The King's Players RPG

[Formendacil]

Amdír practically sprang into action once Brinn gave her assent to Aldarion's plan. In large groups like the Players he was not prone to lead when problems arose, but would follow orders once given regardless of the difficulty. It was the legacy of his time as a soldier, of twenty years service to great lords, but more than anything else, it was the result of having two older sisters and an older brother. The brother had died in the War, and one of the sisters had died from a winter ailment two years back, having passed her sixty-fifth year. His last sister still lived in Lamedon with her husband and children.

Funny that he should be thinking of his siblings, Amdír thought as he struck out down the streets. The last time he'd met one of them had been his now-deceased sister, who had also moved to Minas Anor in the years following the War. Her eldest daughter had since taken over the family household, and Amdír was invited over to dinner once a fortnight. He and his brother-in-law were both widowers now, and easier in each other's company than they had been in most years past.

It was Brinn's request for a healer that had Amdír thinking of his family, for they had not summoned one for his sister until it was too late to help her. Since then, he had not had cause to think of healers.

It was too far up the city to fetch help from the great Houses of Healing in the sixth circle. That was probably where Coldan would have gone, or been directed had he asked for directions, but Amdír knew that one of the healers from that house lived not far away, still in the first circle, with her great-aunt Ioreth, who had once been a healer there. She had been one of those who cared for him in the House during the War. She must have been quite ancient now--as old as they said King Elessar war, but of course the King was a very different case with his Elven blood and northern lineage--like a great Númenórean of old--though, it was said, he was also a great healer. Perhaps healers were simply better at taking care of themselves?

In any case, it was no more than a ten minute trot for Amdír to reach the healer's house. Mistress Inbeth came to the door shortly after he began pounding on it, moving with a quickness that surprised one, when you considered her years. She was nearly sixty, the grand-daughter of Ioreth's eldest sister (and theirs had been a large family), a large, grandmotherly woman whose steely-grey hair did not betray her age so well as the laughlines that crinkled her face.

"Amdír the carpenter, of Master Hallas' household, isn't it?" she asked. "What can I do for you?"

"There's a young lass with a broken ankle who could use your assistance, Mistress Inbeth," said Amdír. "She's one of the King's Players, just arrived in the city."

[Pitchwife]

"So", Coldan said brusquely, when Amdír had left, "are ve going to go on viz ze rehearsal, or what?" He wanted at least something positive to happen at the end of this day, after all the bad luck that seemed to dog them since they had entered the city.

"I guess I can stand in for Amdír, if need be", he added, trying to sound not quite as grumpy as before. "He forgets his cues so often, I probably know most of Peregrin's lines by heart by now." In fact, Amdír's memory wasn't nearly that bad, but Coldan's responsibility for prompting had indeed acquainted him so well with the other Players' parts that most of the time he hardly needed to consult the script anymore.

[the phantom]

Aldarion turned to address Coldan. "Frodo shares fewer scenes with Pippin so I thought Sereth would be the obvious replacement choice, but now that you're volunteering..."

Aldarion looked directly at Brinn (as did nearly everyone else), hoping for her to make a swift decision, but she was momentarily occupied, speaking with Rollan about her ankle. A few feet to her right stood Sereth, still looking generally at Aldarion after his last comment. Aldarion widened his eyes briefly to gain her attention, and then gave a small gesture towards her followed by the smallest of shrugs and a questioning glance, asking her wordlessly, "Do you want the role?"

[Mnemosyne]

Rollan moved Brinn farther away from the stage, where the Players were--slowly--beginning to pick up the shattered remains of the rehearsal. It would not do to distract them even further once Amdir returned with the healer.

"So," said Rollan, "what are we to do if you can't heal in time? Even now, with all of this hacking and hewing of the script we're like to do..."

Brinn buried her face in her hands. "Cancel the show?"

Rollan grinned. "Think we can't run this thing without you even for a week, eh? I'd love to prove you wrong and take you down a notch or three."

"You're right, we need the money too much anyhow. I should trust you more--all of you--but then I look at that lot over there, and--"

"Don't be hard on yourself, or on them. The main thing is, we all love the theater, and we all love making people happy."

"But we won't be able to make anyone happy at this rate!"

"Well, if nothing else, I can always leer and make bawdy jokes."

"Not with the King present!"

"What, he's married, isn't he? And given how gorgeous the Queen looks, even on a coin, he'd be mad not to--"

Brinn was spared her husband's further ministrations by the arrival of Amdir and the healer. Rollan waved to catch their attention.

"Are you the lass with the broken ankle?" said the healer.

"Lass, hardly. Broken ankle? I hope not, but probably. The name is Celebrindal."

"I am called Inbeth. Will you show me the injury?"

