Post by elfham on Nov 15, 2007 1:46:59 GMT
I'm writing this as I go along, though I do indeed have a plan laid out. It's a mix of movie events, book lore, and my own imaginings and "what-ifs" (that's a clue ).
Hope you enjoy-though, a warning. Will get violent, but not too extreme-maybe
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Gamling studied the slowly approaching horde. It consisted mainly of the Orcs of Isengard; a trifling menace, only dangerous in vast numbers. Unfortunately, vast numbers were exactly what were coming. Turning, he glanced over the fifty-or-so men of the Westfold gathered about him. Théoden himself had placed Gamling in control of this garrison, under orders to hold it to the last man.
An order readily accepted.
Unsheathing his sword, Gamling thought back over the past few days. Many changes had come to Rohan-the legions of Saruman, traitor, to all Free People, were ravaging the lands-coursing through the open plains unchallenged. Then, several newcomers had arrived unbidden; Gandalf the wizard, well known to these lands, and three companions that were not. They had escorted the Wizard into the Golden Hall of Edoras, and had promptly expelled the scum, Grima Wormtongue - a vile creature, cowardly and manipulating.
Upon Théoden King’s return to health, these guests of the Rohirrim had convinced him to ride to war, taking the entire garrison of Edoras with him.
However, news had reached the Riders that the Westfold had fallen, and all was in disarray. At this point, Gandalf had left them for some pressing errand, and the group progressed with haste. Around this point, things had gone terribly downhill-a pack of Warg Riders had ambushed them, killing many, including the Captain of the Guard, Hama. But they were repulsed, and the survivors made their way to the fastness of Helm’s Deep, bringing Gamling’s pondering to the present.
Having picked many good men, strong fighters, Gamling was determined to hold the d**e for as long as possible.
And that was how he had come here, in a shallow trench between the arms of mountains, with an empty plain behind and foes ahead. Night was closing - many of the Orcs and Wildmen of Dunland carried lit torches, and a bizarre gathering of dark clouds accompanied them.
Gamling sighed. It would be a long night.
Suddenly, his thoughts were shaken - the horde was running now, screaming guttural war cries and brandishing crude weapons.
The warriors surrounding him readied their bows, Gamling sheathing his sword to lift his own - a beautiful weapon, made of burnished blackthorn - and took aim at one of the many…targets…encroaching them. They were within range - and the bows of the Rohirrim sang.
Despite many arrows flying into the wave of attackers, only a few fell, and the rest trampled their fellows underneath in their blood lust. Fortunately, no answering volley came, and the Rohirrim took up arms just as the first Orcs leapt into the trench. It was almost instantly skewered by three spears in the abdomen, literally lifted off of its feet and into the wall behind it.
However, three more took its place, accompanied by a Dunlander or two. One of these men, long-time enemies of Rohan, lifted up a crude axe, and brought it down on a young warrior’s shoulder. The man yelped out in pain, but thrust his own blade into the other’s throat, bringing them both down.
More and more Orcs were flooding into the trenches, and the Rohirrim were being hard pressed to hold them back.
Gamling, taking two men of the Guard of Edoras with him, charged forward, and beheaded an Orc, the same blow disabling another’s uplifted arm. The Orc screamed out in shock, but was silenced from one of the Guardsmen.
By now, some Orcs with ugly bows had came near and were firing heedlessly into the trench-doing more damage to their own, so many were their numbers-and the Rohirrim had to lift their shields above them. This proved to be fatal, as the Orcs among them would then grab the exposed legs, bringing the shaken warrior down, and then tear the unfortunate man apart gleefully. Spears were thrown into the entangled mass of Orc, and the Rohirrim, now altogether ruthless, hacked and slashed their way through to the other side of the trench.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Many minutes, if not hours, later, the battle cries had quieted down; yet tremors of combat still stirred the Men from rest.
Finally, the last Orc - nothing more than a squat, squint-eyed creature - was slain, and there was a collective sigh of relief.
Wiping sweat from his brow, Gamling inspected the survivors. Nearly three score had come.
And only thirty-seven would leave.
