Treachery of Men RPG

[bill_n_sam]

Mem’s sharp hearing had picked up the sound of Kata’s donkey cart well before Jóra had scampered in through the unbarred door. In the few years since moving into the west with Gunna and her husband, Mem had formed close relationships with many of the women of Ulfang’s town, despite spending almost all of her time within the four walls of the little house. It hadn’t taken long for word to spread of the queer, sightless woman’s fine spinning ability, and the quality of her work often prompted busier wives, sisters and daughters to come calling. The relentless grind of daily chores frequently prevented these women from being able to take the time needed to spin the wool or flax into the gossamer weight threads that Mem’s deft hands were able to produce. The garments then woven or knit from such yarn were soft and light and slid luxuriously over the skin. In exchange, the women were happy to trade whatever products of their own hard labor, or their families, that could be spared. Thus many a fine piece of cloth, woven mats, cloaks and bedding of warm skins, and, most commonly, food stuffs were received by Mem and her sister. When the little family of three, now four, had first arrived in the settlement, there had been a few shaken heads and rolled eyes. But pity and wonderment at Dag’s extra burden of providing for his blind sister-in-law had since turned to acknowledgement that he was a lucky man to have one so skilled in his household.

Still, Mem was reluctant to call out a welcome to Kata and old Granny Dulaan, for she had soon recognized the shuffling gait of the old one amongst the springing steps of young Jóra. Gunna was taking longer than Mem had anticipated, and she was shy of speaking to the other women on her own. Usually, it was Gunna who led the way, greeting and offering refreshments, conducting the bargaining and trading bits of gossip once the deal had been concluded. Mem preferred to sit quietly and listen intently, occasionally throwing in a joke or a funny story, often being asked to sing one of her comic songs, which frequently centered around poking fun at the men in their lives. One old crone had asked Mem how she could have such an astute perception of men, when she had no man of her own. “Oh, but I feel that I have many” Mem quipped. “All those in the town in fact, after hearing all I have from their wives and daughters. I have the benefit of knowing how men are, without the labor of having had to find out.”

“Well, that may be so, girl.” The old one had jibed back. “But your stories and songs are little enough to warm you on a cold winter night.”

Thus, Mem hesitated as Kata called out, “Gunna, are you there?” “I see the little fire’s going!” she heard Jóra’s high pitched voice saying as the door opened and the girl rushed in. As usual, the girl went straight to the baby, exclaiming over her, and then Mem felt Jóra’s light touch on her frail arm. “Can I hold her?”

Before Mem could answer, Kata gently announced her entrance into the little house, and Granny Dulaan’s too. Mem first turned her unseeing eyes in the direction of Jóra’s voice. “Yes, of course, sweet one. She would be waking soon in any case. She’ll be thrilled to see you.” Jóra clapped happily and went to tenderly lift the child from its wooden cradle.

“Is Gunna here?” Mem heard the doubt and then the concern in Kata’s voice, as the woman called again, “Gunna?”

“Welcome Kata! How are you Granny Dulaan?” Mem said politely. “Gunna is not here at the moment, Kata. But please, sit. Be comfortable. I’m sorry, the fire is low, the day being so warm. But I can have it stirred up in a moment, and will put the water pot on to boil and we can have tea. I’m sure Gunna will be back any moment.”

Unthinkingly, Mem turned her face to the doorway, wondering what was taking Gunna so long. Meanwhile, her hands found their way unerringly to the small pile of faggots which lay by the fire pit. Carefully, she laid them in a pattern on top of the embers and bent to blow on the banked fire gently. Having been confined to sitting by the fire for so much of her life, she was readily able to tell from the feel of the heat on her body where it was safe to place her hands and where it was not. But she could hear a sharp gasp from Kata as she blew the embers to life. Even for those who knew her, Mem realized it was hard for them to imagine how much she could do, for herself, and for her family. She prided herself on trying to be as much of a help, and as little of a burden, as possible to Gunna.

Hoping to reassure and distract the women, Mem said merrily, “And what is this I hear Dulaan, how one of those handsome young Borrim hunters has fallen in love with you and has sworn to carry you off to the far north when they leave, and that he will die of a broken heart if you will not have him?”

[Noinkling]

‘Is that what they told you, Mem?!’ Dulaan cackled as the woman turned toward the sound of her voice. ‘Well, handsome is as handsome does, I suppose. And young, is it? Have mercy!’ Granny groaned just a bit as she lowered herself down to sit near Mem. ‘Well, he has got all his teeth, I’ll grant him that. Leg’s a little gimpy on the left side. One of his mares kicked him hard, caught the knee. Guess she didn’t like how he was helping with her foaling.’ She picked up a piece of kindling and poked at the fire Mem had stirred up. ‘Name’s Raudi,’ she whispered, leaning in and touching Mem lightly on the knee. ‘There! Now you have a bit of gossip to pass about.’

‘Jóra,’ Dulaan called out to the young girl. ‘Bring that baby over here for Granny to see for a bit.’ She held the baby out at arms’ length, cooing at her. ‘Pretty little thing. Sweet little bunny-girl,’ she cooed at the dangling infant. Granny handed her back to the eager Jóra.

‘Know what some little bird told me?’ she said in a soft voice. ‘Someone’s kinda sweet on you, too. And this’s no gossip either. I had it straight from the bird’s beak, so to speak.’ She glanced up to where Kata stood waiting for the arrival of Gunna. ‘Fálki.....you know, one of Kata’s twins. He’s the one as always volunteered to drive us womenfolk to your house with the wool. He’d have come with us for this trip, I’m sure. But there was men’s business going on he had to see to.’

‘He’s quite the shy boots, f’you know what I mean. Most likely never get up the courage to let you know his feelings. Thought I might ease the way for him, letting you know, and all.’

She glanced at Mem, trying to read the young woman’s face.

‘Anyways, probably said too much, always do.....’

