Treachery of Men RPG

[Lalaith]

The feast had, on many levels, worked out better for Embla than she could ever have expected. For one thing, she had the petty pleasure of her tetchy exchange with Fastarr, an encounter where she felt she had the advantage. And now, she had been given a task by her anxious husband – to shadow the strange female, Jord.

Embla paid little attention to the intense and anxious conversations which followed Khandr’s spying plan. Instead, she mulled over her own assignment – an assignment which pleased her greatly. Firstly, this Jord was the person in the settlement who interested her the most. Obsessed with her own situation, thinking herself little more than Khandr’s chattel, Embla assumed that Jord’s s relation to the Lord Uldor was something similar. But yet the woman Jord carried herself with an air of pride and independence. This in itself excited Embla’s interest, even envy. Naturally inclined to subterfuge, she relished the prospect of stalking of this dark, strange woman. Whether she would then share any of her insights or observations with her much-resented lord was of course another matter.

But there was another, more healthy side to Embla’s pleasure in her task. This suggestion of her husband gave her an unprecedented licence to roam, a personal liberty she had long yearned for. One of Embla’s chief grievances about her life as a Borrim wife was the restrictions placed on her movements and interests. Women like Briga, Borrim born and bred, happily accepted their restricted sphere. But it was not what she, Embla, had been accustomed to, and the confinement chafed her to distraction. Now, Khandr had as good as told his second wife she could wander as her fancy took her – with his blessing. Embla smiled to herself in anticipation – and for once it really was a smile, not a smirk.

[Child of the 7th Age]

"My friend," Khandr smiled broadly and thumped his retainer on the back. "An excellent idea. Excellent indeed! To go and speak with Ulfang's sons on a matter pertaining to the hunt would work well, both in terms of getting information and setting matters on a sound, practical basis. Fastarr, Bergr, and Hunta--perhaps each of you should pay a visit to the lord whose name you have been assigned and ask his preference as to the particular game he would prefer to hunt. That way, we could arrange for two or even three smaller contingents to set out after different prey."

Khandr stood up and walked over to the window staring out at the street. He rubbed his hands together and shook his head slowly, "Yes, I think that would work well: to split up the party so that the three sons would not always be side-by-side. Perhaps they would open up a bit more. "

"And my dear wives," Khandr looked around to where Briga and Embla were seated. "Neither of you have said anything, at the table but then you are less accustomed to speaking in company such as this. I hope our plans meet with your approval. Perhaps you can find some reason to approach the ladies assigned to you in the next few days, either to hear their preferences in the matter of game or, more likely, invite them to a breakfast on the green the morning of the hunt, should they prefer more sedentary occupations."

It was Briga who spoke up first. "My lord, I have no complaints about the instructions you have given us. Though I would rather be home near our children, I know these things must be done. I only ask one simple thing. We must have at least two days to prepare for the food and other practical arrangements."

"Two days? Then two days you shall have.... I can not go see Ulfang at least until tomorrow. Indeed I will be lucky to get in to see him even then. And the hunt can not take place until at least the day after that. So you and Embla will have your two days to get ready and pay a visit to the ladies."

"What bothers me more are those Elves. I have not even been called to the hall or officially told of these messengers' arrival. So how can I boldly introduce myself and invite these visitors to a festive event? Perhaps I will have to let Ulfang know I have heard of their arrival and ask him to approach them for me. A ticklish situation. Very ticklish indeed!"

[Anguirel]

Even as Khandr was wondering how to make contact with the Elven ambassadors, the same Elves were attempting to find the Borrim diplomat's tent.

Lachrandir had ridden in pursuit of boars in the marshes and copses of Thargelion. He had pursued and slain fell creatures on the outskirts of Neldoreth. He had scoured plains for Orc fugitives after the Dagor Aglareb. He had seen fortifications rise from empty vales, and helped Caranthir to plan the severe sword-strokes of Noldorin roads.

But searching for Khandr was proving a greater challenge than any of this. The cobbles had long since given way on the paths to mud; the dwellings and the air grew more unlovely; the streets harder to define; even the widest tents and most tall-gabled houses were difficult to distinguish from each other.

