Treachery of Men RPG

[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.”

[Anguirel]

If truth be told, Lachrandir had been on the point of reacting to the surly reception of the Easterlings in rather the same manner that his page had just done. His hand had travelled quickly to the dirk at his side, meant for just such emergencies. But seeing Tathren respond to aggression with aggression made the elder Elf realise the policy's dangers.

"Steady, boy," he said in Quenya, laying his left hand on his companion's shoulder. His cold gaze did not deviate from the men in front of him, and he addressed them now, to make matters quite clear, in Sindarin, not their own language. The grey-elven tongue was understood by most of the Atani, though Easterlings especially often stumbled when speaking in it. But these Men were supposed to be Borrim, from the north, and to them it should be familiar enough.

"If you want a brawl, my page Tathren has shown you he is quite willing to bestow one upon you! For myself, I had rather not. We have come in all honesty and courtesy to talk to this Khandr, your master, the envoy from Himring. Much has transpired at the Hall that it is needful for him to know."

[Dimturiel]

Tora was glad that the incident with the chieftain's son had come to nothing worse, although she knew how close they had both o been to greater trouble. And as for Ulfast's request, it seemed a really starnge one to make. True, Mem was well-known for her fair voice, but that was not a reason for the chieftain's son to appear so suddenly intrested in her. If he really was intrested, that is, and there was not something hidden in his intention to see her. Something in the man's eyes and in the tone of his voice made Tora thing that was more than likely.

As Dag handed her the knife, Tora was abruptly brought back from her musings. Suddenly, with a pang of concern, she remembered that her father had sent her only to fetch his knife and then come back as quickly as possible, and that she should have been home hours ago to help her mother with dinner. She would be in deep trouble now, and she knew it. She always was when she came home late. Therefore, she took her father's knife and, after a few hurried words of gratitude to Dag, she ran out of the forge.

Yet anxious as she was to reach home as soon as possible and mend her situation as best she could, Tora resolved to take Dag's message to his wife and her sister. But she could not help wondering whether she was right in doing so. Who knew what Ulfast wanted? Tora and Mem were best friends, and Tora did not want to lead the girl to any harm. Yet there was nothing for it, and Mem would find out anyway, as Dag was bound to tell her. Therefore, she hurried towards Dag's house. She did not enter it however, but shouted from the door:

"Gunna, Mem, it's me, Tora. Dag told me to say...he told me to announce you that the Lord Ulfast, our chieftain's son wishes... that he wants Mem to come to the feast he is giving tonight and to sing for him."

Tora spoke hurriedly, stumbling with the words, wanting to end her errand as a messenger as soon as possible. After she had finished, she left without waiting for the two women's reply, wihtout even making sure that they had heard her.

Now she was on her way home. The day had been eventful, she thought, and she knew from experience that such days were bound to end in an even more eventful manner. Why, even the day when...But no, she had promised herself she would never think of that again, that she would try to forget it. The rest of the village had long forgotten, why couldn't she?

With these troubled thoughts, Tora reached her house. She entered it quickly, thinking that she might as well explain everything to her parents and get this over with so she could be allowed some peace afterwards. She began speaking, as if she was repeating a well-rehearsed speech:

"I..I know I should have been here long ago and I am sorry that I was unable to come sooner. Yet master Dag had other things on his hands, errands more pressing than the mending of a mere farmer's knife. So I had to wait."

She said nothing of her meeting with Ulfast at the forge. She knew she would have to speak of it if her father confronted her to tell her more of her reasons for returning so late, but she still felt she had better avoid this subject as much as she could. She did not want her father to know that she had risked the wrath of the chieftain's son to fall upon her and, most likely, upon her entire family also, for the sake of Dag and his own safety.

[Durelin]

Jord whirled around to finally face the man lounging on her couch, her skirts swishing softly. She did not bother to wipe the smirk off of her face that had formed when Brodda spoke. Scanning his body with her eyes, she calculated his strength, and how pleasant his appearance might be to mortals. Comparing him to Uldor, she thought it likely that Brodda was not considered as attractive, if at all: his structure was completely different. Perhaps a pleasing appearance could be helpful, but what Jord observed from the man’s behavior was even more so: an extreme opportunist nature. There was no loyalty between Brodda and his master, only various desires and business exchanges. She would not need to do much prying to loosen the two, and play them against each other.