[Celuien]

Ulfast allowed a smile, harsh though it was, to creep over his features. "Surely, brother," he said to Uldor, "Lord Caranthir's letter would tell you all that you need know of his messenger's purpose. Why delay its reading again?"

Uldor scowled, displeased with Ulfast's ill-temper. The smile did not conceal the anger behind Ulfast's words. If anything, it turned the words from a simple question to a mocking sneer. "I wish to know. Is that not enough?"

For a half of a breath, Ulfast thought of revealing his mind. It was not enough for Uldor, a foul swine who did not belong among the company of the Ulfing hall, to wish to know. Uldor ought to have remained in exile forever rather than returning to usurp power which he could little wield in his sloth. Uldor was a fool, thought Ulfast, but one who feared nothing.

And in the other half, Ulfast quailed under his brother's glance. He answered flatly, "Lachrandir comes with a message for us to gather our forces for the defense of Lord Caranthir's realm. Are you satisfied?"

[Dimturiel]

Tora was making her way towards Dag's forge with resolute steps. She was glad that her father had sent her to go and not her brother. She prefered to be out of her house at the moment, being fed up by her mother's excited talk about the coming of the two elves. That was the way her mother always behaved. She liked to see signs that thier lives would get better in every event, even in the ones that were clear to have bad consequences. Not that Tora found the presence of the elves an event with bad consequences. Of course, things were bound to change one way or the other, but there was the possibility that the change would not affect them too much.

But why did everyone had to be so enthralled by their coming? What did they think they would do for the settlement? From what Tora had heard of the elves, she knew that they were proud and very hard to please. What could they feel for the inhabitants of the settlement save contempt, if not even disgust? And how could their coming improve the way things went in the settlement? Could her mother not see that it was a foolish thing to believe?

Tora had reached the forge. She knocked at the door and then entered. She could see that Dag was not too pleased at her coming, but there was nothing that she could do about that now. And standing in front of the door without saying anything would surely not improve Dag's mood. Therefore, she took a deep breath and began:

"Greetings, master Dag." she said. "You know that my father has asked you to mend his knife and you told him that it would be ready today. Well, my father has sent me for it. Could you possibly give it to me?" She paused, looking at Dag uncertainly.

[Kath]

"Bergr?" Came a familiar cry from behind. "Bergr! I have a message from my lord Khandr!"

Bergr straightened, ugly words in his head. Idiot, Hugo, he muttered under his breath, that's any idea of a hunt gone today, and just when I needed one. He cut off his own train of thought, aware that he was being unfair on the messenger. Turning he placed as broad a smile as he could on his face.

"Well what is this message then?" He asked walking toward Hugo, sheathing his knives as he went.

Hugo held a letter out to him, and Bergr regarded it with wary eyes. He could read well enough, but he did not want someone waiting while he did so.

"I suppose you can't just give me the general idea of what it says?" He inquired, receiving a small laugh from Hugo in response.

"No I cannot, sir, for I do not know what the message says myself. I will take a verbal answer though if you would rather that than write one down."

Grunting at the compromise Bergr read, his features darkening as he learnt of the rudeness being shown to the Borrim even at higher levels than he experienced. The bars had been increasingly cold toward him of late, with his requests for ale being ignored and the door shut in his face. He wondered now if this had anything to do with the arrival of their Elvish friends. The invite to a feast was met with more pleasure. It had been some time since the small number of Borrim in this place had all been together and he looked forward to speaking with them again.

"Tell our lord I will be there." He instructed Hugo, and watched as the man made his way back toward the city, presumably searching for the other Borrim. Sighing he took a knife from his belt and marked the tree he was standing by to remind him of the place of his latest quarry and began his own walk home.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Briga purposefully stepped to the front and addressed Gunna. She chose her words with care, all the while keeping a wary eye on the other woman who stood a short distance away, "Cheese for fresh game? Yes, we would be interested. The hunters do a good job of keeping my husband supplied with meat. Just this afternoon, Hunta came to me with a great slab of venison. It is too much for our own household, even with the feast tonight. Rather than take it to the smokehouse or trade it at the market, I'd gladly do an exchange with you for some cheese."

The younger woman who had first answered the door stood sullen and silent. Even though her eyes were guarded, it was apparent that there was considerable bad blood between these two. Before Gunna could reply, Briga turned to address the younger woman, "Embla? Did you not have something to do? I believe my husband asked you to polish the silver cups in preparation for the festivities tonight. As Khandr has been kind enough to ask both of us to grace his table, surely you will want to help?" Embla shot back a sharp glance but then turned and disappeared down the hallway.

Briga turned back to Gunna and began speaking in a relaxed and confidential tone. "I am sorry. You must excuse her behavior. She is new to our household.....a second wife. And it is taking her a while to understand her duties." There was no anger or derision in her voice, just a hint of disapproval as if Briga was genuinely puzzled why Embla should not immediately jump to her command and do as she was bid.

"What say you then, my friend? But before we shake hands on the bargain, may I see the cheese first, or do you plan to drop it off later? Ad please do tell me what your name is. I know so few folk in this town."

[bill_n_sam]

Dag:

Dag paused in his work long enough to hear the girl’s enquiry. Just as he had known it would, Ulfast’s imperious commission for a sword would necessarily put on hold all the other mending and crafting he had obligated himself to do. This was the power that birth brought – the power to shove aside others less fortunate in the circumstances of their conception and drink first and longest from the cup of prosperity. The utilitarian knife of a common farmer, what did that matter when it came to the demands of a chieftain’s son? Those beneath could wait, while the few who rode upon the shoulders of the many took what they wanted, simply because they could.

These thoughts flowed through Dag’s mind as he began hammering once more on the sword. No more than ten blows had fallen though, as Tora waited patiently, before Dag carefully laid aside the red hot blade and finally turned to her, wiping his hand over his face. “The metal must be worked just so, while it is at the right temperature, or the blade will be brittle.” he explained without preamble. Tora nodded her head in apparent comprehension, although her face betrayed her puzzling over what this might have to do with her father’s knife.