Gamling’s armor was dented in many places, the cloak about him torn, and he was bleeding in more places than he would care to mention.
But they had won.
Hope you enjoy-though, a warning. Will get violent, but not too extreme-maybe
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Gamling studied the slowly approaching horde. It consisted mainly of the Orcs of Isengard; a trifling menace, only dangerous in vast numbers. Unfortunately, vast numbers were exactly what were coming. Turning, he glanced over the fifty-or-so men of the Westfold gathered about him. Théoden himself had placed Gamling in control of this garrison, under orders to hold it to the last man.
An order readily accepted.
Unsheathing his sword, Gamling thought back over the past few days. Many changes had come to Rohan-the legions of Saruman, traitor, to all Free People, were ravaging the lands-coursing through the open plains unchallenged. Then, several newcomers had arrived unbidden; Gandalf the wizard, well known to these lands, and three companions that were not. They had escorted the Wizard into the Golden Hall of Edoras, and had promptly expelled the scum, Grima Wormtongue - a vile creature, cowardly and manipulating.
Upon Théoden King’s return to health, these guests of the Rohirrim had convinced him to ride to war, taking the entire garrison of Edoras with him.
However, news had reached the Riders that the Westfold had fallen, and all was in disarray. At this point, Gandalf had left them for some pressing errand, and the group progressed with haste. Around this point, things had gone terribly downhill-a pack of Warg Riders had ambushed them, killing many, including the Captain of the Guard, Hama. But they were repulsed, and the survivors made their way to the fastness of Helm’s Deep, bringing Gamling’s pondering to the present.
Having picked many good men, strong fighters, Gamling was determined to hold the d**e for as long as possible.
And that was how he had come here, in a shallow trench between the arms of mountains, with an empty plain behind and foes ahead. Night was closing - many of the Orcs and Wildmen of Dunland carried lit torches, and a bizarre gathering of dark clouds accompanied them.
Gamling sighed. It would be a long night.
Suddenly, his thoughts were shaken - the horde was running now, screaming guttural war cries and brandishing crude weapons.
The warriors surrounding him readied their bows, Gamling sheathing his sword to lift his own - a beautiful weapon, made of burnished blackthorn - and took aim at one of the many…targets…encroaching them. They were within range - and the bows of the Rohirrim sang.
Despite many arrows flying into the wave of attackers, only a few fell, and the rest trampled their fellows underneath in their blood lust. Fortunately, no answering volley came, and the Rohirrim took up arms just as the first Orcs leapt into the trench. It was almost instantly skewered by three spears in the abdomen, literally lifted off of its feet and into the wall behind it.
However, three more took its place, accompanied by a Dunlander or two. One of these men, long-time enemies of Rohan, lifted up a crude axe, and brought it down on a young warrior’s shoulder. The man yelped out in pain, but thrust his own blade into the other’s throat, bringing them both down.
More and more Orcs were flooding into the trenches, and the Rohirrim were being hard pressed to hold them back.
Gamling, taking two men of the Guard of Edoras with him, charged forward, and beheaded an Orc, the same blow disabling another’s uplifted arm. The Orc screamed out in shock, but was silenced from one of the Guardsmen.
By now, some Orcs with ugly bows had came near and were firing heedlessly into the trench-doing more damage to their own, so many were their numbers-and the Rohirrim had to lift their shields above them. This proved to be fatal, as the Orcs among them would then grab the exposed legs, bringing the shaken warrior down, and then tear the unfortunate man apart gleefully. Spears were thrown into the entangled mass of Orc, and the Rohirrim, now altogether ruthless, hacked and slashed their way through to the other side of the trench.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Many minutes, if not hours, later, the battle cries had quieted down; yet tremors of combat still stirred the Men from rest.
Finally, the last Orc - nothing more than a squat, squint-eyed creature - was slain, and there was a collective sigh of relief.
Wiping sweat from his brow, Gamling inspected the survivors. Nearly three score had come.
And only thirty-seven would leave.
Gamling’s armor was dented in many places, the cloak about him torn, and he was bleeding in more places than he would care to mention.
But they had won.