Treachery of Men RPG

[CaptainofDespair]

Brodda thought for a moment, as he listened to Jord speak. So, she at least wanted to listen to his idea, even if it was a superficial interest. They were both opportunists, he surmised, and so surface benefits were usually all that mattered. But before he went into his proposition he thought it would be best to, hopefully, whet her appetite with a little information on the Borrim.

“My dear Jord,” he began, “the Borrim you wished for me to spy on are hiding very little. But what they are hiding may very well be important. And I do not trust their arrival. It is too near to that of the Elves, who I do not trust, and I fear the two may be cohorts. Though, it may be an unwitting or unknown alliance.” Brodda continued to lounge through it all, unperturbed by the thoughts of the Elves and Borrim. But he began to fidget somewhat as he tried to transition into his own proposition. He was finding his position precarious, at best. He had given Jord the information she had wanted, but he had few bargaining chips himself for the upcoming discussion now. Uldor was perhaps his only card to play, and Brodda began to think he should not have come to visit Jord. She probably did not think much of Uldor, if Jord were the opportunist she seemed.

But Brodda quickly composed himself, and decided to go through with it. He may not have much on his side, but if he could present himself well enough that might be all he’d need. “Now Jord, I think it is time we discuss my proposition.” Perhaps he said it too forcefully, he wondered. Brodda felt tormented, that every move he could possibly make could turn against him if Jord took it the wrong way. “I know of your dealings with Uldor,” he continued, “and where he hopes they will lead. But he too must go to war with his father when their army is marched to the aid of the Elves. And the battlefield is a dangerous place, where unforeseen things happen.” He glanced into Jord’s eyes as he spoke, hoping to catch a hint at how she was feeling so far. But he could find nothing. “I, however, will not be going on this campaign if I can help it. And Uldor will certainly need me here to keep his plans from unraveling. Whether battle takes him or not, I could care less. So would it not be better to have someone to clean up the mess this business with the Elves may cause? I can certainly do so…” Sinking deeper into the couch, Brodda felt satisfied with his performance, at least to the degree he felt he had Jord's attention.

[Anguirel]

"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."

So ran the words of Tora, the only daughter, and decidedly the least favourite child, of Torguar Torgaltling. The father frowned in response, holding his peace for a while, but evidently not exactly mollified. His wife was quieter still, scarcely seeming to breath; she hung about only until Torguar dismissed her back into the homestead's inner room with a baleful look. Then the farmer took the newly-repaired knife from his daughter, and began to reply in a surly voice.

"'Mere farmer', thou say'st, girl? I am your father and I do not like the sound of that word, that mere. What mighty errand did that no-good smith go running after, then? Dropped in on by an elvenking, was he?" Torguar chuckled, his mood a little mellowed by the excellence of his little joke.

"Well, next time I'll send one of the lads. By my father's beard, a man can't trust a girl to look after his knife, can't he, isn't that right, wife? Confound it, where's she got to now?" he barked, forgetting that it was he who had sent her off moments before. Sure enough, the woman came scuttling back, her head bowed.

"Well, now you're here, wife, can't think why, actually, we might as well come down to it. You, Tora, undutiful daughter though you might be," he said in a kinder tone, "I think I've made a good settlement for you, girl. Now, what do you say to the idea of getting married?"

[Dimturiel]

Tora waited patiently for her father to finish his scolding. She was much too used with his way of treating her to be affected. She had become to take it for granted. Actually, she would have thought something was wrong if her father would not present her with his usual view of what an "undutiful daughter" she was. Maybe she really was, she could not tell. Yet she was sure that the lads would not have brought her father's knife quicker than her. Why, they were sure to have met some playmates and return only after nightfall, probably with the knife lost to boot.

Yet all her indignation at his favouring her brothers was forgotten when the idea of getting married was suggested. Tora felt flustered. She knew that she had no other choice, knew she could be hardly expected to spend the rest of her days pining for one that was lost. Yet why not? What harm could she do with that? Yet no, her father could not keep her for eternity, and he had already shown signs of wanting to get rid of her as soon as possible.