“I’m sorry. You must tell your father that his knife isn’t fixed yet. I’ve been . . . required to provide a weapon, for Ulfang’s son.” Dag noted Tora’s gaze fixing upon the still glowing metal he had been working on. His eyes slid sideways to the sword also, then back to her own dark ones, hoping her father would not take out any disappointment over the delay on the innocent messenger.

He hesitated, then said, “Well, the repair should not take long, no more than an hour’s work. I’ll do it now, and let the blade there rest.” He regarded the girl, considering that she had probably a long enough walk from her farm to make it not worth her while to return there and then walk all the way back to the forge a second time.

“You may wait here, if you wish, or if you have other business hereabouts, you might want to see to it while I work on the knife.” Dag walked a pace over to where a small pile of implements awaited his attention. A thought struck him, then, and he waved his hand casually in the direction of his own home. “Or, if you prefer, pass the time visiting with my wife and her sister. I know they always enjoy hearing the gossip from the outlying farms.” He smiled briefly at the girl as he plied the bellows, stoking the fire and plunging the knife blade into its glowing heart.

*************************

Gunna:

"What say you then, my friend? But before we shake hands on the bargain, may I see the cheese first, or do you plan to drop it off later? And please do tell me what your name is. I know so few folk in this town."

Gunna smiled tentatively at the woman from the north. Her husband must be wealthy indeed, to be able to afford a second wife. Although Gunna, with Mem always available, realized how helpful it was to have a second set of hands to get through all the work there was in a day, she was more than glad that she did not have to share Dag’s affection with another woman. Watching Embla’s stiff back as she retreated, and seeing Briga visibly relaxing, Gunna sensed that perhaps this accounted for the obvious tension between the two Borrim.

“I’m Gunna, wife to Dag, a blacksmith and armorer. We live not too far off, under the eastern wall of the town. I . . . I know, perhaps some of the townspeople have not been too friendly. They . . . they are shy, or suspicious, of strangers. When we first arrived, three years ago, it was the same for us. People . . . people are . . . frightened, I believe. Frightened of what they do not know, and of what lies ahead of us, in these uncertain times.” Gunna closed her mouth abruptly, wondering if she should be talking like this, to a woman of position, and a stranger at that. “Well, yes, fresh venison sounds wonderful. I’ve heard your hunters are very skillful.” She hurried on. “I wasn’t sure if you would want the cheese, so I didn’t bring it with me. It’s quite large and I had no free hands. But I can bring it right by, if that’s acceptable.”

**************************

Mem:

Mem’s mouth hung open as Dulaan spoke. Surely the old woman was making a joke. But if so, it was a cruel one. Mem knew Dulaan well enough to know that, regardless of the old granny’s penchant for teasing, a kinder hearted soul could not be found in the Ulfing settlement. Could it be that the old woman was serious? Mem shook her head in disbelief, while her hands busied themselves with finding the pot and settling it near the edge of the cook fire. In confusion, the young woman called out to Jóra, who sat playing with the gurgling baby. “Sweetling, the tea is in that clay jar, by the basket of turnips. Can you fetch it here?”

Unconsciously, Mem fingered the bright bit of woolen cloth which Gunna had tied about her head that morning as they dressed. The hair which had grown in after her fever so many years ago, was brittle and of a strange rusty coloration. Gunna kept it clipped short – shorn like a sheep in spring, Dag would quip. What man would even think of her in terms of affection, Mem thought distractedly? Never in her wildest imaginings would she have guessed that Fàlki . . . Mem’s hands froze as the full impact of what Dulaan had said hit her. Fàlki! What did she even know about Kata’s son? Quiet? Shy? With a certainty, he was both. So much so, that even Mem, with her sharp ears, had barely heard him speak more than ten words in the two years in which he had occasionally accompanied his mother to their house. Could she even say she knew the tread of his feet, so like it was to that of his twin?

With a start, Mem realized that Jóra was speaking to her. “Mem. Mem! Here’s the tea.” The girl was setting the little clay jar gently into her hands. Taking a small palm full, she tossed the fragrant leaves into the heating water. Trying to collect her fractured thoughts, Mem turned to where she felt the old one sitting familiarly knee to knee with her. “Dulaan, I . . . I don’t know what to say. Are you in jest? Fàlki? I . . . I never even imagined . . . “She stopped, helplessly searching for the words to express her confusion, and the dim, far away hope that lay beneath.

[Durelin]

Being cemented in her body meant that Jord had to physically follow the man she wished to talk to, and so by the time she felt it good to approach him, she was in a foul mood. She always had to be careful who saw her and Uldor together, and where anyone saw them. Her worries were not many: she knew that likely the fools thought her his mistress or something equally demeaning, but she still had them. The less she was seen at all, the better. And so it pleased her that Uldor did not notice her until she was practically breathing on the back of his neck.

“You will hold to it,” Jord whispered. The man appeared unaffected, but she sensed his surprise, and a bit of something else that she liked. “The brave and honorable Uldor keeps his promises, just like his father…” A smile formed slowly on her face as she spoke. This boy was sworn to Morgoth just as Ulfang was, and they both knew there was no turning back for him any more than there was for her. But that was the end of their similarities.

Uldor sneered at her, and Jord considered the joy of reaching out and patting his head – a reward for being smarter than he looked sometimes – once she really had him on a leash at her feet. She searched his eyes and gave him the sense she was boring into him whenever he met her gaze, giving him yet another reason to let his eyes travel elsewhere. He would learn never to meet her gaze, with naïve defiance and arrogance from fiery and uncontained youth, soon enough.

“I thank you for your flatteries, woman,” Uldor maintained an air of carelessness as he threw the comment at her. Jord internally struggled, but kept her own mask firmly wrapped around her face, and her body practically laughed. He will be thanking me for more, and begging for anything I will give him, soon… Always soon. But she had the patience of millennia.

