Treachery of Men RPG

[Durelin]

They said eyes served as windows to the soul, and Jord knew it was true. There were ways to penetrate a person even with mortal eyes – as long as the mind behind them was potent enough. A simple gaze into this woman was enough to draw from her what already wanted to burst forth. Jord smiled in a rather patronizingly kind way, as if she were thinking of Embla as a “poor dear.”

It was a poor thing indeed that these mortals so often made servants and slaves of each other, but it was sadder still that they all thought they should be free.

But, it was this sort Jord would find most useful. The despondent slaves subjugated to what they were opposed in a culture there were a stranger to; displaced and disenfranchised: the embodiment of desperation. Still alive with a mind and body at their disposal, but they though they had nothing left to lose… All that was necessary was that Jord became their wise master and gentle overseer, and they were all hers.

“Ah, Embla,” the darkly clad woman began, sounding almost apologetic. But when she really began to speak, her voice became more conversational, though there was a sincerity to it and her demeanor.

“There is no reason for you to hang your head for the shamefulness of others. You are not the one willingly participating in a…” Jord paused for a very brief moment, calculating her words, “…primitive culture. You do what you must, I am sure, and by neither succumbing to nor accepting their ugly mores you show them that you still live by your own ways. Because of that you should hold your head up, I should think.”

As long as she avoided sounding like she was telling Embla what was what, Jord’s ideas would easily slip into the woman’s head. Sometimes the communication of earth-beings was amusing in its own way. The simple phrases “I am sure” and “I should think” were ample enough expressions of self-doubt for her to not sound as a ruler giving orders to a subject that were far from cleverly disguised as ‘advice.’ The expressions of mortals were especially primitive, but they had their quirks.

Primitive…she had been describing the Borrim as such quite a bit lately. It was an excellent tact to use against them, pitting their culture against that of the Ulfings. Regardless of how many origins and customs the two peoples shared, there was more than enough there for her to work with. They were lowly and primitive, crawling on their hands and knees to kiss the feet of the Elves because they lacked enough backbone to stay up.

Better to kiss the feet of Morgoth than those of the Children who walked the earth.

It was a lucky meeting, to find the perfect leverage within the troublesome Borrim party – a person who thought similarly to the Ulfings about the ‘foreigners.’ And she was located so conveniently behind that leader, Khandr. Anger and despair could easily be nurtured into violence, and decapitating the Borrim body was a possibility she had so far only dreamed about.

“Already I respect you, Embla,” Jord added with a smile that was truly out of amusement rather than kindness. “I would help you, if I could, but…I suppose there is nothing that can be done, is there?” There was an edge to her final question. Regardless of whether or not the woman attempted to answer it, Jord was sure it would remain on her mind.

[bill_n_sam]

The sun was already behind the western hills as Dag made his way home. The sword he carried weighed heavily in his hand, due more to its association to the political machinations and in-fighting between Ulfang’s sons than to its true heft. His heart did not feel the satisfaction which usually came from using his skill to fashion such a weapon. And his spirit rebelled against the implacable force of Ulfast’s will which was drawing him into this game where few could be called winners. Even Mem, and thus Gunna, would now be players, pawns over which the chieftain would have a power Dag would be hard put to countermand. Well, he thought grimly to himself, should it come down to it . . . if his family’s safety was put at risk . . .

He hardly dared to finish that thought even in the secret recesses of his own mind. But he knew what he would do, if the time came.

With no joy in his soul, he pushed open the door to the little house, seeing the two women look up at his entrance. Gunna’s features were set in an expression of angry resolution; Mem’s bespoke the same calm with which she always faced life. Dag did not give Gunna the opportunity to get one word out, raising his hand in a gesture of silence. He shot her a look which she had never seen on his face before, and setting the sword aside, Dag sat down beside the fire, lifting the baby from Mem’s lap. The child cooed and laughed, reaching up to grab a fistful of his hair. Gunna turned away and reached for a wooden bowl. Slowly, she began filling it with her husband’s supper, not wishing to look at him again, not wanting to see that look again.

As she knelt and held the full bowl out to him, her face still turned aside, she felt his hand encircle hers. Tears filled her eyes as he pulled her close, her face resting against his shoulder. As the baby wiggled in his arms in protest, Gunna listened to the steady beat of his heart but for once, the sound did nothing to reassure her. As strong as he was, her husband was only one man. One against how many? How many lackeys did Ulfast own? How many men had he bought with promises of wealth, or power? And how many more had fallen under his sway because they, like Dag, dared not refuse him? Dag had something Ulfast wanted. His skill as an armorer would be of great use, should weapons be needed. And what was the use of weapons, if not for the vanquishing of other men?

