Treachery of Men RPG

[bill_n_sam]

Gunna kept her eyes carefully focused on the ground at her feet as she and the Borrim hunter walked the remaining short distance to her house. She had felt the hostile stares of the loiterers boring into her, as their erstwhile leader had confronted Hunta, and been successfully put in his place by both the man and his huge dog. Gunna realized with dismay that her association with the Northerners would be fodder for the rumor mills by the time of the evening meal. Hopefully, none of it would reach her husband’s ears until she had a chance to explain herself to him. Well, there was nothing for it but to give the man the cheese she had traded and send him on his way back to his lord and lady, without further offense, if that was even possible.

With a sigh of relief, Gunna turned the last corner before reaching her little home. With a mixture of both pleasure and uneasiness, she saw Kata’s donkey cart pulled up by her door. Kata was always welcome, both for the goods she often brought to trade and for the news she seemed to so frequently be the first to know. After the altercation in the street that she had just witnessed, though, Gunna wished that Kata’s visit had come a little later. There was no telling what her friend would think of the presence of the Borrim hunter, or the fact that Gunna was trading with the Borrim in the first place.

Gunna said hesitantly, “Please, won’t you come inside? It won’t take me a moment to fetch the cheese.” Her maternally tuned in ears picked up the sound of the baby laughing in delight on the other side of the door, and she could smell the fragrance of tea wafting from the house. I’ve been much longer than I thought I would be, she thought reproachfully. I hope Mem did not worry!

[Lalaith]

Rarely had such rancour festered in cheese and venison. Embla’s mind was filled with ugly thoughts as she brooded over the slights she had suffered that day.
How hastily the hag had scuttled forth when that Ulfing woman had arrived with her offer of trade. How eager she had been to put the second wife in her place, to issue orders, to send her off. Hunta came to me with a great slab of venison, Briga had said. Ignoring the fact that it had been she, Embla, who had been given the meat by the returning hunter.

As far as she was inclined to feel friendly towards anyone of her own Borrim party, it was to the venison-bringer, Hunta. Not for himself, but for his hound, Laylah. In the happier days of her girlhood, she had been charged with the care of Dimma, her uncles’ hunting dog. Dimma had been a swift, graceful creature with a noble heart, and this Laylah had the look of her old pet. So, when Embla took the meat from Hunta, she had so far forgot herself and her current misery as to stroke the animal and smile at her, briefly. The memory of her unwonted softening rubbed like salt into her recent wounded pride, and angered her further.
The loathing she felt was so strong it gave her goose-pimples. Briga, bustling about, so full of self-importance over this forthcoming feast, so honoured and excited that she, a mere woman and wife, should be allowed to attend. Embla glowered. Among her people, the Bairka, the lady of the hall was the dignified centrepiece of any feast. She remembered her own mother, Rind the Proud, as hostess, moving imperiously among the tables - the great keys of the household hanging from her heavy belt as she passed the cup graciously to the most honoured guests.

And now Embla was clearly expected to feel gratified to attend this gathering of the dolts, summoned by the biggest dolt of all, her husband. Tonight they would cluster, frightened and flustered, around a goat’s cheese to wallow in their collective ignorance. They saw nothing, they knew nothing, and they would never ask the right questions. Look at Briga now, sending Hunta off to question that cheese girl. Time wasting nonsense. Embla did not know the name of the smith’s wife, but her sharp eyes had taken stock of her many days since. Not especially stupid, but very young and entirely absorbed by her immediate domestic sphere: husband, baby, and that strange blind girl who lived with them. Hardly a confidante of power or a rich source of gossip and intrigue.

As for her own intelligence-gathering…the arrival of the tall men, the elves, had interested Embla mildly. She had never seen the fair folk before….but always sensitive to potential snubs, she knew instinctively that these fine haughty fellows would have little to say to a downtrodden interloper like herself. There was however something, or someone, in the settlement that intrigued even her more than the Noldorin newcomers. The strange, dark-clad woman they called Jord. Her great beauty had the chieftain’s son in thrall – that was clear enough. But Embla could sense something else, something she did not quite understand. She did not think any at the feast tonight would ask her counsel, and she would certainly never offer it unsought. But she would wager her mother’s ring that this woman had a secret worth knowing.