“Always the gentleman. Even to those Elves, I imagine, and even when they announced their request? Seven thousand? It will indeed be a lot of blood on your hands.”

The man looked at her, his face finally betraying a bit of shock. She continued to smile, knowingly, and she let her eyes slowly look Uldor up and down, lingering on certain parts, whether or not she found them interesting. Obviously some found them to be quite interesting. He was fairly handsome, by human standards, though also approaching old age by them. Yet in mind and spirit he was a boy to her, fresh-faced and hotheaded.

Not allowing him time to respond, she gave him one more question to consider, “And whose blood would you rather taste?”

[Dimturiel]

The company had now become larger than Tora had expected, and she was wondering whether she should not excuse herself and go and see if Dag had not finished her father's knife. The hunter that Gunna had bought made her uneasy, although why exactly she could not explain. Perhaps it was the fact that he seemed so different from the people that Tora usually saw. Or maybe because one like her usually mistrusted those that were not part of her little community, and took time before coming to regard them, if not as friends, then at least as people from whom there was no evil to be feared.

The gloomy topics that had been discussed until Gunna and her companion came were now forgotten. Instead, the women began gossiping of small family affairs, showing their curiosity and indignation, shaking their heads, and talking as if no dark cloud would ever threaten their living. Tora was somehow pleased by this. She felt her heart lift, knowing that there were people that still talked of such insignificant matters with the same eagerness as they had before discussed the designs of the elves. She turned her attention to Kata, although the tale of the apalling deeds of Halma's younger daughter were quite known to her, as she had heard many people taking of them. To many this event held as much importance as the coming of the elves, and to some even more.

The women were shaking their heads with disbelief as Kata spoke, and Tora too, tried to show her disapproval of such behaviour, although deep inside she did not feel half as apalled as the others. And being known to speak always what was on her mind, she did not hesitate to share her oppinion with the others.

"Well, it surely was a dreadful thing, running off like that with her sister's promised man," she said, "but you should not judge her too harshly. I know the poor girl quite well, and she was always telling me how much she loved him, and she was so sad when she heard he was to be her sister's man. She really cared for him , you know. Of course, this does not excuse what she has done, no, indeed, not at all."

[Folwren]

“Taste?” Uldor said slowly, looking at the woman who had materialized beside him, like some spirit or wraith from another world. “Who’s blood would I rather taste? Foolish woman, you know nothing of war, do you?” There was a strange, dark flicker in her immeasurably deep eyes, but he didn’t care to analyze it. “Does it matter to me who I kill? One way or another, all their blood will be spilt. I do not care if it is with elven or orc blood that my blade and hands are wet with, so long as it is not in vain.

“The blood of seven thousand Ulfings will not be on my hands at all,” Uldor went on, turning away from her and walking up the gravelly path. “You speak as though I were king already and could make these decisions. Since you appear to know everything that happened today in private ears, you should know that my father did not give me the choice of whether or not we obey the elves’ summons. He gave me the job of seeing that they were fulfilled and to figure out the best way to conduct the muster.

“I would he had asked me first for a word in private,” he went on bitterly. His voice sank and he spoke more to himself than to his fair companion. “These elves are treacherous. They care nothing for us. They grasp for that gem their father made and strive ever to fulfil their wretched oath. That was the oath that I heard today.” He shuddered again with the thought of those words spoken in his hearing.

[Folwren]

“But oh! I spoke wrongly, did I not? You made no oath. Your father did. Your father is a wise man, who makes promises to keep them…but perhaps you are the wiser, who does not make them at all.”

Poisonous woman, Uldor thought bitterly to himself. Beastly thing. How had he ever thought that she might be of use to him? Trickster! She would lie, wouldn’t she? And twist things. Just like he. He allowed a slow smile to take hold on his features. He could match her wit. Let her twist what words and webs of lies she would, he would meet her and use it to his own good.

What did she know of his father, anyway? What did she know of what passed through that old dotard’s mind? Why did she even care? And she called Ulfang wise? Because he made promises and kept them? The smile grew until he was nearly laughing. He cast his eye on her.

“Yes, my father is a wise man,” he said, choking on the thought with laughter and contempt. “He listens to me, and I help make him all the wiser. His promises? He holds to them because that is how it should be. But I? I will make no promises until I know for certain that they will aid me in gaining my own ends. Do you understand?” The smile was gone, the expression now hard and savage. His handsome face was twisted with a flash of raging desire. He reached out and grasped her wrist, pulling her about to face him.

“Listen to me, and understand, and if you report, you can tell your masters this. I will not make an oath to anyone if I am not absolutely certain of the reward. You know what I mean. I don’t care about these elves who have come to ask our help. I don’t care if you know everything. I will use it all to my own good and I will gain what I seek.”

[Nogrod]

Back at the tent Fastarr checked his purse. Nothing had been taken. Not that he would have expected it as he had learned to trust Svana and Willap during his regular visits to the sweatlodge. But it was better to be safe than sorry. And he had also another reason to be content with the purse. He had spent a little less he had foreseen so at least at the moment there was one thing less to worry about.

After polishing the bronze-rings of his quarterstaff and checking the coated-sharpened tips of it - and making the last check in front of the mirror - he went out. The sun had fallen low enough to leave the streets in shadows although the sky was still bright with light. A slight wind was blowing in the almost vacant alleys and in the absence of the sun’s warming rays the air felt colder than it actually was. Fastarr pulled the collars of his fine dark-blue tunic up to cover his neck and started briskly to Khandr’s residence.

Now as he came to think of it, he had only used his better clothes once before during this visit to the Ulfing settlement. It had been the first day after their arrival when they had introduced themselves to the chief Ulfang and his sons. After that these finer clothes of his had just laid at the one end of his tent, folded nicely to wait for the next chance to be worn. Fastarr was no dandy, but he enjoyed dressing to the finetextured clothes that felt so much smoother against the skin and had some colour to please the eye. And being clean and tidy was clearly preferable to being dirty and sweaty in any case. He was in a good mood for a change.

