Defense of the Poros RPG

[Novnarwen]

The sun reached its highest point at the sky, dazzling the poor Haradrim who felt huge pearls of sweat run down his neck. It made him feel extremely uncomfortable, since he was shaking with fear already. However, as Frôzhal discovered that the battle was slowly turning to their advantage, he guessed that he should come forth again. He stood up and looked around; no one could be seen. Anxious to get back to his platoon, he drew his sword; just in case. He trudged away from his hiding spot, being slightly nervous and hands wet with sweat. What if someone had figured him out? He shook his head, feeling odd about himself and the situation he found himself in. He'd been a coward, yes, he realised that. But, who could blame him? Frôzhal couldn't really explain how he felt. At least he knew that those blood-thirsty Gondorians were the last ones he would want to meet in battle. With this, being determined to go back and pretend that he was a true hero; returning from the battle plain, he headed for the battle; his platoon and Erfâzh.

He climbed the path, which was sloping its way closer to the plain. Squinting his eyes, he tried to get used to the sun, which he so deeply hated. He tried to focus on what he was going to say if anyone dared to ask where he had been, during the most violent part of the battle. He couldn't quite figure. The Haradrim wasn't at all pleased with this, and due to the pressure he was under, his neck turned fiery red and the veins in his forehead grew thick and turned purple. Still being on guard, trying to avoid everyone and anyone, he ran for it and threw himself to the ground. He breathed heavily, being relieved. He was there. Frôzhal became immediately aware of the danger he had put himself in, as some Gondorians ran by, but were killed shortly after. He looked again with disgust at the bodies which lay scattered around, as if they were worth nothing.

****

He lay amongst the bodies for at least twenty minutes. Seeing no opportunity to get away from this brilliant hiding spot, he started to get used to lying amongst dead people. But as soon as he realised that he was thinking this way, he shook his head in mere disappointment and started reproaching himself for this. Surely, this was wrong; lying on the ground, meanwhile his platoon fought for their lives. The worst thing was that he actually started enjoying it; he actually liked to lie amongst these dead, motionless Gondorians. He grabbed one of dead ones’ knives. It hung in his belt and was quite sharp. Frôzhal looked at the little blade. It was sharp and very shiny. Frôzhal liked shiny things.

Frôzhal smirked. Finally getting himself to get up, looking for more useful weapons first though, he started looking for Erfâzh. Few minutes had passed when the Haradrim could get a fair glimpse of Erfâzh. The other Haradrim stood with his face turned towards himself, and by this he took cover. However, there was something else which, he figured, concerned him more. Erfâzh wasn't alone. By the look of his mouth moving, he looked as if he was eagerly talking to someone else. Frôzhal shrugged. Since the man, who Erfâzh talked to stood with his back towards Frôzhal, he couldn't quite see who it was. This bothered him more or less, and he grew even more nervous about grabbing the hold of Erfâzh, asking how his platoon had done during the attack. What if Erfâzh was telling the truth about Frôzhal now?

He frowned. A peculiar smile appeared at the Haradrim's face, as his plan had been formed. Erfâzh was after all just... a soldier in his platoon.

As the Haradrim approached Erfâzh, looking as if he had been fighting for his life, he glanced downwards where the Gondorian knife hung in his belt, not being visible by others. "Hope you and your friend are well prepared," Frôzhal muttered, drawing closer and closer to Erfâzh and his mysterious friend.