This thought hardened her. Her father had placed the question expecting her to be grateful for his proposal. Well, she was not and she was going to show him that.

"I guess it matters little, my father, whether I would like this or not." she told him. "As a matter of fact, I would not like it, not with someone I have never spoken to before, someone I cannot trust. Yet the look on your face tells me that you care not for my oppinion in this matter. Then, if the thing is already decided, why ask me? One thing, though, father, if such a question is not an unsuitable one to ask. But what is his name? Have I not the right to know at least this?

[Anguirel]

Torguar was not perturbed by his daughter’s sullen tone; she was offering no essential rebellion, which relieved him. Though full of bluster, especially when addressing his wife and daughter, he did not relish real quarrels that went beyond what he regarded as good-natured yelling.

“Don’t you worry your head about it, my girl, your father’s not cruel and he’s not an idiot either, eh, isn’t that right, wife? Of course you’ll get a chance to meet the lad. Soon enough, in fact, so brighten up. I have spoken to his mother, and the young man is to visit us tomorrow.”

He knew of the unfortunate death that had struck at his daughter’s hopes and heart, but he imagined that the slain suitor could easily be replaced in Tora’s affections. Women were like that, after all. Give them a home and a man, any man, and they clung to him. And by the sound of it, this Drenda was not just anyone – he was a noble youth with considerable prospects.

“Of course, Tora my girl, I would not pledge you to someone I hadn’t given a proper examining. Who knows? Their side of the bargain may not hold; the mother may have talked up her pup; it wouldn’t surprise me. But the word is he’s a good man, well, a boy really, younger than you are, I think; not much money, but a strong arm, an excellent hunter, and plenty of courage. Noble blood, you know. A fine catch for the family. His name is Drenda, son of Drenduld; the mother is called Gausen. The boy lives at the Hall; if you marry him, you’ll be presented to the Chieftain himself, I should expect!”

Torguar smiled widely and gave his daughter a quick clench, conveying a throwaway, momentary sense of love. Then he let her go, and started to walk out, giving her a wink as he left:

“And he’s tall and good looking. What more could a girl like you ask, eh?”

[Child of the 7th Age]

Khandr quickly led the Elves back down the corridor and into the large room where the rest of the party was waiting. The rest of his companions followed close behind. For the next half hour, there was little conversation. Khandr did what he could to cover his earlier blunder and to encourage his guests to linger at the table. Dishes loaded with cheese and pastries were passed among the guests. Briga hurried from one diner to the next, carrying a large flask of sweet red wine, being careful to refill the cups as soon as they were emptied. At Khandr's bidding, she was especially attentive to the envoys.

Only after many cups had been emptied, with the flame of the torches burning low, did the guests forcus their thoughts on other things. It was Khandr who gave the first signal, turning towards the Elves to speak. When he did so, he spoke with an openness and frankness that surprised many at the table. "My friends, I apologize again for my error. Never would I greet a friend in such a manner. For that is how I see us: Elves and Men bound in friendship, bound by oath, who must stand together against the long cold hand that reaches down from the far north. I have only one excuse for my behavior. These long months in this village have dimmed my judgment. They have made me less than I was. I feel compelled to speak frankly. Perhaps I am unwise to do this. Yet someone must know and hear what I am about to say. Someone I trust...and I do trust the honor and integrity of the Elves."

