It is yet time for an other Story. - Tale of The Week 55 //Extended with one week.

[Hesus de bodemloze]

IMPORTANT FOR ALL CONTESTANTS

It has come to my attention that some of you still have problems with the word limits that where set up for this competition. I will check all entries personally to see that no one violates this rule. Contestants who violate this simple rule will be disqualified.

1. Post a short text about this picture, with min. 200 max. 500 words, in a spoiler.

Learn rule one by heart guys. No more violation will be tolerated.

Faithless is he that says farewell when the road darkens.

- J. R. Tolkien -

maxmazi has won PoTW 161 with this very nice TA : TW shot. Congratulations on your victory.



RULES :

1. Post a short text about this picture, with min. 200 max. 500 words, in a spoiler.

2. If you are a contestant you are honour bound to not read other contestants' writings until you have submitted yours.


3. The winner gets 1 point on the Leaderboard, if there are at least 4 contestants.

4. Deadline: last day of each week (Sunday).

[Nazgûl Killer]

Courage
Oh there I stood, oh how mighty was I,
Stood so proudly in the face of death, seeing men cry.
Dear me I pity them, them who did not know,
Them who do not know of the the seeds we sow,
Them who do not know of the glory,
Them who had not felt the sorry...
Such pain I felt that day,
Such glory with it, not leaving it stay.
I felt proud and strong as Faramir yelled,
I saw as my friend beheld,
He beheld the enormity of the foe,
He did naught but wallow.

His fear did not touch me, I was stronger.
I knew my power.
I was imbued, the power of my people,
I felt myself more than capable.
Death stood there, holding a pike.
Death stood there, yelling, warlike.
The fury of battle flowed through me,
Rhûn stood before thee.
Serving the Dark Master, they screamed.
They then steamed.
We taunted and taunted, they charged ahead.
I could not stop myself from feeling glad.

Whether this was my doom or my glory,
I did not know.
Whether this was my life or bury,
I did not know. I fought, although.
It was a fight worthy of Númenor...
Worthy of Gondor...
We fought, once more.
Never to gaze upon the sun, forever more...

[Julius Barca the Great]

My submission for the week. Good luck, all!

Silence

The cheers, taunts, and various mind-numbing screeches coming from the orcs were met by an equally disturbing silence from their so-called “allies,” the men of Rhun. The disciplined humans stood stock-still, knowing an eerie silence was just as frightening as blood-curdling screams. They held their pikes and scimitars, each made by top-class smiths, and glared across the field at their long-time foes, the free and brave men of Rohan.

The horse-lords were armed and armoured in typical cavalry fashion: light chain or scale male, light helms, leather skirts, lances, bows, and javelins. The Rohirrim sat, unmoving, on their steeds, waiting for the order to charge, knowing the Easterlings were out for revenge for their recent defeat at the hands of a small Rohirrim force.

Though the men of Rhun had a long history of fighting with the Men of the West, they were used to the clash of infantry, the heavy armour of the Gondorians. Only with the Dark Lord's recent expansion into Ithilien, and the lands to the north, have the Easterlings fought consistently with the men of Rohan, a task they relished more than anything. Seeing horses skewered on the end of long pikes, cutting the blonde warriors down from their high mounts, feeling the light arrows fall harmlessly to the ground after a run-in with the dragon-scale armour of Rhun. This was the joy of an Easterling.

The cavalry began to trot forward with the orc skirmishers running to intercept. Still the silence held. The orc body charged, the horses galloped, orcs fell. Screams and clashes heard across the battlefield. Still, the silence, and the disciplined ranks, held. The orcs routed, the Rohirrim reformed, and cheered. Easterling pikes were lowered in utter noiselessness. The charge began, and the distance between the two forces shrunk, the thunder and cheers ever increasing in pitch and volume.

The evil men of Sauron reacted in one way to this threat. They smiled. Here they would extract revenge on the Rohirrim for aiding the Numenoreans and killing their ancestors. The pikes wavered, though not from fear; from excitement.

"Hold!" called the Captain of Pikes, the first man of Rhun to utter a sound during the battle. The lines steadied, braced for impact. At this point, fear could be seen in the Horse-Lords’ eyes. Their opponents stood, unwavering, in face of a sprinting charge, something orcs could never do. By the time of impact, the cavalrymen feared for their steeds’ lives, as well as their own.

It was at this moment that the silence was broken. At this moment, the Easterlings shouted, a single, deafening shout of anger, of excitement, of revenge.