And there was also a curious satisfaction that kept growing inside him as he saw the looks of the few locals around following his passage. They were used to see him as the “Horse-Man”, as they said, a servant in his rugged clothes hardly being different than they were themselves: an easy target for mockery or indifference as a stranger of their own stature. Now his retainership was clearly shown out and Fastarr felt he was giving them back every piece of grunt and joking in full as he went steadily and proudly through the streets ignoring every pair of eyes watching after him. Surely, retainers were no upper-class people, but there was a distinction between a commoner and a retainer. Fastarr enjoyed that little difference to the fullest as he walked through the streets.

There were some local ruffians having their afternoon ales in front of a tavern who tried to mock him against the general feeling of astonishment with calls like “Have you stealed your clothes, Horse-Man?” or “Looking pretty, going for a girl? But if it’s anyone I know, I’ll cut your private parts personally!” and the like. Fastarr decided to just ignore them. At least today, as he took care to notice who the men calling after him were.

Approaching Khandr’s residence he noticed Hunta carrying a huge cheese. “Changing from a hunter to a herder, now are we Hunta?”, he called him some thirty yards away as Hunta hadn’t noticed, or at least not paid attention openly to him. Fastarr flashed an amicable smile as the hunter stopped and turned to greet him with a smile too.

“I’ve had weirder tasks than this today, my friend”, Hunta answered and waited for Fastarr to catch up with him.

“Okay... Care to tell me more?” Fastarr asked as they took jointly towards the house. Hunta answered after a short pause: “Maybe... maybe..., but I think the time for these will be later”.

Fastarr opened the gate for Hunta and they passed through it in quiet, but as they were approaching the stairs the doors swung open and Hugo rushed out to meet them. “So there you are! That cheese has been waited for in the kitchen! It should end up in the table where you’re most probably going to sit in a minute – and just think of what is required for that piece of goat’s droppings to melt into the dishes being prepared!”

Both Hunta and Fastarr were totally surprised by Hugo’s sudden hassle and they both stopped just beneath the stairs. “Please, hurry now, will’ya?” Hugo called them beggingly. Hunta and Fastarr exchanged looks and had considerable task in keeping their poker and not to laugh out aloud to the fussing of the servant. Hugo frowned and ran the stairs down. “Okay, okay, I’ll take it. Master Khandr and the lady are indeed waiting for you. Please get in then”. With that he took the cheese from Hunta and ran back in.

Hunta and Fastarr climbed the stairs slowly after Hugo and entered the hall. Khandr and Briga were standing there, waiting for the guests to arrive.

“Good afternoon lord Khandr, my Lady”, Fastar said and bowed courteously.

“Good afternoon your Lordship and Lady. I hope we’re not late?”, added Hunta in his turn and bowed too.

[Dimturiel]

Tora was walking as fast as she could. She felt she had lingered overlong, especially since those at home knew that she had just went to fetch a knife from the forge, and that did not usually take so long a time. She would have to answer for her long absence when she reached home.

But that was not what was bothering Tora most. If there was to be trouble at home, she would deal with it when she got there. It had not been totally her fault, anyway. She had heard many things that made her now feel quite uneasy. It was true, she was still too young to fully understand all that she had heard, but one thing was clear even to her. Something was about to happen in their settlement. Something was not quite right.

Yet she could not quite tell from where such a notion came. Maybe she had somehow senesed some anxiety in the settlement,or felt that there was something looming ahead of them, some time of darkness and difficulties and doubt. Or maybe it was nothing after all. Maybe the happenings of that day-the coming of the elves, the forging of a sword for Ulfast- were perfectly normal events, and only her mind-already used to sorrow and darkness- made more of them than there actually was.

With such thoughts forming in her mind, Tora reached Dag's forge. He found the smith still working on the sword. When she entered, however, he raised his head and smiled to her. Tora smiled back.

"I...I came to see if the knife was ready." she said. "And I thank you very much for putting aside so great a task as the forging of a sword for the chieftain's son for the mending of a mere farmer's knife. I also bear a message from your wife. She tells you that you should not forget your dinner."

Tora paused expectantly. She wondered whether to ask Dag to tell her more of the task that he had been entrusted, but she dared not do it. Such things were not right, and anyway, Dag would surely not confide in her, young as she was. And why did she want to know so much about this? Would it make her feel better? Would it ease her troubled mind? Surely not. Chances were that the answer to her questions would only bring more fear into her heart. Yes, likely enough, she would have to pay too great a price for her inquisitiveness.

[Folwren]

“And your ambition will serve you well, Prince Uldor, in gaining…whatever it is you want…” Her voice was a smooth as honey, as quiet as a sweet bird, as beautiful as a summer day. She touched his hand gently. He drew it back, but didn’t let go. She stepped closer. “Anything you desire,” she said, her voice sinking as she finished. She smiled slowly, sweetly, almost lovingly; Uldor stared with astonishment at her perfectly beautiful face. “Now that is how it should be, is it not, my lord?”

His heart lifted and fell with an odd flutter. For half a moment, he bent closer and his lips parted just a little. His grip on her wrist had become gentler, but he hadn’t yet let go entirely. She looked up at him, her eyes like dark, deep pools, tried to draw him in closer and closer until he drowned within their depths. He let go of her and laid his hand gently on her waist. A slight shudder passed through her at his touch.

A sharp thought rebuked him in an instant. He leaped backwards, away from her, a look of fire flashing into his eyes and face. He had threatened her - his hand had hurt her small, white wrist, he was sure - but she returned it as a compliment and offered more of herself to him.

