opposite Lithial.

"Wretched," shouts Bor, as Crunk steps in the way of his blow.

Stunned as he at this sudden appearance, he does not see the axe as it comes to bear upon him. It lands, and cuts through the Knight's skin. Then, darting aside the axe as it is thrown, he runs towards the beast's leg with his blade extended. It is then that Bor hears the calls for retreat, too late to withdraw the attack.

Bor attacks Spunk with his Longsword and mildly wounds him!

"Yes! Fallback Gondor! Fallback!" Crunk shrieks with delight, wanting very badly to give chase, but being rather hampered by injuries. Instead, it throws its pointy stick at the retreating Gurtir in retaliation... then of course falls off Spunk in an instinctual effort to go chase the hurled projectile. Crunk hits the ground hard, landing on its head and passing out. Its motionless body drags behind Spunk on the hard cobble road.

Spunk growls and looks at his little pet as he throws the spear at him. "I'm gunna eat you!" Spunk growls and begins after Crunk.

The axe cleaves onto Gurtir's shoulder, but the man closes his mouth tightly, holding his pain in order to show strength, though his free hand goes to press the wound. A deep breath, then he renews his cry, "Fall back, Gondor! We live today to fight tomorrow! Regroup and retreat!"

Nimble Arashen evades the kick but not the foul spittle that spatters across the young squire's face, "Beast!" he shouts in anger.

The anger does not cloud his mind, however, and he brings up his shield to block the blow aimed at his head and takes a step backwards. Again his sword is sent singing through the air, downward in a wide arc towards the ocr's head. But there is not the power in it that marked his previous blows - the young man's attention is on retreating and keeping his position in the line.

All colour drains from Gurtir's face at the effort of yelling. The first wound he recieved is now weighting on him, still he waits, longsword drawn anew, for his men to pass him by.

The Squire's sword clangs loudly on Schmorc's helmet, adding another dent to the old thing, but not cleaving the orc's head. Still, it's enough to make Schmorc stagger backwards, and the orc disappears into the line of oncoming orcs that now seek to drive the men of Gondor west over the bridge.

Bor rushes forth from the troll, back to the front of lines at the call to retreat. He takes his place at the front, aside Arashen now, and raises his shield to the fore. Blood drips from his shoulder, but it is ignored for the time being. He calls out, "Back! Slowly! Shields up!"

And thus are the Gondorians forced backwards, back from the western edge, and into the ruined city itself. And yet the rain continues, a foul reflection of the night's losses. Woe!