“A proposition, my dear? I’m dying to hear.” Jord had to try to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. She did want to hear what the man had to say: another glimpse into his head, and another connection through whatever this proposition entailed could only help her tighten her hold on him. “Dying” was impossible, though. Impossible. She was Thuringwethil, favored servant of Sauron and thus nearly as favored to Morgoth himself. All sick smiles were wiped from her face as she thought of the Lord Sauron. Oh how she missed her Master, and the pleasures he could give her. She was growing hungrier by the day for as rich of blood as she had bathed in under his service. But she knew the Great Lord Melkor would reward her greatly for her service. And even if he did not…she was bound, and she would serve. Jord would do anything for the favor of Morgoth. It was what her Sauron would want.

“Though I hope you have some information for me, as well, like you promised,” she added, a small, knowing smile once again adorning her full lips. Jord purposefully left her statement open, to see whether the man fulfilled her request for information first or only after he voiced this “proposition” of his. She did not care what he decided, but she was a little interested in seeing what he did do. Sometimes it was just fun to play with these animals, and it was surprising what you could learn about how their little brains worked if you let them try and make a decision for themselves. At least in a controlled environment – otherwise it was very likely a setup for disaster.

Jord glided over to a heavy, high-backed wooden chair made of austere dark wood and carved with stern straight lines. She sat down gracefully, arranged her skirts, and rested her soft arms on the hardwood ones of the chair. Brodda’s close connection to Uldor meant that she had seem and spoken with him a number of times, and she had quickly earned a fraction of his allegiance. She put some interesting opportunities on his plate, including simple things like money, and the shadow of power. To hungry eyes, shadows became real, as they came to life at night to a weak and frightened heart.

The last time they had spoken Jord had asked him to observe the fairly newly arrived Borrims. They were secondary to the other, more recent Elven visitors, but they were still pieces of interest. Unlike the Ulfings, they had been seduced by the Elvish tongue, the hot air that was their pride. And because of that, they would fall to their brother-tribe. But all in due time. For now, they would be staying in the city in peace, and soft ears could very well be tempted by what they had to say. Anyone who could not be placed on the track Jord laid out was a possible danger. The Borrim were a tiny scratch in the body of the plan, and though they had no power, if ignored infection could set in. And the minds of Men were breeding grounds for such disease.

[bill_n_sam]

Gunna and Mem turned their heads towards the door at the sound of Tora’s voice. Thinking the girl had forgotten to pass along some bit of gossip to Mem, Gunna barely heeded Tora’s words as she shifted the now sleeping child to a more comfortable position in her lap. Mem, however, gave a sharp intake of breath, causing Gunna’s mind to focus on the fact that Tora had not bothered to step inside, and the girl’s words finally registered.

“Gunna, Mem, it's me, Tora. Dag told me to say...he told me to announce to you that the Lord Ulfast, our chieftain's son wishes... that he wants Mem to come to the feast he is giving tonight and to sing for him.“

The sisters exchanged startled and unbelieving looks. Hurriedly, Gunna placed her daughter in Mem’s arms and leapt to her feet, moving quickly to the door and poking her head out. The narrow street was crowded with townspeople hurrying about their business, anxious to get home to afternoon tasks and preparations for the evening meal. Gunna could just make out the back of Tora’s head as the girl walked swiftly in the direction of the east gate. “Tora! Tora – wait! What did you say?” Gunna’s cries went unheeded as the girl slipped out of sight, not having heard her friend’s calls.

Or perhaps Tora did not wish to have to repeat herself, Gunna thought grimly, realizing that she had undoubtedly heard aright – her husband had somehow obligated Mem to entertain Ulfast and his cronies . . . ? At a feast?

Shaking her head in confusion, Gunna drew back inside the growing dimness of her little house, saying “Stir the embers, Mem, and lay some wood on the fire. Fetch the roasting spit and I’ll start on this venison.”

Mem did as instructed, but her sister knew the young girl was bursting with unvoiced questions. It was not until the meat had been well rubbed with salt and sage and hung dripping over the flames, and Gunna had thrust a bowl of parsnips into Mem’s hands for peeling that the girl ventured to speak.

“What do you make of Tora’s words, sister?” Mem asked, trying to keep her tone casual, but failing utterly.

Gunna shook her head once more, truly having no answer. “I can’t fathom it, Mem. How is it that Ulfast, son of our highest chieftain, bids you sing at his feast? And what feast is this Tora spoke of? I know the Borrim were feasting this night, but I’ve heard nothing of Ulfast, or his father or brothers for that matter. I can only think it must have to do with the elves.” Again, Gunna felt a now familiar tightening of her stomach muscles as the thought of the emissaries and their message filled her heart with foreboding. She looked at her sister, a frown of uncertainty on her face. “Did Kata or the others speak of it before I arrived home?”

