LOCATION:

Strand below the Cliff

To the east, the city of Umbar can be seen in the distance. Walls and buildings are shrunken to mere dots; at night long fingers of light far above to the west mark the lighthouse at Land's End, though its beam does not reach in this direction. And to the north lies the vast emptiness of the Great Ocean, its ceaseless motion drawing the eye thither. The cliff curves away to north and south, reaching out long arms to enclose a sheltered bay, where a ship could lie at anchor, perhaps, if it managed to clear the dangerous reefs the lighthouse warns of. The weathered grey cliff-face provides a path for the agile, down to a narrow strip of pebbled strand crowded with debris and seaweed.

Obvious exits:

* Faint Path leads to Umbar, the Garden Belt: Rocky Path.

It is a cloudless night, with just a sliver of moon to be seen. A moderate westerly breeze whips the waves up into peaks, though these are small enough to provide no hindrance to the sailor. And indeed someone seems to have chosen this night to venture out by sea. A small boat lies drawn up on the strand, and the dark bulk of a larger ship can just be made out away to the southwest. A group of men is unloading, passing the goods by a human chain up the narrow path to the top of the cliff. There they are being loaded on to pack horses. Another man stands lookout near the top of the path, peering this way and that - always his eyes are drawn back to the looming lighthouse, though its beam does not touch this place. In his hand a stout cudgel is held at the ready. There is the distinct impression that these folk do not wish for observers.

It is growing late indeed. As the small boat returns with one final load, the workers stand around stretching cramped muscles or wrapping themselves in cloaks to keep out the night chill - already there is a hint of the coming autumn in the air. They remain quiet for the most part, though a few whisper quietly amongst themselves.

One voice stands out from the rest - oddly accented, deep yet somehow slightly nasal. This man is shorter than his companions, and wrapped in a grey cloak, but in the near-blackness little else can be seen to distinguish him as the Hillman labourer Barzag.

Up at the top of the cliff the lone figure of the watchman can be seen, but he too is tired now. Slowly his head nods ...

[Pharazon:]

Slowly, the silver moon heads ever lower upon the star filled sky and time passes as the the men go about their work. Suddenly, shadows begin to move within the darkness around them. Closer they go with each passing moment, makig their way towards the workers.

As the watchman jerks awake, shakes his head and digs his knuckles into his eyes in an attempt to force wakefulness, the men down below continue their work. The small boat is pulled up with a crunch of shingle, and once more the shore-workers start the business of unloading, under the quiet, clipped directions of their leader Malunzil. Barzag shuffles to take his place in line, and silently heaves the packages upward to where the pack-horses and their handler wait. Thankfully these are lighter on the arms than the heavy casks of previous runs. None of the workers seems to realize they are being observed.

[Pharazon:]

Silently, the shadows move closer forming a semi-circle around the group of men. At length, a voice raises from the shadows, "Hold! In the name of the Governor, identify yourselves!".

The response is immediate. The watcher who has failed in his duty stands stock-still for a moment, then gives an answering shout, "Who are you that disturbs night fishermen in the Governor's name?" The workers down on the strand stop loading and begin to push the boat out, while those items already unloaded are unceremoniously flung down. One pack-horse still awaits its load, and the handler swings himself up, balancing precariously on the awkward pack saddle, and spurs the rest of his charges into motion with a shout and a flick of the whip, away past the shadows.

For those men who remain there can be no such swift exit. They are left to scramble as best they may up the narrow path to the clifftop, and those who have weapons reach for them. Barzag does not have a weapon, at least none that will be any use in this situation. But he stoops to reach for a couple of round stones to hurl, and perhaps delay an enemy's approach.

[Pharazon:]

Fishermen? And since when do fishermen scramble and reach for the arms before the soldiers of King?" The voice answers back and almost instantelly, swords are being pulled around the officer. Reflecting the silver light, the swords are seen in the shadows.

"Since when? Since others threaten them." The voice is calm, almost contemptious, and comes from Malunzil, the supervisor of the shore-workers, who draws his own longsword in response. His grey eyes gleam coldly in the faint moonlight as he hisses out orders to his motley band. "Scatter, if you can - remember the lie of the land. And if anyone's taken, he's on his own." He moves forward, to face the officer.

It is hard to scatter when trained soldiers surround you. Yet what alternative is there? Certain imprisonment, or even death? Each man acts for himself, no trained fighting force this. Barzag eyes the shadows, seeing an absence of movement in one place - perhaps a gap? He sprints towards it, not daring to turn to see how his companions fare.

[Pharazon:]

"After them!" The officer shouts and the soldiers give chase, scattering in all directions. Here and there, the slowers ones are cut yet others dissapear into the darkness. Among the shadows shouts are heard and in some cases, the clash of steal.

The officer, scans for his own target and his eyes fall upon their leader. Sword in hand, he approches, "Lower your weapon!".

Malunzil's response to the command is a curl of the lip. "And why would I do that?" He raises his own sword, eyes flickering as he measures the other man up. Then, with a sudden burst of movement, he lunges forward, aiming to slip past the other's raised sword-arm and prick the armpit, where his armour will be weakest.

Barzag keeps his own head down, the hood of the cloak concealing his features, and barrels forward. Just a little further and he will be past the ring ... Then a dark shape rises up before him. Almost of its own volition, Barzag's right arm raises and a stone hurtles towards the oval that must be the man's head.