Khandr looked down and sighed before he went on, "It is not easy here. No...it is not easy. I came as an envoy of King Bor and expected to be met as a kinsman. For, as you know, our two peoples are related. That did not happen. Where once there was friendship and alliance, only suspicion lurks. Where once a strong ruler stood over a proud people, now..... " Khandr's voice broke off, and he spoke in a brusque, uneven tone. "Now, I do not know. I came to negotiate a treaty of marriage between our two tribes. For often, in the past, it has been the custom for our people to enter into such pacts. The marriage negotiations have gone nowhere. A pity perhaps. Yet,.....it is more than that. Much, much more. A curtain has gone down. A curtain of secrecy at court. I know not what is behind it. I only know I am afraid. Afraid and tired. Perhaps I am wrong. I hope that is so. But I have long sensed that there is something going on, perhaps something that will touch upon the fortunes of the Elves as well as the Borrim. Perhaps you already know and understand these things far better than I, for you are Elves while I am only a man. I only ask that you remember my humble words when you deal with the court. And, before the night is over, I ask you to tell us what is going on. For our hosts have not shared any of the news with us. We hear only rumors and speculation and fear and do not know what has happened in the North. My men too.....I would ask them to speak up. They remain silent out of respect for you and your people. Yet I am sure some of them have questions and, like myself, are concerned. If so, I would humbly ask that they be allowed to speak."

Khandr glanced over at Lachrander and the younger Elf. The latter looked to be barely more than a boy. Perhaps he had not been wise to speak so openly. It was not like him. Usually, he was so even tempered and circumspect. He pushed back this thought. Easy or not, these words must be said, and this might be the only chance he had to address the Elves without the men of court breathing down his back.

[Durelin]

Though she had not expected much from this man, Jord was still invariably disappointed. The only information he had about the Borrim could have been observed in five minutes from a hundred yards away. But who was the real fool: pathetic Brodda, or herself for expecting anything of worth out of him? It was an incredibly slow and painful process realizing that these beings were even more useless than orcs because they typically were softer. She did not remember ever having to belittle herself to this level. Living among them! Living as one!

Her body reacted to her spirit’s rage more intensely than she meant it to. The teeth clenched, the hands gripped the arms of the chair till their knuckles turned ghostly white. But Jord knew she could not kill this man, or any of them. Not yet, not unless it was absolutely necessary. She almost hoped it would be, soon…but she could not really wish for anything that might jeopardize her success, and more importantly her Master’s success. She wiped her body of any expression of emotion, cutting herself off from it as much as she could without forfeiting control of its muscles.

After all, there was one great benefit to being surrounding by such small-brained animals: they made excellent puppets. And to think for this one she did not even have to set a trap! He had taken the bait had been laid out for another, but he had fallen for it, as well. Jord’s only regret about that was the lack of sport. It seemed Uldor would have to suffice for such enjoyment…how sad. Though, she had not yet really gotten a look at those Borrim. Still… Anger boiled beneath a frosty surface for a moment until she forced the cold deeper.

“You are the most…beloved servant of your master, most trusted. Why should you not be considered second to what he might, regrettably, lose for himself?”

Brodda smiled, but before he could make any sort of answer he thought to be subtle or humourous or even mildly intelligent, Jord continued, “In the mean time, all you must do is continue to serve your noble master well. And I advise you go to him now.”

Using the word ‘advise’ kept it from being a direct order, and so the man complied promptly with her suggestion. He knew it would be difficult to explain to his master where he had been if he were gone too long, and it would have ruined a great deal for him if Uldor discovered he was even speaking to Jord. She knew that suspicion ran deep in men like Uldor, and with good reason.

When Brodda left her, it did not take long for restlessness to set in. She had no need to rest her body – the body; it was not hers – and her spirit had been restless since it had lost its previous body, the beautiful, powerful form she had crafted for herself, and which she could control fully, which she could leave and alter and recreate whenever she pleased. This mission would not only seize such a victory for her master, but also gain back her full strength and dignity. There would be no pause until it was complete. Jord left her chambers to try her next contact, and see if there was any reason for her to ever again have men-servants in addition to Morgoth’s slightly more convenient creations.

[Folwren]

As soon as Brodda left him, Uldor set about preparing himself for the feast. He washed his face and his hands and then changed from his dark clothes into another outfit of lighter material with brighter colors. The contrast of the light blue and white cloth against his dark skin was handsome, but almost harsh.

He finished dressing and went once more to the window. The sun had disappeared behind the hills and darkness was falling with swift shadows over the earth. Torches were lit down in the courtyard, and before the door, a great square of light fell out on the ground. Some people were already arriving.