“What do you want with me?” he snarled. “I didn’t ask to be won over. I’ve got my own plans to fulfill and they don’t include you. Shut up,” he snapped, as she prepared to laugh and respond. “I don’t want to hear any more of your sickeningly sweet promises. With your lips you would kiss me and promise me wealth and power, and with your left hand you would trust a dagger into my heart and give my blood to Morgoth. You would rather see me crawl at your feet than be an honorable man. I will stand on my own - without your help.”

He turned about sharply, ending the conversation entirely, and stormed back over the hill and down towards the city. His blood pumped with fury and not a little confusion. His eyes blazed with hatred towards all, hatred bordering on murder. The guards at the gate cowered away from him, but he ignored them entirely as he strode through.

He went directly to the Ulfing hall, entered by the wide, front doors, and went through the corridors and up a flight of stairs to his room. He slammed his door behind him and threw off his cloak impatiently, tossing it into the bed. His feet slowed to a stop in the center of the floor. For a moment he stood, his hands curling and uncurling by his side. Then, slowly, he looked up and walked to the window.

The heavy, wood shutters were open and the breeze and sunlight flowed in together. While there, looking out, his temper cooled by degrees. His heart ceased to beat so furiously and his mind cleared of the anger and confusion. All that was left was the picture of that face – strange and foreign in it’s beauty. So dark but so utterly fair, the skin so perfectly white without a single blemish. Her hair was black as ebony, and her lips, he recalled…her lips red as blood.

A knock at the door broke into his thoughts just there. He shuddered slightly and then his head jerked sharply about on its neck and he looked towards the door.

“What is it?” he called.

“I bring a message from your brother, lord Ulfast.”

“A message?” Uldor grumbled to himself. “What message would that scoundrel want to send me. He never writes.” He opened the door with sharp abruptness. The unfortunate messenger stepped back at the sight his latently ferocious face. “Where is it? What does he want?” The young man held out the folded pieces of paper. Uldor took it impatiently from his hands and shut the door sharply in his face. He turned towards the window again as he unfolded the letter.

His eyes scanned the short letter swiftly. As soon as he had finished, he crumpled it with annoyance and tossed it into the corner of his room.

“Blasted elves, anyway,” he muttered. “But I guess it is necessary. Confound Ulfast and his nasty ideas of courtesy. Why didn’t I think of it?” he added at once. “It’s not his concern!”

Still grumbling to himself and thinking dark thoughts, he left his chambers and set to work preparing a fitting banquet for a proper receival of their guests.

[piosenniel]

Jóra flicked the reins against the pony’s back and crooned a few words of encouragement. She was enjoying this opportunity to try her hand at driving, and the fact that her mother sat silent in the back of the cart did not intrude on her pleasure. Granny sat next to Jóra, responding with the appropriate “Mmmhmmm!” and “Isn’t that just so” to the girl’s excited chattering.

With home finally reached, Jóra hoppend down from the cart and ran round to help Granny down. She hurried off then to take the pony to the barn.

Káta had gotten herself out of the cart and stood waiting a short ways away from the house for Dulaan to draw nearer. She hooked her arm through the older woman’s and gave her a cat-like smile as she turned them both away from the door and began walking toward the bench by the big oak.

‘Come, sit down, Dulaan,’ she said, patting the wooden seat as she took a seat herself. A brief moment of silence passed as both women looked about at the familiar scene. ‘Now, tell me,’ Káta continued, turning slightly on the smooth seat to look at Granny. ‘Just what exactly did I think I overheard when you and Mem were by the fire?’

[Child of the 7th Age]

As the morning hours slipped by and gave way to afternoon, Khandr waited impatiently for some word of what was happening at court. Surely, he would be summoned to hear the news the Elves had brought and to learn the Ulfings' response to the matters being discussed. But despite his impatient pacing from one end of the house to the other, no information had been forthcoming. Just before the noonday meal, he had gone out for a ride and heard snatches of conversation between those standing guard outside the great hall. There was talk of renewed force from the north and the need to muster troops to stand against the threat, though none of the guards seemed to know what Ulfang and his sons had decided in response to the Elves' unexpected arrival.

Talk of Morgoth and his continuing menace made Khandr wish that he was closer to home. If a war was truly coming, he needed to return to King Bor and offer his services for the muster. He hated war and fighting with a passion; it was one of the reasons that he had served as an envoy for the Borrim these many years, attempting to secure what his landsmen needed by peaceful discussions. But with Morgoth there could be no negotiating, no effort to reach an accomodation. With the evil machinations of the Dark Lord, there could only be swift and certain retaliation on their part. Whatever differences existed between the Ulfings and Borrim, the two tribes of Easterlings surely must agree on that.

With these grim thoughts in mind, Khandr had resigned himself to weeding through a large stack of messages from court concerning the marriage negotiations and then sat down to try and draft a reply. The hours of the afternoon slowly ticked by and, by the time Khandr finished, it was almost time for his guests to arrive. He went down and queried Briga as to who had accepted the invitation and the state of the preparations for the feast. She had slipped out of the kitchen into the hall and pulled him into a small waiting room where they could talk privately. "It's been a hard day, my dear," his wife confided. "Embla has been nothing but trouble. She's done very little work. But the servants pulled together, and I think our preparations are almost complete. I had been hoping for a fine cheese and egg pie, but Hunta is not back yet. I'll just save the cheese to serve with desert as we've made an apple pastry that would do well with a bit of pungent cheese."


Hunta? Cheese and egg pie? Khandr stared quizzically back at his wife, wondering how the two were connected.

They had been together so many years that the woman could read her husband's unasked questions with ease and hastily replied, "Oh, yes. You'll be pleased at what I did. We bought a cheese from one of the villagers, and I had Hunta walk back with her to try and pick up any gossip or news. You never know what you'll hear if you keep your ears open on the streets. Anyways, he was supposed to gather information and drop by after picking up the cheese. Only he must have been delayed as there's been no Hunta and no cheese."

"Whose idea was this?"