"Stange, the beauty of this eve's sky," he muttered to Tathren, "and then these mud-spattered homes beneath it, animals and beasts, leather hide and mud brinks, all illluminated by Arien's bronze rays..."

Tathren looked slightly surprised, but did not comment. Clearly he had never seen his adopted uncle in such a poetical mood before. Lachrandir had apparently also been alarmed at his own words; he shook his head, as if to clear thoughts that disturbed him.

"We have long past the smithy the Ulfing back yonder told us of," he concluded. "One of those two larger homesteads must be the...house...of Khandr. "

"Perhaps both," Tathren suggested.

"That's a sharp thought, boy. These men are not as we are, nor do they observe the customs of the Edain in the north; I have heard of some with more than one household, to keep up more than one wife, though it is a thing I understand little of."

An agreement silently passed between them, and they walked quickly up to the opening which served as the threshold of the left-hand building. No attendant seemed posted at it, but voices could be heard, and a dim firelight glimpsed within.

"Am I now at the House of Khandr?" Lachrandir called in the Ulfing dialect, which he spoke with facility if little formal mastery of intonation...

[Child of the 7th Age]

As the messenger's words carried through the corridor to the room where the Borrim were seated, Khandr pushed back his chair and stood up abruptly. The approaching footsteps were barely audible. If it had not been for the initial spoken words, he would not have been aware of his visitors' presence, whoever that visitor might be. Khandr was not expecting other guests tonight. Indeed, in the long months they had been in the village, their Ulfang neighbors had shown absolutely no interest in paying social calls after dark. Briga glanced at her husband and queried nervously, "Who is there?"

"I do not know. But I can not think of worse timing." Khandr shook his head. He faced the others and explained, "I asked the servants to leave, once dinner was served, so there would be no one in the house to overhear the conversation."

A voice near the end of the table whispered. "But how long were they there? Did they hear us before?"

Not waiting to reply, Khandr pulled out a small dagger from his belt and gestured that Fastarr and Hunta should retrieve their weapons and accompany him. The three walked out of the room together and proceeded slowly down the dark hallway until they stood beside a pair of impossibly tall strangers, barely visible under the gutted light of the wall torch.

The guest repeated his earlier question, "Am I now in the House of Khandr?"

Khandr had heard that type of accent before but it seemed so out of place in this mundane village that he failed to appreciate it for what it was. He replied in a cold, stern tone that conveyed a meaning far different than his surface words. "Yes, this is the House of Khandr, and how may I help you?"

[CaptainofDespair]

Brodda had spent much of his time in his lord’s hall since the Elves had made their proclamation. He had watched Ulfang’s vassals, listening to their conversations and their scheming. That had not been so much of a bother, as it was his usual task. But, he had not gathered much information at all. Mostly, the Ulfings were wasting their time with discussions of the Elves, something Brodda could care less for.

So, with nothing much to do Uldor’s right hand went in search of his master. Certainly not in the mood to check everywhere Ulfang’s eldest could be, he went to the most likely spot. He checked Uldor’s bedchamber, but there was no sign of him there. It didn’t even look as if he had even gone back to his room since the events in the hall. Thinking perhaps his master might be waiting for him, Brodda searched his own abode. And yet again, there was no sign of Uldor. “Hmm…Where else could he be,” the Ulfing wondered. Then, he remembered one other place. Jord, the strange female, had Uldor’s ear and he often visited her ‘home’. Exiting his dwelling, Brodda set off towards Jord’s residence. Along the way, a few Ulfings tried to stop and chat with him, but he blew them off. He had important business to take care of and had no time for the peons he felt they were.

Brodda himself had never been in Jord’s chambers. The few times he accompanied Uldor, he had remained outside. But he knew enough of what had gone on within, and to a degree he himself had become involved with the mysterious woman after approaching her at other times. But those all occurred with his boss around. He pressed his ear to the entryway, and hearing no one inside, thought to withdraw and wait for Uldor to find him. But a bit of curiosity overwhelmed Brodda, and he pushed his way in, hoping to go unseen.