[Imperator Romani]

I'm not sure if there's an opening. I see three, so that means I could be four, but it's Sunday, though it's only 6 here. So, sorry if mine doesn't qualify, but I'll give it a shot anyway since the thread isn't closed(and I'm not sure)

Flashback

We've been fighting for years now. I remember when I was a boy, my father left. He had a weapon, and that was it, as he couldn't afford more. He was sent by our warlord to fight. He never came back, my mother wept only in private, as that is custom. How I loved my father, how he loved me. When he came in from the fields, he would kiss my mother and hug me and my sister. This is not like our ways, but he didn't care. We must have been 6 when I last felt his firm embrace.

I was the future of the family. Everyone else had died from this never-ending war. It was my father and me who were left to carry on the family name. But he's dead now, just leaving me to carry out this task. Now here I am, waiting on the enemy. I must survive, I must. Why does this burden fall on my shoulders? Why am I worrying about all this, when I've been raised not to. Why?

Me and my comrades have marched many miles to come here and kill. I've had much time to reflect on these questions, to have flashbacks to my past. I remember when I married the warlords daughter, making me and my mother and sister rich. This let me afford the finest equipment, some of the finest in the world. This doesn't keep the sorrow from surrounding me like a blanket. Why didn't my father have this same equipment? It may have saved his life, saved my family grief, saved the family name. But no, the world turns because of money, and he had to pay for it. We had to pay for it.

We have just topped a hill, and we spot the enemy. We outnumber them 3 to 1. They only have weapons, their task is hopeless. All they are trying to do is protect their homes, their families, their livelihood. You can see the weariness, the exhaustion, the grief on their faces. We continue to march, getting closer and closer, close enough to see the wrinkles on their faces. The calluses on their hands from years of hard labor, just trying to scratch out a living. They've been torn from their homes and families to fight here, to die here. We stop. The man next to me lifts his hand and gives the order to charge. To charge and slaughter men identical to my father.

[Viking Prince]

Cut Bouquets and Wildflowers

This free verse is inspired by the wildflower blooms that we find in nearly every high quality TW picture of the week. Growing in the ground, flowers are a symbol of the variety and beauty of nature. Cut and arranged in bouquets or vases, flowers are now a dying remnant of nature subjected to the will of man.

Cut Bouquets and Wildflowers

On Main Street –
Soldiers march to honor the dead.
Good citizens wear a cut poppy in their lapels.
Bands play songs of those who once marched into battle.
Flags are waved to honor the occasion.
Speeches are given to the honor and glory
of the soldiers alive and dead.

In the cemeteries –
The graves of soldiers are marked with stone.
The graves of soldiers are honored with flags.
The graves of soldiers are memorialized
with cut bouquets placed by those left alive.

On fields of ancient battles –
The graves of soldiers are lost to time.
Soldiers were buried where they fell.
The soldiers are memorialized with
the wild flowers that only nature provides.

I prefer to lie beneath the wild flowers a quiet repose
rather than in the coldness of the cemetery
where all is set and trimmed.
Cemeteries and cut flowers are for the living.
The wildflowers are for the dead and buried.

Dang -- only 158 words, I will revise before the deadline, please do not delete.

Edit: fixed in an awkward sort of way. Sorry.

[molls]

Guys you gotta practise your creative and imaginative thinking a bit Remember, you don't have to stay serious. Not at all! Just don't go too far off the pictures content, but everything else is allowed.
Gonna jump in to make it 4.





And in the darkness bind them
"Where are they?!"

The golden elite stood there, perfectly organized in ranks. Waiting.
And nervous.


"How I loathe this land - its green grass, its dense forests, its cold... for Ancthunr's sake!"

"Shut your hole man, we've got to keep some of our nerves to battle the enemy for we must not fail..."

"Running out of time here. Screw it, WHERE IS this army?"




Often enough some of the men were lurking back over their shoulders.

"I can't see anything! This army isn't here I say!"

"They MUST be! The Dark Lord is never wrong, his many eyes never grow tired and spot everything!"

"Oh really, I wonder why he did not forsee the trouble we're now in?!"




The golden spearman continued to rant, shaking his fist at the forest before him.

"Come out then, you army of cowards! Show us the might of your ring!"

"Will you calm down already? They will come, we will kill them and their pathethic ringbearer and we'll sort it out! Have faith, brother."

"I still don't understand how the ringbearer's army can move so quietly through this land? Our scouts should have spotted them by now...
Still they must have assembled all their strenght to protect the ringbearer on his way to Mordor. Even THEY wouldn't have been foolish enough to travel in small groups with Sauron’s creatures lurking everywhere!"

"...When they come they will pay for all this!"




Some angry shouts and cries rised in the ranks.

"The ring better be worth it...I still can't figure out why all the Mumakils went crazy since last month. We recieved message that all our camps were devastated by Mumakils suddenly turning into berserkers!
Our homeland Harad, trampled and crushed from the inside! Never would I have imagined such madness occuring in our holy deserts!"