Uldor set his back against the corner made by the wide window sill. He lifted one foot and placed it on the sill, folding his arms over his chest and looking out. From where he half sat, he could view quite easily all the comings and goings of the courtyard and who entered the door. Behind him, the room was unlit, and he stood unobserved in the window.

When he decided that enough people had come, he left the window sill and went into the darkness of his room. He picked up a belt with a jeweled dagger hung on it and strapped it around his waist. Then he went out, composing his face to meet the unpleasant business of the evening - he hated acting the host and having to be polite.

For all his dislike of it, Uldor did an excellent job acting the part. He was actually smiling as he entered the hall and glanced around to see what guests had arrived. He continued to smile even when his glance told him that Jord had not arrived. The elves had not come yet, either, which was almost a blessing in itself.

Uldor heaved a small, unnoticeable sigh, hiding it well behind his smile. He looked at the lords of the hall, talking together as though no troubles existed. He looked over them once more, and his eyes settled on the young stripling Drenda, seated on one of the benches lined against the wall. Beside him, sat another, heavier, duller looking fellow, and a bit of actual amusement came into Uldor’s smile.

He approached Drenda slowly. “Good evening, lad,” he said. “How does your mother fair of late? I have not seen or spoken to her of late.”

[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.

[Folwren]

Uldor had practically made the inquiry out of politeness alone. What else was he supposed to say to the young man? He cared not an inch for the man who sat beside the boy, though the situation was slightly humorous. Drenda was so serious, and so wanted to make a good impression. Let him try, and let him be rewarded.

So Uldor turned with false politeness to the farmer as Drenda introduced him, but as his eyes passed from the handsome young man’s face towards the brutish, heavy face of the farmer, he caught sight of another, much more pleasurable figure, drawing carefully and gracefully near. He didn’t catch the name that Drenda said, and he didn’t care.

“I heard you asking after me,” said the veiled woman. “That was courteous.” The sheer, black cloth was swept back with a deft movement of elegance. Uldor met her piercing, dark eyes even, and he returned the serious look with an equally calm and straight face. For a moment, they merely looked at each other, and if anyone had been observing them, they may have thought words passed with their eyes alone.

Finally, Uldor broke the gaze and gave a slight tilt of his head, a gesture of even more courtesy, for it was the beginning (or the remnant) of a bow, which is meant for honor.

“I did ask after you,” he said. “And I am delighted to see that you have come to be able to tell me yourself how you do.” Yet defiant of his words, he did not look pleased. Even the fake smile that he had worn upon entering the hall was gone. Not a glimmer of amusement or pleasantness remained in his face. He merely looked at her, grave and quiet. To a hopeful woman, perhaps serious but with love behind the dark eyes.

[Dimturiel]

Tora was hurrying through the streets of the settlement. It was late and she had still so many things to do before she could finally be allowed to rest. For one thing, she had to find her father from wherever he was. It was usually her youngest brother who did that, but now he had fallen ill and Tora had to go. It was nothing serious-not yet, at least-but her mother thought it best for him to spend some days in the house. If she could keep him there, that is, thought Tora grimly.

On her way she had made a few inquiries about her father. One man reported to her that he had seen him heading towards the chieftain’s hall. Tora felt baffled. What could he be doing there? It was true that a feast was to be held there in honor of the elven guests-or so rumor had it- but a mere farmer would certainly not be invited to such an event. Then why had he gone there? Had he no sense at all? Had he, perhaps, drunk so much that he no longer thought of the consequences of his actions both regarding him, as well as his family?

Tora quickened her pace. Things did not look good. She only hoped that the chieftain’s would be in a good enough mood not to punish a drunken farmer too heavily. Perhaps they would have enough drink in themselves at the time to make them more indulgent. But maybe he was not even in the hall. Perhaps he had not been allowed in.

On reaching the hall, Tora saw a young guard sitting in front of it, with a look of boredom on his face. Plucking her courage, the girl approached him.

