Thread: Cirith Ungol

Achasson, Knight of Dol Amroth Cirith Ungol The thought makes my mouth water. Perhaps the attempt at humour, poor as it was, may not have been the best idea as it reminded Achasson of how dry his mouth actually was. He licked as best he could but it was like dragging his tongue over dryboard. The air in Mordor was still unclean, choked with dust and ash that settled on everything. He winced and hoped one of the scavengers sent out might come across fresh flagons of water, oily it might be. Beggars couldnt be choosers. ohild voiced the same thought aloud and Achasson could only peer at the dull gatehouse that loomed in the murk ahead. Theres been no notice. Either they are still free from harm and are gathering or they all been taken out without a sound. Nothing to do but wait. I hate it too. Achasson huffed, tightening his grip on his reins, causing his gauntlets to crunch. The waiting was sufferable, especially when it was known there were foes in the mist just beyond. A lot more than they had, certainly. He glanced up towards the walls, where if they peered hard enough, they might see the shapes of their own patrolling archers and watchers on the walls. They werent shouting or panicking yet, if they could see anything. Despite his impatience, he hoped there might be no trouble as well. Just one night, maybe a six hour stretch, of no fighting, no raiding, no scrambling to the walls or ducking and dodging shot projectiles. Just a couple of hours of peace and a chance to sleep. Wrong. He must have jinxed it. The sound of a horn came blowing rapidly in succession, three strong winds. The enemy was upon them! Every rider shot up straight and on the gatehouse above, men were scrambling to turn the machinery that would raise up the iron bars. This is it, boys and girls! The lead rider, a one-eyed Gondorrian knight of the Citadel. Let our boys pass between us but stay rigid. Well charge the bastards and send them toppling down the heights. Steady now! He told them, as the gates were raised and they began to surge out. Achasson loosened his sword in its scabbard but was primarily using the lance, which he leaned against his shoulder. He looked towards ohild and tapped the cap of his winged helm. Good luck . They surged out, tight but loosening as they assembled on the roads. In the foggy murk, several figures were racing towards them, throwing up spouts of dust. It was hard to discern man from orc but as they neared, their emblems and gear became more familiar. The first passed through but those in the rear were hard pressed. At em now, lads! Charge! Their captain roared and altogether they surged down the path, Achasson feeling his heart surge with excitement with all the rush and thrill. He leveled his lance towards one foe in the distance, attacking a fellow of theirs. With a heavy skewer, he caught one orc in the side and painted his entire lance with blackish blood. It was a wild melee now. Dozens of orcs were following behind upon those besetting the scavengers. What was left of the mounted patrol clashed into them, stabbing, hacking, and hammering. While it should have provoked a riot, the orcs seemed content to throw themselves against this moving hammer of death and iron. They had the numbers. Attrition was on their side. Whittle down three or four riders every attack and soon there would be none left. But they had to fight on, until those on foot could get to safety.