[bill_n_sam]

The Borrim hunter merely nodded his head in acknowledgement of Gunna’s invitation. She wondered if the deep scowl on his brow was a permanent feature, or only the result of his verbal skirmishing with the Ulfings. Gunna had been alarmed at the near altercation, but more than that, she had been almost ashamed by her fellow townspeople’s rudeness. Certainly their kinsmen from the north merited more politeness, if not true friendliness, than it seemed they were receiving. With a silent sigh, she acknowledged that this was the way of things now. Dag was right – it was best to mind their own business and not worry about the doings of those around them. But how much longer would that be possible?

With a slightly forced smile, Gunna nodded in return and stepped through the door, remembering at the last moment the huge dog at her escort’s heels. She turned to ask him to make the animal wait outside and almost bumped into the man’s broad chest. “Oh! I . . . I wonder if you could have your dog . . . “

“Laylah!” The Borrim did not need to repeat the command. The dog dropped to her haunches and sat, not at ease, but in a posture of keen attentiveness to her master.

“Oh, oh . . . thank you.” Gunna said nervously, and turned once more to proceed into the house.

The light within was much dimmer than the brightness outside, coming merely from the smoke hole and the open door. Knowing her own little realm, though, as well as she knew every detail of her child’s face, Gunna stepped confidently across the threshold, impulsively giving Kata a quick hug.

“Kata! I’m so glad to see you! And who have you brought? Jóra! Granny Dulaan! And Tora too?” There was a brief moment of confused but happy greetings and explanations as to who had come for what reason. When the clacking of six female tongues had died down a bit, every eye came to focus on the stranger amongst their merry little group. An awkward silence fell and several of the pairs of eyes turned to Gunna for explanation.

“This . . . this is, um, Hunta.” Gunna gestured towards the grim looking man who stood resolutely holding the neatly wrapped venison. “He . . . he is from the household of Khandr, the, er, northerner who has come to negotiate for a bridegroom for one of his kin. You know who I mean?”

All heads nodded. Certainly they all knew of the Borrim contingent ensconced in their midst, within, yet not part of, their community. Gunna pretended to ignore the wide eyed stares of her friends, as she gave a somewhat breathless explanation of this stranger’s presence. “Belig mentioned that Khandr’s wife was eager to trade for food, they . . . their men are such skilled hunters.” She nodded in Hunta’s direction, as if to confirm such an accolade. “And, so I went to their house, the house given them by Ulfang, you know, near the chieftain’s hall? And . . . and I thought, well, we had this fine wheel of cheese, and the last piece of meat we had from Tokr had already spoiled, even though we gave his wife that fine blue thread – you remember, Kata? You had your eye on it yourself. Well . . . and so, I, I met Khandr’s wife . . . well, both his wives, I suppose, to be precise, and . . . they, she, she was quite polite, very friendly. And happy to trade fresh venison, so, she sent one of the Borrim, er, sent Hunta, here, to carry the meat for me and to bring back the cheese. You know the cheese I mean, Mem?” Gunna finished feebly, the unspoken words sounding as loudly in her head as the spoken ones. Leaving your poor blind sister AND your little babe – to go consort with those foreigners. Dawdling along in the street, passing the time of day with a strange man – a man NOT your husband! WHAT were you thinking, girl!

But if Kata, Dulaan or Tora were thinking these same thoughts, they gave no outward indication. Not in front of this Borrim, leastways. Mem, with her innate sense of how to smooth troubled waters, said pleasantly, “A guest! And one who can share some new stories with us – not those same old naughty tales you tell, Dulaan! Please, won’t you sit with us, Sir? I’ve just made tea – would you care for some?”

Mem’s gentle voice seemed to break the awkward tension, and Kata and Dulaan both pressed the newcomer to try the tea, assuring him of its fine flavor, while Gunna silently took the venison from Hunta, laying it aside, and then handed him the steaming cup which Mem had held up to her. Tora for her part sat quietly, observing the Borrim closely but saying nothing, while Jóra danced happily about with the laughing baby jigging in her arms. Although the abrupt entry of this northerner into their little gathering was startling, it was certainly a golden opportunity not to be wasted, if at all possible.

Hunta extended his hand, taking the cup Gunna offered. Gunna thought she saw the frown on his face relax somewhat, but she could not be sure in the dim light. Hunta bobbed his head, and with a brief, “My thanks, lady”, retired to a corner by the small woodpile, where he seated himself and took a sip of tea.