[Pharazon:]

To the side, does the soldier move as he brings his sword to parry the attack. The two sword meet in the darkness and the clash of steel echoes in the night. "Then you shall taste the sword justice!" The officer roars and with that, swings at his opponent. The numenorean blade cuts an arc in the air, aiming for the arm side of his opponent.

Malunzil snarls as the move is blocked, pulls back and starts to circle, so that when the officer strikes he is able to dodge the blow. The sounds all around him - shouts, the clash of steel and thud of cudgels, and in one case the groaning of an injured man - are completely ignored. Once more Malunzil lunges, this time attempting to strike his opponent from the side, his sword aiming for the other man's waist below his sword-arm.

Barzag's stone strikes its target, and there is a grunt. The dark shape falls back - dazed or unconscious, it is hard to tell and Barzag does not stop to look. He seizes the chance to continue his headlong rush out of the circle of soldiers, risking the briefest of glances back as he does so.

[Pharazon:]

The soldier recoils and takes a step back just as his attack is blocked. Once again, he moves his sword in the path of the attacking blade and once more the two swords meet. Yet this time his attacks quicker and his sword goes low, aiming for the leg of the other man.

Quick the strike is, indeed, and Malunzil less quick to dodge. The sword cuts across Malunzil's unprotected right leg, ripping cloth and tearing a red gash across the flesh. A grimace of pain flits across his face, but still he does not back down, instead risking an instant's glance behind him. There are few of his own men left now - most must have managed to break away - but too many of the soldiers. He shakes his head, then pushes forward again - an awkward move, for he must keep his weight on his left leg now. The edge of the longsword cuts a slashing arc, this time towards the officer's left side.

[Pharazon:]

This time the officer does not move and only his sword he raise to block the attack. "Stand down! You can can not even walk." he says above the clash of swords and he pushes Malunzil's sword back with his own sword, putting enough force to hopefully make the man step back.

Stagger back is exactly what Malunzil does, gasping as his injured leg touches the ground. He gives another of those desperate glances behind him, then looks down at his own leg. Flight will be impossible now. Somehow managing to keep his balance, he holds the longsword in front of him, but does not move to attack the officer. Instead he queries softly, "And if I do? What then, eh?"

[Pharazon:]

"You shall be judged." The soldier says simply.

Malunzil's lip curls once more at that. "Judged? Aye, and I know your 'justice'. The rich walk free, while the poor pay the price." Still he does not move, but there is a tenseness about him, as if he were holding his energies at the ready.

[Pharazon:]

The fighting around them comes to almost a stop and only a few swords can still be heard beyond them, in the shadows. "Lower your weapon or you shall be judged in the Halls." The officer says once more, raising his sword.

"Better that than rot in a stinking pit for the rest of my life! Never again ..." And with that, Malunzil makes one final attempt at attack. This time the sword lunges straight forward, its tip pointed at the officer's chest, his own weight behind the blow.

[Pharazon:]

In the last minute, the officer steps aside as the blade narrowly misses him yet his own blade he leaves in the path of the other man, hoping to use his momentum against him.

Too late to sidestep, unable to stop his fall, Malunzil lurches against the blade, which strikes him in the midriff - and unlike the soldiers, he does not wear armour. His eyes go wide, and as his body crumples to the ground, leaving the sword red-stained, his lips move, just three words. "On .. your .. own."

[Pharazon:]

In a smooth motion, the soldier pulls his sword free. The crimson blood drips from his blade, as he looks at the dead man and with a sigh and a shake of his head, he turns away after first wiping the steel on the cloths of Malunzil. Sheathing his swords he moves towards his soldiers, as they gather men around.

Participants:

BARZAG

For many, their first impression of Barzag is of a person of little importance in the world. His swarthy skin proclaims him a foreigner to Umbar, one of the race of Men known as Hillmen. At about six feet in height, he is taller than most of his kind, and this is complemented by a strong build; his well-muscled frame and calloused hands show that he is no stranger to hard work. Indeed, his shoulders are slightly stooped as if from carrying heavy loads. A mass of dark hair hangs to just above shoulder level, shadowing his face, and he wears a short beard, usually kept neatly trimmed. It cannot, however, hide this man's main distinguishing feature - a malformed lip, cloven and twisted so that his mouth appears to be set in a perpetual sneer. Above this, his features are evenly balanced - a long, straight nose, and a pair of amber eyes set beneath dark brows, bitterness all too often visible within their depths.

He wears a tunic of dusty blue fabric, which appears to be in fairly good condition still. The sharp-eyed might notice some sort of mark on his upper right arm, although the short sleeve of his tunic has been pulled down as if to conceal this. His trousers are of a dark material, faded now in many places. On his feet are a pair of scuffed leather moccasins. And he has one more item of clothing - clearly a valued possession. A grey woolen cloak, old but still serviceable, protects his form in inclement weather, and is carried rolled up and slung across the back at other times.

MALUNZIL

A man of medium height and medium build. His brindled grey hair is tied back at the nape of the neck, but many strands have escaped the thong that binds them, giving him a somewhat windswept appearance. His grey eyes are keen, even piercing perhaps, and his face is lined and weathered by the years. His age is hard to discern, but you guess he is somewhere past mid-life. He is clad plainly enough, in a dark tunic and greyish trousers, with a dark cloak over all. A longsword hangs at his belt.

Officer (played by Pharazon) not desced