“I…I am sorry to bother you, but could you help me?” she began hesitantly. “I…well, I have been told that my father had headed for the feast and I was wondering…”

Tora paused, biting her lips, desiring nothing but to be away from that uncomfortable situation. How could he explain to the guard that he was looking for a drunk farmer in the chieftain’s hall? And what if she was wrong? What if her father was not even there? The guard, however, nodded curtly at her words.

“Your father would be that drunk rascal shouting to be admitted to the feast, no?” he asked. “It seems he was safe to go there.”

Tora’s eyes widened. He was in the hall? But how…? Yet that was not the time for questions. She had to fetch her father out of there before the situation got even worse than it already was. Taking a deep breath she told the guard in a tone as calm and as natural as she could make it:

“Well, of course he was thought safe to enter. How could he not be when they have invited him. Now, I should have been with him, but I had some work at home said I would come later. So would you please let me enter?”

That was exactly what the guard did not want to do, but the girl had spoken in so natural an air that she could not have been lying. Not in so unconcerned a tone with little signs of fear or worry on her face. Therefore, he stood aside, letting her enter.

Tora thanked her fortune for having taken her so far. She was now inside, and able to look for what she had come to find. Yet she could not help wondering how the evening would end. The talk with the guard had left her with her heart beating fit to burst and her knees shaking. But nothing could have prepared her for what she was to see in the hall. There was her father, sitting beside a young man whom she had never seen before. Yet that was not the cause of Tora’s fears. For she could very well see that Uldor was close by. How come he had not already thrown her father out, she could not tell. Now was the time to act, she thought. Now before it was too late.

With resolute steps, he headed towards her father and tapped him on the shoulder. She could see surprise and annoyance on his face, but she told herself not to be put off by that.

“What are you doing here, father?” she asked, not letting him speak. “I have been sent to look for you, and I must bring you home. Come with me.”

She could see anger growing on Torguar’s face. It was clear his daughter’s words did not please him. He opened his mouth to reply, but Tora cut him short.

“Come.” she repeated putting a hand on her father’s shoulder, and then adding in a quiet whisper. “This is no place for the likes of us.”

[Celuien]

There was an uncommonly cheerful aspect to Ulfast's visage after his interview with the smith. It seemed that a different man returned to the hall than the dourly sardonic one who had left. This Ulfast smiled and seemed to mean it rather than to wear it to cover malice. Nearing the gates of the hall, he had even tossed a handful of copper to astonished townspeople, who then scattered after the unexpected largesse in a way that Ulfast thought similar to chickens after grain. He beamed at his own generosity and crossed into the chieftain's grounds.

The smith would appear with the sword and his sister-in-law. After such an appearance, as Ulfasts's guests, the support of Dag's family for Ulfast - genuine or not - would seem certain. True, they were only common working folk. But Dag was a craftsman who could well-arm many men for battle, and one who seemed to have some prominence among the people of the town. If Ulfast's quarrel with his brother ever came to open fight, it would be the blood of those people that decided the outcome. Better to have as many on his side beforehand as he could muster.

Preparations for the banquet were surely well underway. Ulfast laughed aloud. Mem's addition to the evening's entertainment would not have been known to Uldor. Ulfast hoped his reaction to the unexpected arrival would be amusing.

[bill_n_sam]

Arriving at the great hall, Mem clutching his hand tightly not from fear but from a need to keep up with his brisk pace, Dag led his good-sister to the smaller entrance to the far west side, which gave way first to a cramped storage space of sorts. Here, whatever provender might be needed within could be deposited until called for, and servants could stand guard over their master’s belongings unless they too were called for. Tonight, with every Ulfing of any note whatsoever, and many lesser vassals, assembling to honor the elven envoy, the anteroom was tightly packed and already quite warm with the heat rising from many bodies.

Pushing his way inside, Dag kept Mem close, pulling her arm through his. Ulfast had left no instructions about where and when to deliver the sword, so Dag continued elbowing men aside until he reached the opening into the main hall. There he paused and scanned the smoky room, trying to catch a glimpse of the young chieftain.