After a few minutes of fussing and poking, Inbeth informed Brinn that her ankle was not broken, but it was badly sprained, and she would have to put no weight on it for at least a week. Brinn took the news with a sort of grim resignation. "Could I at least have crutches?"

"There may be a few pair in the Houses, but they would not be to your height, and we try to reserve them for those who need them more--broken legs and amputees. Were you thinking of going far in them?"

Brinn opened her mouth to reply, but Rollan interrupted. "No, she wasn't," and he gave her a very fixed look.

"That is well. I can look, but I cannot guarantee anything."

"Would Inbeth need to trouble herself with that?" said Amdir mildly.

Brinn thought a moment. Oh, right--he was a carpenter.

"No, of course not," said Rollan, and he clapped Amdir on the back a little too heartily. "We do have a carpenter, after all. Thanks for your time, my lady." He reached into a purse to pay her.

"And you needn't trouble yourself on getting the crutches done tonight," said Brinn. "There'll be plenty of work to do sitting, at least for a few days; I'd hate for Aldarion to get so much control of the script that he makes it all dry and tasteless. We'll have to send people out to learn more of the true course of events--or at least, what people here are likely to believe. But I don't trust everyone to report things accurately. Perhaps we should have them ask about in pairs?"

[Anguirel]

This state affair was proving quite as tiresome, Lord Cirdacil thought, as he had ever prognosticated.

For diligent, serious-minded public servants like him, all this standing up for no particular reason was the absolute limit. The only figures seated at the evening levee, upon a verandah facing north and west, were the Queen of Gondor, her ladies, and a couple of very odd looking individuals indeed. It was, Cirdacil mused gloomily, probably only fair that this Consul Samwise and his rubicund wife should be honoured and permitted to sit beside their golden-headed daughter in the Queen's suite. And even he had to admit that the pherrian Lady Elanor was as amiable as she was, in her minute way, exquisite; she had once done him the kindness to have a delicious buttery crumpet brought to him as he toiled late at the Exchequer.

Still, it galled him slightly that her oafish looking progenitors could lounge at their ease on either side of Queen Arwen. They spoilt the presentation of the thing, whoever they were and whatever they did, and they seemed to have a slipshod view of protocol, especially that interminable wife - Lady Rosa, was she? - , who was telling one of her long anecdotes about Master Samwize's rural accomplishments, again. The Queen listened with more than simple politeness, with a real appearance of fascination. It was hard to have anything against her, though her way of looking at Cirdacil with a fraction of a smile always unnerved him. Best not to pay any attention to those stories one heard, about her practising sorcery and riding to battle and what-have-you. Still.

Most of all, he wanted to sit down; his age was knotting in his legs like a family of Haradrim serpents. At that very moment, a long shadow crossed his vision and a firm, almost unsteadying hand impacted on his shoulder. He realised he was suddenly in conversation with his sovereign but was not left time adequately to bow.

"Come, my good lord of Burlach, and sit beside me opposite our beloved friends. I would have some speech with you, and I believe they too desire your acquaintance."

The shocked gratitude Cirdacil felt at the King's observant act rushed through him as he sat down, but soon dissipated in the air, into the rising fume of those dratted northern smoking-pipes the King had insisted on introducing at court. Their smell made Cirdacil feel older and tetchier. The more fashionable young knights had all adopted them; the King, the pherian Consul, and, rather shockingly to Cirdacil, the Lady Rosa were all indulging with enthusiasm. At least the Queen and the Lady Elanor appeared to share his aversion.

"Sam, this is Cirdacil," the King opened cheerfully, and Cirdacil grimaced a little involuntarily at the lapsed formalities. Sometimes the King could go too far in his insistence on "not standing upon ceremony". The Lord Denethor never would have...

"He's my latest Master of the Revels, Sam, in charge of arranging this play that you and Rosie are so curious about..."

Master Samwise turned his jowly face towards Cirdacil, who was busy failing to smile. The Halfling's formal clothes looked improvised, almost as if he had just flung them on after a quick round in some low tavern, or something.

"Oh," the honoured guest asked cheerfully, "do you act as well?"

The King laughed with a laugh like song, Cirdacil choked, and Queen Arwen and Elanor - clearly the forces for decency here - had at least the grace to blush. The Mayor's wife looked a bit puzzled, sensing her fellow had dropped a clanger somehow, but Sam continued unabashed.

"As it happens, you see, Master Cirdacil," (the lord of the sloping fief of Burlach winced), "as it happens, on the day after the Lord of the Ring was no kind of Lord, afore the coronation, or perhaps after, for if you take my meaning my thoughts were a little muddled like at the time, what with Mister Frodo barely out of bed and all, I took myself a rest with Legolas, the Elf that is of course..."