Once again, it was Mem who lightened the moment by saying, “Sister! You’ve missed out on a happy bit of news! Dulaan has confessed – she’s in love! Raudi he’s named, and he goes with a limp. I believe that’s how old granny caught him – he couldn’t run away fast enough!” Laughter filled the small house, as the women settled in to talk, with an occasional shy glance in the direction of the corner.

[Noinkling]

It was no shy look with which Granny appraised the man. She cocked her head a bit, her ears only half listening to the women’s conversation as she watched him amble slowly and deliberately toward the corner. ‘Amble...no, that’s not the word,’ she chuckled to herself. ‘Lumber, that’s it.’

‘Hmmm...yes...lumber, just like a bear. Big, broad-chested chunk of a man. All serious faced, like he’s on the scent of something. A bear, hunting.’ She nodded her head. ‘And just what’s he got in mind, I wonder. Who or what’s the prey, I wonder.’

Mem’s voice, the quick laughter of the other women, brought her thoughts back to the conversation. The little joke at her expense brought a flush to her old cheeks and she hmmmph’d a little as if to dismiss the very idea of it as nonsense. Then she grinned and shrugged her shoulders and laughed along with the others. Smoothing her skirt over her knees gave her a moment to collect her thoughts. She looked about at the little group of women, a merry twinkle in her eyes. ‘Well, the old gal’s not dead yet, is she!’

More tea was brought round, this time by Jóra. Dulaan nodded as the girl topped off her mug. ‘Such a sweet one you are, my little rabbit,’ she whispered. ‘Best see if the fine fellow there needs a little more,’ she directed, jutting her chin toward Hunta.

Dulaan’s eyes flicked over the now seated figure. ‘Looks much the same as any Ulfing man,’ she mused. Granny came into the town very little and Grimr had no acquaintances among the Borrim...that he’d brought home, at least. All she knew of the Borrim were the comments she’d heard of visitors to the house. And she was of an age to know that gossip did not always spring from truth. She rubbed the side of her chin with her knuckles. Gunna had indicated he was a hunter...a very good hunter. ‘Hmmm...’

‘Birna’s daughter is of an age to marry,’ she thought to herself. ‘Handsome enough lass, generous hips...be a good’un that for bringing in babies...little too strong-willed for some, though.’ She gave Hunta another quick appraisal. ‘Now I wonder...’

[Anguirel]

The chamber beyond the hall was ill-lit, but the slight, winnowing fires did not reveal bear stone; the place was generously hung, Lachrandir observed, with brownish tapestries, notched by crude, dark figures, some sitting, some drinking, some fighting, one bowing low. Such draperies must bear much of what this people knew of its history, he considered. But the future of the Ulfings, not their past, was now his concern, as it had become entwined with the future of Caranthir, and probably all the Edain and Eldar as well.

"My lord is aware that the contingent he desires is great in number," Lachrandir said, with quiet but penetrating force in his voice. No answer came from the Ulfing potentates, but he suspected their gazes were sullen enough.

"Great in number it is," he continued, "but the Lord Caranthir would have you think him lenient. In the north the Lord Maedhros, who has summoned this League, requires the Borrim to fight fifteen thousand strong. In the lands of the High King, every grown male of Hador's people is summoned, saving only the lamed and the old. Caranthir has ever allowed you certain freedoms and governance and customs of your own. Now he calls to mind the debt to be settled."

Lachrandir paused, before summing up his message in an implausible line Caranthir had personally ordered him to impart.

"Our lord would have you follow him not out of fear, but love."

Silence still, mingled with some coughing from the old Chieftain. Then Ulfast and Uldor spoke at once.

"Certainly-"

"Well-"

Another embarrassed pause, and it was the father who left the last word.

"The muster shall be gathered. But I am old, sir, unfitted for such games; so the command of it shall fall upon my son..."

The quietness was palpable and burnished. Ulfast stepped quickly to his father's side, and regarded his face sternly. Uldor stayed where he was, his chin leant into his hand, his eyes glinting. Ulwarth stood apart, and the apparently foolish youngest son's glance was both sly and bitter.

"...my son and heir, Uldor. He shall be responsible for the gathering and training of men, and shall lead my army against the Enemy. Now, my eyes grow heavy...I would have this meeting be done..."

The sons of the Chieftain left like startled crows, each going their own way; the envoys at a slower pace, after bowing to Ulfang, also retired.