Unable to keep silent, Gunna whispered into his neck, “Don’t take her, my husband. Don’t take her to that place. You can not know . . . You won’t be able to stop . . . “

“Quiet, woman!” Dag growled, but his arm still pressed her tightly to his chest. “There’s no way around it. You know that, as well as I do.”

Gunna pulled away from him, leaning back to look him in the face. The expression of a few moments ago was gone, but in its place was one equally as untractable. Still, she had to try. “Dag, listen. Tell them Mem is sick. Tell them she’s too weak to be out. They’ll never know. Ulfast . . . “

“Ulfast has spies all over the settlement! She goes – and I’ll see that she comes to no harm.” Dag’s voice was low and rough, but he stared into Gunna’s dark eyes, willing her to believe, to trust. Gunna wished nothing more than to do so, to believe that her husband would take care of it all, that he would watch over her sister, and watch out for himself, and that they would both return safe and he would laugh at her fears later that night as they lay together.

And she saw that Dag wanted, no, needed the same. He needed that belief from her. A belief in his ability to protect them from harm. Neither one could allow that shield to slip for an instant, for once doubt set in, their fear would be their undoing. When playing the game with one such as Ulfast, or his father, or brothers, the belief a man had in himself might be all that stood between survival and annihilation.

Sinking back onto her heels, Gunna swept the baby from her husband’s arms and pushed the bowl of food into his hands. “Eat!, she commanded, with a forced smile. “I’m sure there’ll be no food for the likes of you at such a grand affair!” Taking Mem by the hand, she pulled the girl to her feet. “Come, we’ll make you presentable, as my husband wishes. Such an honor – to be called to perform for the chieftains. Your blue dress, that’s your nicest one. And the striped scarf . . . “

Dag swallowed his dinner down as Gunna made a show of fussing over her sister. The food had no taste though, and sat like a hard lump in his stomach. Finally, his wife was satisfied with her ministrations and presented his sister-in-law to him for inspection. With barely a glance at the girl, Dag stood, taking the sword in one hand and Mem’s hand in the other. He kissed his wife lightly on the cheek, and with a gruff, “Hurry! It won’t do to keep them waiting.” he led the girl out into the evening darkness.

[Anguirel]

Drenda jerked to his feet rapidly on being addressed, motioning to Torguar to follow his lead.
.
"Good eve, aye, Lord Uldor," he stammered. "My mother is quite well, I think." A little irritation could not help entering his voice as he thought of her. It was she who had caused this absurd situation; here he was, caught between the Chieftain's son, the cynosure of all his ambitions, all his prospects; and on his other side, that stupid lunk of a farmer. Both, naturally, were friends of his mother. His mother. How long would she continue to pluck at the strings of his existence?

"This is Torguar Torgatling, your Lordship's loyal subject," he muttered, gesturing to the man beside him, his voice fading away. He felt lowered by the very introduction, as if some quirk of chance had forced him to hurl a lump of mud at Lord Uldor's passing chariot.

But Uldor was apparently no longer listening. A slight, veiled figure, who had passed through the front doors without question, so proud and chilly was her air, now approached the Lord's left side.

"I heard you asking after me," she said calmly. "That was courteous." She made a slight, deferential movement, which cast her black veil from her face.

Though she was nearing forty years of age now, Gausen's presence in the hall was impressive still; the precise, sharp regality of her features, the plain but striking adornments of silver in her black hair, and the fact that no other woman had as yet joined the throng, and certainly not an unaccompanied one. She did not smile at the Ulfing prince, but directed an intense glance at him, as if inviting him to speak to her, and to her only.

[piosenniel]

A conversation overheard.....

‘Here! Spread this out in the back of the wagon, Valr.’ Káta handed up one of her large wool blankets, looking on critically as the boy flipped it open and let it settle of itself to the wooden floor. For his part, Valr sneaked a peek at his mother’s face, noting her brow wrinkling as the blanket fell in a rather rumpled manner.

