The fog that hung across the field was dense, like a thick funeral shroud of the darkest grey, it rested upon the battlefield, unnatural in its make; men could see barely a foot before them, so impenetrable was the screen, as the disorganised mob of a once proud cohort attempted to reform in the chaos of battle, their shouts lost over the din of clashing steel, pinging arrows and curdling screams of the dying.

Terror had gripped the hearts of Men, for while the men of Gondor are stout in heart and iron in will, the suddenness of the attack that had beset their camp, and the ferocity of the orcish band who moved through the fog and thicket like wolves circling a wounded prey carried it with such surprise that many a man was lain low in the comfort of their tent.

Those that armed themselves best they could and rushed to the fray, heeding the cries of battle in that distant smog were swallowed by it, torn from the grasp of their comrades by foul magics and orcish blade, leaving but handfuls of friends and countrymen to stand together lest they too be swallowed by the predators lurking within the ocean of grey.

But there, upon that small mound where the Standard of the White Tree hung high upon the wreck of a once proud nobleman's tent, stood tall a mere footman, his plate polished and chainmail immaculate, and upon that heater bore too the mark of Minas Tirith.
And though the fog smothered much of the mans features, and stripped him of sight and sound other than the terror that the orc sought to inspire, he did not waver from his place; sword held ready by his shield he waited, as the cries of countrymen sounded closer the unbalanced footsteps of many a foe drawing closer as black iron dug into the wet soil whose appetite was filled by the blood of men he did not step back.

Silent as the Fountain Guard, Stern as the Numenorean's of old, he faced his destiny eyes opened and with contentment, for when he caught sight of his most ignoble of foes, his arms did not waver as they hewed flesh and pig iron with equal force.
So the Orcs came in number, eager to claim another Standard, and were rebuffed thrice more; each time the stout footman lashed out at his would-be-killers, chainmail torn and limbs hacked, Orcish hunger could not supplant valour and soon what was once a torrent of murder turned to a trickle as many of Sauron's servants turned to flee, many nursing a wound; casting fearful glances upon the silent Gondorian, whose body still; racked with arrows, shield hewed and sword blunted remained standing; gazing upon their tattered force behind a shadowed visor.

This day, the Men of Gondor were not found wanting.