"The cheese?"

"Not the cheese," he laughed. "The part about gathering information.."

"Why mine, of course. I am always trying to help. You are worried, Khandr, even beyond the little you tell me. I can read it on your face." She looked over towards her husband. He seemed to have aged ten years in the past three months. She went on in a gentler tone, "We've been locked out by the court. We know little of what is going on. I know you are going to ask the other Borrim to keep their ears open. So I thought I would help by asking Hunta to accompany the villager to her home and to speak with her kinsfolk and friends. Perhaps they've heard something."

Khandr didn't know whether to laugh or cry. What kind of a world did they live in when an envoy's wife had to ask a young retainer to spy on a passel of poor villagers? Briga had never been interested in such things. Her life centered on her children and the gossip of her friends. He looked down at his wife and smiled indulgently, "My dear, I know you meant well but let's not be hasty. Better we should wait and discuss these things tonight."

Briga bit her lower lip and stared down at the ground. "I only meant to help. It's just that I feel....oh, so useless. I know no one here except for you and Embla and our servants. And Embla makes it difficult. She is so unhappy...." and so young, Briga wistfully reflected. "I thought if we could just figure out what is going on at court , then we could all pack up and go home. That's really what I want to do. I don't like this place. I have a bad feeling." She looked over at Khandr with an imploring glance.

Khandr sighed and took Briga's hand, "I too wish we were at home. And sometimes I too feel useless." He leaned down and placed a kiss on her forehead. "Let us enjoy this evening then, even with this talk of intrigue and plans. It seems we have little time to spend with each other for I have been away in the great hall for hours every day. But for now, Briga, promise me....you'll not ask anyone else to go spying. We must be careful what we do. I want to assign each of our men, and you and Embla as well, to a particular household or courtier to get information. We need to coordinate our efforts. The information doesn't necessarily have to come through the lord, but be garnered from the servants or whoever else we can make contact with. But enough of this for now. We will discuss this more with our guests."

Giving her his arm, he smiled, "My dear, I must say you look quite ravishing. That blue dress suits you. Let's go down to the hall and wait. I believe our guests will soon be arriving." As an afterthought he added, "Ah, yes, and is Embla coming as well?"

Briga nodded.

"Good then. For I believe she may have a knack for this kind of thing. And perhaps she might even enjoy an assignment like this. I will make a point of speaking with her tonight....."

With that, the couple turned and headed for the hall where the feast was now being laid out.

[Durelin]

It did not take much to bring the anger out in this man, to get him to show his true colours. He had met her eyes as she drew close to him and she saw the desires in them, his skin had squirmed underneath her touch, and she felt she could see his mouth growing moister though his teeth were clenched. Jord held all of his attention for one moment, and it was just another victory. Between their carnal needs and desires, mortals would do anything, and their weak, impressionable minds could be molded to turn that anything, and eventually everything they did into what she wanted. What Morgoth wanted. What Morgoth commanded.

Uldor’s words were filled with emotion that was wasted on Jord’s ears. She was deaf to almost everything he said now, out of choice. His words did not matter, and they certainly bored her when he started repeating himself. His attention, his mind was secured: that was all that mattered.

“With your lips you would kiss me and promise me wealth and power, and with your left hand you would trust a dagger into my heart and give my blood to Morgoth. You would rather see me crawl at your feet than be an honorable man…”

He may have been delusional, but he was quite right about her. The man knew it, and yet he could not resist her or her promises. The more often she put the plate in front of him, the more tempting it would be for him to gobble it up. And nearly every last Ulfing knew how bad Prince Uldor was at resisting temptation, when he even bothered to try. Perhaps he had a few more wits about him now that he knew that his father could only do so much, particularly in the state the old man was in. An honorable man, though, Uldor son of Ulfang had never been and never would be. Honor required sacrifice, and this boy was all about himself.

“I will stand on my own - without your help.”

It was just another thing he had never grown out of.

Jord watched Uldor storm off with something close to glee, though it soon passed. As he made his way back into the city she examined her wrist and the light red mark he had left around it. It would stand out from the rest of her skin for a little while yet. Was she to think herself lucky to have a body with such smooth, milky skin that the hand of a lecherous dog would leave a mark on her? These women were weaker even than that man, all of them, in body and spirit.

She had learned in her stay that not only did they allow themselves to become “wives” and serve fools they called “husbands” as if there were loyalty involved, but were to desire this. Apparently, they even believed they required…protection. Apparently, in the little world of mortals, regardless of how many toys they were given or found to play with, from swords to fire to thrones and shiny objects, they would always fight amongst themselves, to the point that man and woman became different, when all would be but corpses in a blink of an immortal’s eye.

Apparently, women were the weaker sex in this world of mortals. But in the body of one, she would be responsible for the destruction of so many beings, mortal and immortal, that the carrion birds would block out the sun for days.

Smiling, Jord returned to her chambers, her amusement only encouraged by the way everyone she passed by in the dusty roads turned to look at her. They muttered to each other biting rumours, a common side effect of the human disease, which could only help her cause. Most had seen her, and seen her with Uldor. They knew what sort of man he was, and so it was commonly assumed that her position was a mistress likely of uncivilized origins. Perhaps if enough simple minds around him believed it, the little prince would be convinced of it himself.

“Ah, my dear Brodda,” she said, the words rolling off her tongue with smooth delight as she closed the door to her bedchamber behind her. The rough looking man lounged on her couch, and though she spoke to him, she did not spare him a glance. She did not like acknowledging his presence more than she had to. He was useful, but was only decent to look at even by the standards of his people. And she did not like the thought of any mortal pig making himself comfortable in her bedroom.

“Did you enjoy the company of Elves in the court this morning?”