‘I know, I know,’ he said, pushing the wrinkles out with his feet. ‘Just hang on a bit and I’ll have it all straightened away.’ He smoothed out the humps and bumps and pushed the padded stool up against the backrest of the front seat where his father and mother would sit. Granny Dulaan would sit there, another small quilt at hand to cover her if she needed. Jóra would most likely sit on the blanket next to Granny’s stool. She would have an endless supply of questions to ask her mother and Granny. It was not often, after all, that the family would go to the great hall. Never really, save maybe for father. Valr looked over to where Fálki and Falarr stood. He and his brothers would sit at the back of the wagon, their legs dangling over the end of the platform. Talking men talk.

At least that was what he hoped. He’d overheard the last of a hushed conversation his mother had had with his father while the family made their preparations to go. And he wanted to know the details. The words hadn’t been clear. But he’d noted his mother’s tone of voice – serious, the sort of voice she made points with; the sort of points she expected her audience to agree with. He’d expected a rumbling sort of reply from his father, as was his usual approach. But instead there had been a booming laughter, quickly hushed. And a puzzling, though satisfied seeming, ‘By my father’s blade, the boy has guts doesn’t he? To stack the odds in his favor before coming to us.’ Grímr had fallen quiet for a moment causing Valr to strain his ears mightily for any further pronouncements. When it came, though, the words rang quite clearly and with a certain tinge of pride behind them. ‘And good for him, the young fox.....though truth be told I always thought it would be Falarr who would come to us first.’

‘Well, he hasn’t come to us at all yet, now, has he?’ his mother had said in an irritated way. ‘Best you call him in. Before we go. If Dag is there, and Mem has said anything, I don’t want to be accused of overstepping my bounds. It’s you after all who should broach the subject with him.’

Valr stepped away quickly from the woolen curtain that partitioned his parents’ area from the rest of the household. Crunched back into a small sliver of shadow, he watched as his father stepped out and looked quickly about the bustling interior of their home.

‘Fálki! Son! Come and attend me for a moment.’ He paused, nodding back to where Káta stood. ‘Just some last minute things to go over.’

Valr was able to hear no more of the conversation; his brother had spied him as he neared the curtain. And giving him a rather meaningful look, Fálki had sent him scurrying away with a shake of his head.

~*~

Arrival at the Hall

‘So, here we are!’ Grímr pulled the wagon up near the Great Hall, turning off to the left onto a large, cleared area where the wagon and horses could wait. ‘Boys! Help Granny down. Jóra, you fetch her pillow along. Valr! Come round with some of the hay and put it down for the horses to munch on.’

He walked round to where Káta sat, waiting for him. ‘M’Lady,’ he said grinning up at her, as she stood and took his hand to steady herself as she stepped down. When all had gotten off the wagon and skirts had been smoothed and tunics straightened, Grímr offered his arm to his wife and set off toward the entry way to the Hall.

‘Remember,’ he murmured, smiling and nodding to those he knew as they drew near the door. ‘Fálki and Falarr, you stay with us this evening. Jóra and Valr you attend on Granny, please. See that she’s comfortable and has something to eat and drink.’ He winked quickly at Dulaan, knowing she would understand he was entrusting them to her care.

‘Oh, look,’ he said as they entered into the Hall. ‘There’s Erling! I didn’t know if he would come or not. And who’s that with him? Waving to us?’

Káta smiled toward the two her husband had pointed out. ‘Just a hello, then,’ she said speaking low to Grímr, ‘We should seek out the Lord and his sons and give them our greetings first.’

~*~

As her parents and two older brothers made their way toward Erling, Jóra took Granny’s arm, and standing tippy-toed looked about the room. ‘Where shall we settle in, Granny,’ she asked, her mouth drawn up in a disappointed way. She motioned for Granny to bend down a little so she could whisper in her ear. ‘Do you think, just maybe, we could walk around just a little?’ she said in a wishful voice. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen Elves. Not up close at least. Have you?’

[Folwren]

As he approached the tables with the two elves at his side, Uldor caught sight of his brothers standing close beside each other. Ulfast was tucking something away in his breast and the two of them passed a few words together. Ulwarth nodded over something and they turned away from each other to take their seats.

Ulwarth’s eyes caught Uldor’s as he turned. For a moment, the brothers looked silently at each other, Ulwarth’s dark, half hooded eyes staring with peaceful stupidity back at Uldor’s dark, brooding face. The younger one turned before Uldor’s swift strides brought him near enough for words and with strange agility, he wound his path away from Uldor and found his seat.

Uldor showed the elves to their places and then took his own place beside Lachrandir. With a word to a servant by his side, orders were passed and the food was brought out. The talking in the hall quieted slightly as people broke their small groups of conversation to find seats at the many tables.