OOC : This is the first story I wrote with regard to Pelaphor as a character, its three or so years old at this point and contains some outdated information, but its not good enough to bother with rewriting the entire thing. Pelaphor fought in South Gondor not Rhun, he is also significantly older at the time these events occured than I originally wrote. I was much less experienced at writing when I wrote this so pardon the poor prose.
A dead body floated peacefully through the chalk churned waters, as a young officer stuck his head up from a trench in the flood fields surrounding the place known as “the city of stars”. He was clean shaven, but it was hard to tell if that was youth or choice, and a layer of grime covered his features. He was handsome enough, pox had not scared him nor had natures will given him any one displeasing addition, but it would be a lie to say he was beautiful. His striking pond-green eyes pierced the landscape for any sign of danger as he hauled a muscular albeit slightly weighty physique out of the hole. He stood, stamped the ground and then cried out in a voice, which given a little rest and water, would have been rather smooth. “Captain, seems the buggers have cleared off for now” he paused smiling to himself then added mockingly “Want a hand up?” Various strange noises then came from the trench that could have been roughly called grumbling and a much coarser man replied “I can get myself up lad thank you; we’ll see some of that cockiness battered out of you if we ever find the bloody orcs”. As the dumpy captain clawed his way up it was quite regrettably clear to First Lieutenant Pelaphor that their mission was a waste of time. They had spent three days wandering through the labyrinth of trenches that was meant to be the twenty second’s heroic advance to recapture Osgiliath from the enemy, only to find a mish mash of signs that suggested anything from complete and utter success to a disastrous defeat. The problem was they had neither seen the twenty second or any sign of Mordor’s horde. Pelaphor sighed as he pulled Captain Ralmillath to his feet, “No sign of friend or foe sir, may I suggest we set camp at the known line here and send the scouts forward to well erm scout?” The Captain grunted approval and signalled to the snake of Gondorian troops that was working its way through the trenches to make camp.
Pelaphor was eating dinner when the scouts returned without having found as much as droppings and this did not help soften his foul mood as he settled down for the night in the slop filled ditch where they had made camp. Years training in Minas Tirith and what for? He was now stationed under the command of Captain “podger” Ralmillath’s light skirmish battalion, infamous for their complete and utter failure to defend some arse end of nowhere village from an eastern raiding party. The village had been raised to the ground while its defenders were in a tavern some miles from the site itself and so the Steward had wisely chosen to reward them with a mission to lend support to the “Heroic offensive” in the frontline. Pelaphor though young knew the facts of life and had never expected a half blood from Rohan to get a place among the knights no matter his skills, but he had never thought to be facing certain death from either starvation or the mass of orcs that held Osgiliath.
Two weeks later acting Captain Pelaphor huddled behind a rocky outcrop with the small remainder of his men and prayed to the Valar that he’d get out of this alive. They had found the twenty second alright, fighting on the last redoubt of their attempt to resist the orc’s final push. Happy to have received fresh men General Falion had order the skirmish to perform their role and form a last guard upon the hill to cover the three hundred or so of his men as they retreated to the trenches. Knowing this was certain death Captain Ralmillath had bravely passed the duty on to his Lieutenant. And that was why Pelaphor was now standing with fifty of Gondor’s worst troop, armed all with bows, ready to fight over one thousand orcs.
The evening before Pelaphor had ordered his men to collect whatever wood they could find amongst the old camp and sharpen both ends to points. His plan was desperate; the battlefield was a boggy field with a slight incline flanked on either side by woodland, he would place his men at the top of the hill behind a line of the crude stakes the men had fashioned the night before. They would give volley of arrows until they ran out or were forced to combat by the enemy and then rush in to the Melee and die like sheep to the slaughter. He had little hope of his men lasting long against the savage orcs at sword point; his men were all skirmishers and as such were only armed with dagger or mallet. None carried shield so a line was out of the question and at any rate mail rusted by swamp water would not halt the cruel stabbing blades of Mordor.
Though his men were fearful and cowardly Pelaphor could not be said to share the feature, it was only his inspiring presence that made the doomed men stand that day. As the sun dawned over a foggy boggy field drenched with terror, the light skirmish prepared to face the Dark Lords ravening host. Pelaphor strode out in front of his thin and shivering line and prepared to put fire in their bellies. “Today we die” he began not stirring much response from the soldiers except a few curses or tears, “Today we die together to save a land of glory, and it makes little difference whether you fight or simply entertain the orcs long enough to cover a shoddy retreat. But their is a reason to fight for every orc you slay today that is one more orc that will never threaten your wives and children, your mothers, brothers and sisters. Today you will put a terror so great that the enemy will halt its advance for fear of enraging your ghosts to return and torture them with nightmares, for nightmares they shall have of facing hundreds, nay thousands of Gondorians bent on revenge for your heroic sacrifice. Today we die, but we do not have to lose!” and with that he raised his sword into the air and a great cheer rose up strong as the breath of Eru, then the orcs came.
A great charge of uruks mounted upon huge wargs smashed into the line of stakes in front of the brave men of Gondor, the battle had been raging for hours now and Pelaphor had not lost a single man. It had begun with the skirmishers firing wave after wave of death from their huge war bows, the un-armoured orcs had been forced to clump tightly together to fit in the narrow land between woods and as such every single arrow found its mark. The orcs kept advancing chanting black war cry’s but in the end volley after volley wore them down and the loathsome fiends fell back at their unseen maters bedding. Then they had sent the warg riders in, but little did they know of Pelaphor’s cunning stakes and each charge had been fatal, the wargs unprotected chests had been impaled and so a huge pile up of rider and beast built up at the Gondorian line. The uruks in their heavy armour could not move once sent toppling to the mud and it was quick work for the men to stab them in the eyes or crush their faces with mallets. In one last gambit the enemy charged all their remaining troops, but they could not move for the dead heaped up forming a wall of flesh protecting the wily captain and his troops. Any orcs still with the stomach for fight attacked but were fended off easily from the tops of the horrific wall. Pelaphor wiped sweat and blood from his brow as he stared out at a sight he never dared hope for, orcs running through a field full of over six hundred dead of their comrades. He laughed and cried for he had won.