"We WILL cut the ring out of their hands, be assured of that. And then the Dark Lord – and we - will gain control over our animals again.

-One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them-

The Mumakil will be ours again!"

"Let’s hope they will...ever since they went bloodthirsty on US, their protectors and lords, we were running from our own breed. Can't believe even the three old Mumakils in our cohort finally dashed away into the forests! We are lucky to be still alive - they decided not to trample us all, argh!"

"These beasts are gone for good, don't worry. There has been no sight of them for 24 hours now, they must have found another prey..."

"Wait, can you feel that?"



Frodo and Sam, covered by their Elven Hoods, were sneaking by the flank of the Haradrim army in some distance. Still puzzled over how the Harads appeared to have been waiting for them here, they were even more surprised when the dust cloud and the noise appeared.

Three Mumakils emerged from the dust and charged at the rear of the Haradrim army. The golden elite fled in all directions.

[Raglan]

Here it comes, finally the chance to avenge the disgrace. Four long years since that defeat, four years of living with the thought that you are a coward. Now battle has come again, and now is the chance to redeem yourself.
Standing with polished armour, sharpened weapons, training complete, they know that this time there will be no retreat. Staring at the foe, you feel the fear beginning to build, but this time you are not succumbing to it. Next to you stands your brother, behind you your cousin. Many of those around you are friends, family, brothers in arms.
And this time you will all stand, none will run. Damn this fear, Damn this feeling of being a coward. It is eating you up inside.

ARGH!

Acting on instinct, you jump forward. Raising your hand, you shout at them, showing that you refuse to run this time. It makes you feel better, the fear begins to fade. Looking at the man next to you, you grin at him. Seeing the fear fading in your eyes he jumps forward as well.

YEAH!

All of a sudden, everyone is cursing and shouting, the fear has gone now, and the battle is approaching. Win or loose, this time know one is running.

[Juvenal]

Surprised to see me? I certainly was.

PS. I believe the events below are compatible with Lore, please let me know if I've made a boo-boo.


Scent of Victory

King Girion looked proudly over the serried ranks of the Army of Dale, brought to an
unprecedented pitch of perfection with Dwarvish gold.

Although confident of success, Girion regretted things had come to this. He
didn't particularly want to conquer Rhûn, merely to control its trade. The Lords
of Dale had become accustomed to profits, and with the trade of Mirkwood and
of the western Dwarvish clans already completely sewn up, Girion had needed to
expand to keep the greedy Lords from turning on each other or even, gods forbid, him!

The inhabitants of Rhûn were warlike but disunited and naïve in the ways of business.
Dale traders had fleeced them for everything they had. But now a war leader
had emerged from the vastness of the desert and united all of the Easterlings against
Girion. But no matter, they were still a rabble and victory was assured.

The fight began with an exchange of arrows. It was a glorious slaughter! The men
of Dale had the very best Elvish equipment, the Easterlings cheap shoddy bows
sold them by merchants of Dale at grossly inflated prices.

Then the splendid Easterling cavalry charged, but Girion had an answer to this also.
He signalled his Camel Corps to light-up. Men ran among the animals setting fire to
bundles of pitched-faggots on their backs giving each a smart whack in the direction
of the enemy. A hundred panic-stricken screaming honking dromedaries bolted straight
into the oncoming enemy. Those horses that didn't instantly throw their riders simply
galloped off, their helpless passengers soon disappearing over the horizon.

Much of the remaining Rhûn host suddenly remembered urgent appointments at
this point and hurried away. The men of Dale cheered loudly at their victory,
but unaccountably not all the Easterlings had fled. A band of Rhûn desert fighters
were marching steadily forward, their strange nose-pinching coal-scuttle helmets
glinting painfully in the afternoon sun.

Dale arrows made little impact on their thick armour, so Girion ordered his men to open
up these foolish tin cans with their spikes and mallets. The enemy halted, but instead
of bracing their weapons, began to make strange wind-milling gestures with their arms.

It was at that moment that the wind changed direction and the men of Dale received
the Rhûnish secret weapon full in the face. The stench was beyond description!
Girion's men came to a disorderly halt, clutching at their throats and voiding the
contents of their stomachs (and bowels) upon the ground. They lay writhing and
helpless as the enemy walked calmly among them, fastidiously impaling each man with
their long spears. Only Girion and a few comrades escaped, saved by their horses.

His Army destroyed, King Girion was disgraced. When the Dragon Smaug came down
from his mountain two weeks later and burned the city of Dale to the ground, Girion
was so desperate to escape the indelible lingering smell of Rhûn that he actually
welcomed the killing flame merely for the surcease it offered.