[piosenniel]

Tora’s words echoed Káta’s own thoughts. ‘I for one think that something is indeed approaching. But something by no means good. A battle, but the looks of it, but how will it end? And, most of all, will we live to see its outcome?’

It was a grim question, and one which Káta had chewed over and worried at until the bone of it was nearly picked clean. Grimr had listened to her concerns and in his own way tried to be reassuring. She knew he and others of the men were deep in talk about the fermenting situation. But much of what was discussed was kept secret, even from her. ‘It is your protection that you do not know fully what is in the wind. Our protection. When the time is right I will tell you all, heart of my heart.’

Bah! She gave her shoulders a little shake as if to let go the old quandary, at least for the moment.

Káta’s attention was diverted for the moment. Gunna had come in at last.....and with some Borrim. Interesting..... She must talk to her, when the man was gone. How long had Gunna been trading with those of the Bor group, she wondered. And why would a man want to hang about a gaggle of women? Grimr would have smiled pleasantly, graciously, at the invitation and hied himself off as quickly as he could having made his excuses. She stifled a laugh thinking of her husband’s face.....his brow raised in consternation, his mouth set in a sort of rabbity grin, his eyes haring about for the quickest means of escape.

Her mind flicked back to Tora’s words again. And best you leave off that line of thought she concluded, thinking back on the observation by Tora which had preceded her woolgathering. At least until only the small group of women she counted as close friends were gathered and those less known to her, more suspect in their unfamiliarity, were well out of hearing range.

Káta motioned for Jóra as she passed by with the pot of tea. She offered up her cup, though she’d only taken a small swallow of the fragrant beverage. As her daughter bent closer to pour the tea, Káta in turn leaned nearer her, murmuring low. ‘Keep a close watch on your tongue, Jóra, when you serve that man. Be pleasant, but cautious.’ Her flicked to the man in the corner and quickly away. ‘And let me know all of what he says and what he asks.’

‘Have you heard,’ she said in a louder voice, turning to the other women as Jóra went off on her little errand, ‘about Hálma’s younger daughter? The one just turned sixteen years this last harvest? Seems she’s run off with her older sister’s promised man. Emund’s middle son. The boy’s mother, Gisla, is fit to be tied. As is Hálma and her husband. There’s the whole question of the bride-price already half paid for the other daughter.’ She turned and looked at Dulaan. ‘And some little bird told me they’d already jumped the broom and there’d be a babe most likely come this harvest.....’

[Anguirel]

When the Hall of the Ulfing was deprived of its irascible master's supervision, an atmosphere of cautious jollity set it, the nobles sensing that now was a moment to swagger and make their hay. The mead ran with more ease and the jests with more coarseness; insults long nursed were parcelled out freely, and the Chieftain's guards clustered together in knots, on the back foot as the vassals of Ulfang caroused.

Drenda sat down now, glancing rapidly down the length of tables and into the centres of discourse, his perfect almond eyes identifying and observing the figures whose personalities dominated. It was a favourite game of the ambitious youth's; investigating who, with the Lord's family removed, really held sway in the Hall.

Some men were notable for bombast, popularity, and prodigality; such a one Drenda's father, Drenduld, had once been, reckless and carefree in self-pride. For instance, there was Alangar, brazen skinned and barrel-chested whose laugh now sounded loudly, ringing off the darkened beams. He was an extremely hard drinker and it might truly be said that drink had no effect on him, for, as far as Drenda could see, he was inebriated day and night anyway. Somewhat more worthy of respect was a man like Rakthan, who spoke little and was usually listened to because, so far, he had scalped eight men in six duels.

But Drenda traced a power more silent and pervasive than that of Alangar or Rakthan originating from a smallish, unremarkable man, without particularly exalted blood or any feats to his name, which was Brodda. Most assumed that he was a mere cypher for his paymaster Uldor, but Drenda saw it differently. Brodda exercised and interpreted Uldor's wishes, and that made him in his own right, a man of influence. Besides, there was his survivability to be considered. Brodda had acted as a menial hand in countless intrigues and plots, and always found his feet; there was skill in that, a skill that could be detected in his mean little eyes.

So it was Brodda Drenda now approached, stooping so their heights were more equal, in a gesture of deference. "Afternoon, my lord Brodda. What think you of the news?"