You mean the lord Legolas, procurator of Ithilien and prince of Eryn Lasgalen, Cirdacil thought irritably. The pherrianathic flow continued.

"...and we settled in a house what went by the Rohirric Unicorn, nice enough place, so I thought I'd do it the courtesy of a return visit on this occasion, wouldn't seem right not to, if you take my meaning..."

He'd taken it twice, now. Did these creatures ever finish their sentences?

"...and I came across some of the King's own Players, as chance would have it! Brandor and Therian, they were called, and another fella who was a sort o' quiet type. Friends of yours?"

"I think one of them," Cirdacil answered as chillily as he could, "may have been a carpenter, some time in my employ."

The vagabond actors, boozing mid-Circle with the guests from Eriador! Somehow, the troupe would pay for this embarrassment, Cirdacil silently swore...

[Nerwen]

The rehearsal was not going well. Branor was now relatively sober, but he still insisted on playing King Elessar in the light of what he now claimed to know about him; that is, as a sinister, disreputable figure given to cryptic mutterings and to slinking around in the background of scenes, including those in which his character was not actually supposed to be present. This last became too much to ignore in the climatic love scene between Mary the Elf and Boromir.

"Boromir, on either road I shall go with you and our doom shall be– no!" Asta cried, pulling out of Aldarion's embrace. "No, I can't do this! Not with him staring at us the whole time. –Branor," she appealed to the actor, who was currently peering from behind one of the artificial trees, "can't you see you're spoiling the atmosphere? This is supposed to be a tender romantic moment!"

Branor airily told them to carry on, as Strider the Spy was just gathering intelligence as usual.

"Oh, how I wish we had sawed your leg off when we had the chance!" said Asta.

Coldan gave her an astonished look which surprised her in turn. She had thought it no secret that she found Branor annoying; at least, no secret to anyone except Branor himself, for whom the idea that any girl could not be in love with him was quite beyond his mental horizon.

Asta marched over to where her injured sister sat, talking to Rollan.

"We'll have to send people out to learn more of the true course of events--or at least, what people here are likely to believe," Brinn was saying. "But I don't trust everyone to report things accurately. Perhaps we should have them ask about in pairs?"

"Whatever we do, we'd better do it sooner rather than later," said Asta. "At least we need to clear up this nonsense Branor has somehow got into his head about the King Elessar! Imagine if the King really does attend? Why, we'll find ourselves clapped in irons and thrown in a dungeon. Or," she added, her imagination running wild under the influence of the historical epics Aldarion was always trying to foist on the troupe, "or maybe– maybe they'll cast us off that rock up in the Citadel!" She had no idea what the penalty was for slandering Gondor's ruler so badly, but it had to be something fairly spectacular.

[Dimturiel]

Harrenon felt worried. He did not possess Asta’s sometimes worrying imagination, so he really was not afraid of being clapped in irons or thrown from the Citadel. But he was still uneasy, thinking that if they really were getting some of the play – or, with their luck, most of it – wrong there were bound to be consequences. If they somehow offended the King – or even his guests from the Shire – things would most likely not go well for them.

“I am more afraid that they would never allow us to perform in Gondor ever again,” Harrenon said in answer to Asta’s panicked words. “Or never allow us to set foot here again, for any reasons.”

Not that it was any better. Harrenon was from Gondor after all. He might have been on the road with the Players most of the time, but if somehow after many years he decided to retire, he wanted the chance to go back to his home in Lossanarch. If they could manage to get information about the real events, perhaps they would be able to avoid any trouble. Harrenon walked towards Coldan:

“So, what do you say?” he asked him. “How about you trying your luck with me in the city?”

[the phantom]

Aldarion nodded his head in private agreement with the way things were turning. If we are going to attempt to climb this cliff, we should indeed invest considerable time and effort into gathering more information. And certainly there are a few members that should not be allowed out alone, as they are likely to edit any information they collect to fit their own devices.

While everyone was busy speaking to one another, Aldarion stepped up beside Asta and spoke in a low voice while looking straight ahead at the seated Brinn and Rolan. "You're quite right about Branor's antics ruining that last scene, but perhaps we should not be too eager to disprove his new information. At least this version of Aragorn doesn't strut about the stage speaking unnecessarily slowly and posing during battles. Just before, in that encounter with the orcs on the Anduin, this new backstabbing Aragorn actually looked like he was trying to be lethal. No doubt there are flaws in Branor's information, but I like this version as a starting point compared to the old character."

Still looking straight ahead, Aldarion continued in a whisper as the other conversations seemed to lull simultaneously. "If need be Brinn can put her foot down on his wandering about during inappropriate scenes. And as far as getting clapped in irons- I imagine you can escape unscathed by simply blaming the whole thing on the playwright."