Treachery of Men RPG

[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?"

[Folwren]

Uldor got up quickly as soon as the word of dismissal came. When Ulfang said he wanted something finished, the thing was finished. The meeting was over and there would be no reason to stay and burden himself with the company of the two elves. Besides, he suspected they would find his company burdening also. As he exited the room and crossed the court, his face twisted in a sneer.

“Follow him out of love,” he scoffed to himself. “Out of love! The sort of half-witted love a dog gives his master, I presume. I wouldn’t doubt that’s how the great Caranthir views us. His dog. He’ll find this one may bite after all, though. What do you want?” he nearly snarled as someone grasped his sleeve from behind. “Pardon me,” he said, hardly less fiercely, as his eyes lit on Ulwarth. “What is it?”

Ulwarth’s mirthless grin held even less humor than usual. “I want a word with you, that’s all. You have time for that, don’t you?”

“Hardly, brother,” Uldor said, trying to act gentle. He laid his hand on Ulwarth’s and tried to disentangle his sleeve from his grip. “I have to go out and think.”

“Think about what?” Ulwarth demanded as he tightened his grasping fingers. “Come, come, Uldor, surely you’re not uncertain of what you should do? Our father trusts your judgement! You’re mind, your wit is so quick all of the time! Surely you know how you should act?”

Uldor gripped Ulwarth’s wrist and twisted his hand away from the sleeve. He stepped out of Ulwarth’s reach. “Seven thousand lives of men is a great deal to give away lightly, Ulwarth, and without thought. Even you must understand that.”

“He didn’t say we were to give them,” Ulwarth said, lifting his eyelids a little more. Uldor caught a brief flash of intelligence in those dark eyes. “He said he would take them. You don’t have a choice, Uldor. Not unless...unless you want to fight them.”

Uldor frowned and took another step back. “We can’t refuse them. They would never accept it. We’d be crushed.” Ulwarth shrugged, and once more his eyes were veiled.

“I was suggesting nothing,” he said, turning away. “I wanted only to know what you thought. I am sorry to see you so stubbornly silent. I only try to help.”

Uldor watched him until he disappeared through one of the doors. Then he turned and went his own way, walking quickly towards the outdoors. His eyebrows drew together in thought. His mind was thick with dark and heavy thoughts. Ulwarth - the fool, the halfwit - had suggested to fight them. Ulwarth himself. So quiet, so calm, so apparently content in this house of peace where he was never questioned or threatened. Fight them? As though Ulwarth knew anything of fighting!

And yet what was that idea lurking at the back of his own mind? Uldor put one hand up to his forehead to try to clear away the cobwebs. What were those promises that he kept thinking of? Promises that he thought he had heard but could never remember where or when or why they would even be given.

His mind leaped about in a crazy fashion. Without looking up, he passed out from the city gates into the open, wind whipped plain. Even when his cloak flew up and twisted away from his body, and his hand reached out to pull it back down under control, his thoughts still strayed.

Certainly Morgoth would be a more powerful ally than even these elves, his mind told him. Morgoth, if he ever asked for men to fight for him, would not tell them that it was a payment of debt. No, he would pay them for their help. He had promised.

“What do we really owe the elves?” Uldor grumbled to himself. “What have they done for us that puts us in debt? Claimed to protect us? From what?” His feet stopped at the crest of a hill and he turned and looked back at the settlement behind him. “But we can not refuse,” he said allowed. “My father has sworn allegiance and to that allegiance, we must hold.”

[Celuien]

And so it begins, thought Ulfast. He left the meeting room slowly, wrapped deeply in the pondering of his strategy. Uldor's hasty exit and scoffing face had been well-marked. The eldest son disapproved of the Elves and their call for aid. The short-sighted fool. This was the moment to strike and supplant Morgoth. One that would repay debt with more than paltry gold. Or so Ulfast believed.

For the Elves spoke of loyalty out of love, not fear. That was unknown under the iron rule of the north. Fear brooked no equals and held on constancy other than that of cruel terror. Though a nation might grow wealthy in gold and great in sorcery under service to Morgoth, there would be no true gain in power. Ulfast knew well the uses of fear. He had used it to remind his inferiors of their proper places when they dared to slight him. But Ulfast did not seek a place as a slave to a distant master. True power was his desire, and that would never be gained from one who sought domination through fear.

From nearby, he heard the sound of voices, indistinct, but still recognizable as belonging to his brothers. Ulfast padded down the corridor, eager to listen, eager for any fragment of words that he might use against his Uldor. Morgoth was not the only master Ulfast sought to cast off.

"Seven thousand lives of men is a great deal to give away lightly, Ulwarth, and without thought."

He speaks against our father's will. Good. Ulfast slipped forward, hardly breathing in his strain to hear.

"You don’t have a choice, Uldor. Not unless...unless you want to fight them."

Ulfast nearly laughed. Perhaps the youngest was not quite as much the fool as everyone thought. Admission of a plan against the Elves from Uldor would be all Ulfast was needed to secure a position against him.

"We can’t refuse them. They would never accept it. We'd be crushed."

Uldor's reply was safe. Ulfast scowled. But one day, one day, brother, I will catch you in your plots. And then we shall see who is heir. Yes. We shall.

The conversation ended and the brothers parted. Ulfast lingered in the corridor for a moment before heading for the security of his chambers.

[CaptainofDespair]

War. Brodda, like all the others who were in the hall, had heard the Elves’ summons. After mulling it over a bit in his mind, keeping it safely locked away from the ears of his enemies and allies, the young man began what called his ‘tour’. Usually there wasn’t much to this, besides gathering information from his rivals that his master, Uldor, the eldest of Ulfang’s sons, might find useful for one plot or another.

Scheming was always best left to Uldor, though Brodda himself was quite capable in his own right. He preferred not to have the huntsman’s axe fall on his own neck if something went a foul and he was fingered as the brain behind it all. At least Uldor, as the son of the chief of chieftains, could avoid punishment by virtue of his station. Though, most of the Ulfings with power dared not to look into Uldor’s dealings to begin with. They often sensed there was one disturbing event or another behind that veil of shadows, and would prefer to be able to sleep at night…and wake in the morning.

But Brodda, as his lord’s favored servant, played at least a decent role in the plots. He was a listener, something any good opportunist must be able to do. A good number of Ulfing vassals were always present in Ulfang’s hall, and out of those several were drunkards. These men were easy pickings for the crafty Brodda, though they were not much of a challenge. Almost anyone could loosen information from the lips of their ilk.

In the midst of his wanderings, the silent Brodda was disturbed by a youth named Drenda. Only half paying attention at first, his mind zeroed in on the question. But this inquiry was more than a question. There was no idle talk, though perhaps the gravity of the day’s happenings was slightly lost in the tone of the asking. “What do I think,” he quizzed, his eyes continuing to scan the hall. “I think, Drenda, that the summons to war is a turning point for us Ulfings. The younger generation shall assume power when this is all done, as I believe this shall be Ulfang’s last campaign. The only question is who to side with…but that must wait.” Brodda knew this last comment was vague. His meaning could be one of many choices.