As expected, the room was already crowded with men and women from many of the powerful families and clans of the settlement, and beyond. Most of the faces were familiar to him, at least known by reputation, if not personally. In the course of his survey, he nodded briefly once or twice to men who he actually would call friend, and they nodded back. But of Ulfast he saw nothing. Dag was on the brink of turning back into the cramped entry to ask if anyone had seen Ulfang’s second son, when he caught sight of Grimr and Kata. His wife’s good friend stood with her husband talking to a well dressed man Dag did not recognize. Beside the couple waited the sons who were so similar in appearance that Dag could never keep them straight. Dag knew the family only slightly, the friendship being more between the women; but he knew that Grimr was a well respected resident of the settlement and that Gunna had of late encouraged him to make the man’s acquaintance. She hoped that such an acquaintance could help her husband understand better the undercurrents of this place, understand better and negotiate better. Perhaps tonight would present him with such an opportunity, Dag thought.

As if some silent signal of his thoughts had raced across the room, one of Grimr’s sons raised his eyes to meet Dag’s. The boy’s gaze slipped quickly, however, slightly to the right. It took Dag a second or two to realize what the youth was staring at, or more precisely, who. And when he did, Dag stiffened. He glared back at the boy, wishing now he could more readily know which twin it was who so boldly ran his eyes over the girl standing quietly at Dag’s side. The boy’s eyes flickered momentarily back to Dag and seeing the anger on the smith’s face, he quickly turned his gaze elsewhere.

Mem, feeling the bulging muscles of her good-brother’s bicep tightening, asked quietly, “Do you see him? Ulfast?”

“No. I don’t think he’s here yet.”

The curtness of Dag’s reply did not surprise or bother Mem. She was well used to his shortness, and tonight’s circumstances were backing him into corners he had no wish to be in, she knew. To divert him, as well as to satisfy her own curiosity, she asked, “Do you see any of our neighbors? Or have only the important families been invited?”

The tension of the evening was having its effects on the smith. His wariness was climbing to a level of paranoia totally outside the realm of his prior experience. With a jolt of suspicion, Dag wondered if there was more to that lingering look of that young buck than he had first thought. Surely, Gunna would have told him if she had heard anything, seen anything. It was ridiculous, Dag told himself. The girl was never alone, was never left unsupervised . . . but, no. That wasn’t quite the truth of it. Gunna did sometimes leave Mem for a few minutes here and there. Just today, he knew, Gunna had been gone, what? Twenty minutes? A half hour? Would it be possible . . . But Mem was so innocent. She knew nothing of men, except what she heard from the other women. Her songs, though, he realized suddenly, belied a total lack of knowledge of such matters.

With such thoughts chasing themselves in his head, Dag succumbed to the temptation to say, as casually as possible, “I see someone across the way that I believe you know, sister. Falki is it, or Falarr? I can never tell one from the other. Grimr’s sons?”

It was his turn to feel his sister-in-law’s hand tremble slightly on his arm, although she remained silent. Dag quickly continued, “Whichever one it is, he seemed most interested in us, or you actually, Mem. Do you know the fellow?”

Mem struggled inwardly. She knew Gunna’s words had been wise ones – let Grimr approach Dag about any proposed match, that was the proper way. But if Dag already had a suspicion . . . After Dulaan’s whispered words this afternoon, to know the boy was here, tonight, in the same room, caused Mem’s breath to catch in her throat. And he had been looking her way! And she did know Falki. Of course, Dag would know that already. She could not very well deny it. The sensation of butterflies batting around inside her stomach made it difficult for Mem to speak. But she finally managed to say, “Yes, I know Grimr’s sons. He has three altogether. And Falki, well . . . Falki, yes, I, I believe he is . . . interested in me.”

Dag looked at his sister-in-law dumbfounded, then turned his head to glare once more at the boy who had unknowingly added yet one more upset to his already upsetting evening.