[Dimturiel]

Tora had felt her blood become cold in her veins when she saw Ulfast entering Dag's forge. Not only that the man was feared in the settlement, but there was also the fact that he-the chieftain's son-had caught Dag disobeying his orders. And all of this, reflected Tora, all of this was her fault. If Dag was to get in trouble-and that was more than likely to happen, by the look of things,-it would be only because of her. If something was to happen to Dag, Tora would never be able to forget that it had been her father's knife that had brought this situation upon him.

Yet could she stay and watch without interfering? Should she not try and do something? Indeed she felt that her obligation was to say something, anything that would help Dag. So, mustering her courage and rejecting the thought of getting away from there while she was still unobserved, she started speaking:

"My lord," she began, trying to keep her voice steady and confident, "I...I should tell you that it is all my fault. It was I who came here and...and distracted Master Dag with my foolish talking. I know I should not have, and, indeed, I would not have done it had I known that I was hindering him from such a grand task. My lord, once more I assure you, the blame is entirely mine."

She stopped, unable to go any further. She could feel the tension in the room growing stronger, and she wondered uneasily whether she had not made matters worse with her foolish meddling.

[Nogrod]

Fastarr was filling his pipe after a most gratifying dinner of which all the guests had been openly thankful to their lord and his ladies. He hadn't eaten this well and in this good company in ages, at least that was how he felt. This staying at the Ulfing settlement had been such a depressing experience. And how he had hoped that Khandr would have thrown this party to announce their quick return home... But those seemed like vain dreams now. And he thought he understood what his lord thought and what might be at stake. He had felt uneasy towards this whole town all the time but now as Khandr had spoken he was getting convinced about being right with it.

After Khandr had given his list of duties to everyone Fastarr lit his pipe and puffed it concentratedly to make it alight well enough. Then he took a long puff and leaned backwards in his chair closing his eyes, thinking all that his lord had said. The smoke poured slowly from his nostrils.

"Lord Khandr, with your permission...", he suddenly addresed Khandr and pulled the pipe from his lips blowing the rest of the smoke towards the roof.

"I do have a slight concern. If we all suddenly approach these brothers tomorrow or the next day while we have had little or no contact with them during our whole stay here, then even how discreet or careful we are they will probably be able to deduce the obvious. I mean one of them just needs to notify another in a side note that one of the Borrim came to him today and the other one will go, "oh I was addressed by one too", and there it is. Maybe one of us should contact one of them personally, but the other two should concentrate on their servants?"

Fastarr took a couple of puffs from his pipe and eyed the others while he leaned forwards.

"I'm not sure how we should share this. As your retainer I might be given an errand by you my lord and I could contact Ulwarth with it? Or maybe we could come up with something for Hunta to query from Uldor concerning the hunting grounds? Or Bergr, do you have any ideas?"

He pulled back again and puffed his pipe yet a few more times. But abruptly he leaned back forwards as he had remembered something.

"Wait a minute. I know one we should go for. There is an Uldor's servant called Crogulf who's something of a drunkard. He sits quite regularly at the Dragontail Inn as long as I know. At least he has been there most of the times I have visited that shadowy place. One of us should have a pint or two with him... I can do it as I know him from his looks but it's also easy to tell you his characteristics, he's one you can't miss after a short description of his nose." With that Fastarr smiled and draw back again.

"If there would be any way we could have a word with those elves... what a pity there probably isn't without consulting the Ulfings first..." He inhaled the smoke with great pleasure and closed his eyes just to feel the substance spreading through his body.

[bill_n_sam]

A crease of irritation flashed across Dag’s brow at Tora’s words, but he quickly regained an expression of calm detachment. Curse the girl for trying to deflect Ulfast’s ire onto herself. If the young chieftain’s wrath was roused over this, Dag’s part would not be overlooked merely upon the mewling of a farmer’s daughter. If Ulfast chose, he would have both their heads, and no-one to stay his hand. Her explanations would not be enough to save either of them.

Dag looked directly at Ulfast and saw the glint of a grim sort of amusement in the man’s eyes. The lordling was baiting him, waiting to hear what words would come tumbling out of his mouth. The truth would be frowned upon; a lie, if discovered, unforgivable. Dag chose his words with great care.

“It’s as the girl says, my lord. She has indeed filled the air with the useless prattle of women, while I repaired her father’s knife.” Dag gestured at the cold blade. “As you well know, the metal must rest between firings, to temper the blade and make it strong. I thought ‘twas better to put such time to good use, rather than stand idle.” Something of a mongrel mixture of the truth, but no outright lie that could be brought back to him. Dag gambled on his experience with those who looked upon him as a subordinate, calculating that Ulfast would not be willing to risk seeming ignorant of the armorer’s craft in order to challenge the smith's explanation.

The corner of Ulfast’s mouth twitched slightly, and, without looking at her, Dag could tell that Tora was holding her breath in fear of what their chieftain might say. A long moment of silence stretched out between the three, Dag sensing that Ulfast was making some calculations of his own. Hoping to tip the balance in his own favor, and that of the girl, Dag offered into the silence, “I can not complete the sword by tonight, my lord. But I can bring it to the point where it bears the appearance of a fully crafted weapon. You may carry it and no-one would know that the blade has not been fully worked. What need would there be at such a celebration for more?”

[Folwren]

Was the miserable wretch going to refuse to answer him? Uldor’s glance darkened as he settled his black eyes on his brother. He saw Ulfast hesitate, draw back, and finally answer him. “Lachrandir comes with a message for us to gather our forces for the defense of Lord Caranthir’s realm. Are you satisfied?”

Uldor’s mouth opened in a silent ‘Ah’ and he cast a sharp look towards the two elven ambassadors, standing mute while they waited until he was ready. His first thought was to make some sort of retort. “Does our lord Caranthir imagine that we do not have our own lands to defend?” was particularly tempting to say. But, no, that would not be fitting.

What is more. . .perhaps this summons could help him. For a brief moment his mind darted around with thoughts of certain possibilities. Then, with a softer look, he set his eyes again on Lachrandir. “Proceed. We will hear the letter.”