Mem shook her head in the negative. “No. They said no word of it, as I’m sure they would have if they had known something of it. Do . . . do you think then, that . . . “ The girl’s voice trailed off, not wanting to sound too eager for Tora’s words to be true, but hoping with all her heart they were so. She knew her sister well enough to realize that Gunna would be dead set against her going to such a gathering. Yet still, her own heart knew no heaviness, but beat brightly and joyously at the prospect of attending, and actually singing, at a chieftain’s fete. Even now, her mind was racing with thoughts of which songs might best please such a man as Ulfast, and the other lords and chiefs.

“I don’t know what to think.” Gunna replied, somewhat sharply. “All I know is that my husband sends word of such a happening through another, and that itself does not bode well – for any of us.”

Mem took the reprimand quietly and kept about her peeling, knowing in the end it would be Dag who decided whether she went or stayed, not Gunna. Much as she loved her sister, the girl knew in a matter such as this, with a chieftain beckoning, a wife could not well refuse to obey her husband, just as he could not refuse his lord.

Gunna’s lips were set in a tight line. She needed desperately to speak with Dag, to find out what had transpired, how this had all come about. But she had already absented herself from the home once today, with a mixed result. She did not feel comfortable leaving once again, leaving her sister and child alone, unguarded, now that she knew that somehow Mem had come to the attention of one of Ulfang’s son. It was no secret that Mem had a beautiful voice and knew many songs. Most of the women around had visited with them a time or two, to trade for yarn and thread, and gossip. Mem was popular with their neighbors, not only for her good humor and gentle ways, but her wit and ability to make even the sourest matrons laugh. But for word of her abilities to have reached as far as the ears of one such as Ulfast, no, Gunna would never have expected that. It was with a growing suspicion, and fear, that Gunna wondered if this was yet another ploy on the part of the chieftain’s son to draw Dag into his clutches and bind her husband to him. On the eve of the arrival of these messengers from the north, perhaps Ulfast saw a need for a skilled smith, and armorer in his camp.

Wiping blood from her hands, Gunna lifted Mem’s hand to turn the spit, taking the bowl of parsnips from her. In resignation, she said heavily, “We will wait, for Dag. He will tell us what we must do.”

[Mithalwen]

Feeling the pressure of his master's words and hand, Tathren lowered his blade but did not replace it in its scabbard. He would wait for the men to sheathe their own weapons first. He tapped the blade's tip gently against his boot as an outlet for his irritation. In the torchlight his pale face was no longer fierce, merely a little sulky.

His action had been impetuous but it had been fueled by a noble instinct, or so he preferred to think. Yet Lachrandir seemed to think he had been merely spoiling for a fight, like an argumentative drunkard in an alehouse. Tathren considered if this was the case. Losing his temper and pulling a knife had hardly been the most dignified course of action but should he have done nothing when his Lord had received a show of steel in response to his simple enquiry? On such thoughts was his mind engaged as he waited for the Borrim's response.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Khandr's body stiffened as he wrenched his hand away from the hilt of his dagger. As the torchlight glimmered down on the two tall figures standing in the corrdidor, it was all too evident, even to the Borrim, that their visitors were none other than the Elvish envoys, who had recently arrived in the village.

"My pardon, good friends! A hundred pardons. Had I known you were coming, I would have arranged for a welcome far different than the one I have given you tonight." Khandr looked nervously from one face to the other, and then stammered on. "Though these lands lie to the south, we have found it cold in these parts, far colder than it was even a few years before. Little warmth has come to us from our hosts or neighbors, and we are simply not used to receiving visitors in the evening. Indeed, once the sun sinks under the plain, we find ourselves barricaded in our homes, afraid to venture too far outside. Things have changed, and it is not for the better. "

"But let me make it up to you for our rude behavior. Surely you will join us around the table for a round of drinks and a plateful of the finest local cheese along with conversation. I would welcome any news from the north...to know how the fight against Morgoth goes in these troubled times. Or perhaps you have even seen my lord King Bor in recent weeks. For in the past day, I have heard rumors a plenty and would welcome your news and expert advice. Our people remain commited to the alliance and will do whatever must be to drive the vermin back into their holes."

He turned to the two of them and gestured that they were welcome to follow him down the corridor and into the great hall where refreshments would be provided.