Jord’s hovel was not as impressive as he had hoped. Shrugging off his misconceptions, he plopped himself down on a couch to wait for the missing occupant. Now was as good a time as any to get more involved, and perhaps it could undermine Uldor’s quest for power and at the same time increase his own chances for more of it.

When Jord finally arrived, she did not bother to look at him, asking her question with what seemed to be a hint of sarcasm. “The Elves are not what I would call ‘enjoyable’ company. Now you, Jord, are much more like what I might call enjoyable company,” Brodda replied with a laugh. “But, to business. I don’t want Uldor finding out about this little meeting of ours. So, are you interested in a proposition I have, dear Jord?”

[Mithalwen]

For Tathren the day had become less enjoyable as it had passed . The exhiliration of riding fast and far and the novelty of the ulfings settlement had been succeeded by an unprecedented need for self control. Never in his short life (by the measure of his kind) had he been required to remain as still or as silent for so long, witness to meetings at which he had little part to play. Long-limbed and spirited as the colt that had bore him here, he was just as apt as the beast to become restive when constrained.

Even had he been bound to his lord by ties of duty only, their reception might have been provocation enough for Tathren to show the latent fire in his nature but the day's progress had brought also a greater attachment to his master. This was due to the glimpses Lachrandir had allowed behind the chilly hauteur that was the usual demeanour of the comparions of Caranthir, rather than simply their isolation among strangers. Tathren could not imagine his true uncle waxing lyrical about a sunset even momentarily - nor would he have praised his nephew so generously.

Cold speech was one thing drawn blades another and Tathren unsheathed his his own. The blade crafted by his father and born in battle by his uncle would be keener that anything these stunted creatures might have: the resemblance to dwarves he deemed would not extend so far as weaponnsmithing. He had a working knowledge of the mortals language and though he thought it as crude as its speakers his passion gave him a certain eloquence:

"You can help by addressing, my lord Lachrandir, emissary of Caranthir Feanorion with the courtesy that is his due". Tathren had not raised his knife but his height meant that its tip was close to the speaker's heart.

[bill_n_sam]

Dag regarded the chieftain’s son, knowing that Ulfast knew he could not refuse the politely framed “request”, despite the man’s unctuous words of friendship. Well, he could in fact refuse, but he did not relish the thought of having to look over his shoulder the rest of his days, however long those might be. The smith realized he was being let off the hook for the sword, with Ulfast apparently choosing not to go down the road that would have revealed the full truth of Dag’s foolish choice. Inwardly, Dag cursed himself for an idiot for letting his feelings overtake his reason. But if the lordling was willing to let it go, Dag was certainly not going to step wrong now and show disrespect by turning down what was clearly a great honor which the chieftain was willing to bestow on his sister-in-law.

Dag bowed his stiff neck accordingly, although he did not lower his eyes, as he replied, “My lord, you honor my family by such an invitation. I will bring my sister by marriage when I bring your sword and she will sing for you, at your pleasure.” Dag could hear Gunna’s voice even as he spoke, ringing in his head, her words of protest and fear echoes of his own misgivings which he carefully kept hidden. He had himself never been present at a great feast the type of which Ulfast and his father and brothers must be contemplating for the honoring of such important emissaries. But he had attended a smattering of the chieftains’ nights of uproarious carousing in the great hall and knew they could get quite wild, with drink and boasting and jests turning to fights in the blink of an eye. He could only hope this feast would be conducted with more decorum, as perhaps Ulfang would strive to impress the elves. Dag could only plan to stay close to Mem and hustle her away just as soon as she was no longer required. He dreaded having to go back to his house and break the news to his wife. Mem herself, so gentle and so unworldlywise in many ways, would probably take it as nothing more than a great lark, to have the chance to attend such a gathering and to sing for such exalted guests. But Gunna . . .

Knowing that he still had several hours of work to do yet on the sword, Dag told himself he was not choosing the coward’s path by picking up the farmer’s knife and handing it to Tora, saying, “Here, girl. You’d best be on your way home. Run along to my house on the way and let the women know of the great honor our lord does us, and that I will be by at sunset to escort my sister to the great hall.”