Treachery of Men RPG

[Gwathagor]

Jord staggered into her room, slammed the door behind her, and collapsed just short of her bed, her outstretched hand just brushing the edge of the quilt which hung down near the floor. She was mentally and physically exhausted, lacking the energy even to crawl the rest of the way to her bed. Instead, she lay curled upon the floor, breathing heavily and trying not to let her eyes close, for fear that that horrid prophet's face would appear before them. She wondered if she would ever be able to sleep again, if she would ever be able to approach that awful dimness, so like unto death, without fear.

And so it was that, through the floorboards she heard voices in the hall below.

"The guards are still below with the prisoner. Perhaps they should be questioned." That was Ulfast's mocking voice.

"No doubt you put them up to it." Unmistakably Uldor.

And then...a silence. A faint groan, perhaps?

Then someone spoke.

"Lord, your brother was about to murder you." Jord's mind snapped to attention through the weariness that enshrouded it. Had Ulfast done it? "I have taken his life instead." Who? Was it? Who was speaking? Who had been killed?

A body fell to the floor with an resounding thump, and now Jord wondered: which brother had turned on which? Had her fool, Ulfast, failed - or succeeded? And if he had failed, would she be able to bend Uldor? Anxiety twisted her already bruised mind.

No! I am Morgoth's servant, the claw of his mighty right hand! It is not a matter of if, but how. I WILL accomplish my lord's will.

And silently, she grappled with a steadily growing sense of fear, and of weakness. She felt alone. She felt mortal.

[Mithalwen]

Tathren had waited for what seemed to be an age in the Ulfing's hall, alone with the body of his master. His indignation was soon replaced with bewilderment. Whatever was going on here was beyond his experience and imagination but instinct told him that he should leave as soon as might be. Not tonight - he did not trust himself to find his way in the dark, though the horses might. And though Lachrandir had found his violent death in the full light of day, The night may encourage even Elvish minds to conjure horrors that even the stars of Elbereth might not dismiss. Though whatever might befall him on his journey he knew he must steel himself to face Caranthir.

He would depart at first light if possible. Somehow he must complete his Lachrandir's business if there be anyone left in this deserted place with authority to treat with him. And then there was the last service he must rend his master.

He looked at his lord's body. The spirit had long passed whether answering the call to Mandos or no, but the shell that remained must suffer no further indignity. Tathren few resources to draw on, death being an unnatural event for his people and not one he had previously experienced first hand. He had heard of the fallen being laid to rest beneath grass or stone but he had no idea if it must be so and neither seemed possible hear. He could not carry his master back to Caranthir but he was loathe to leave him alone in a strange land, uncertain if his grave would be defiled.

"Lachrandir, what should I do?", he asked silently. His master's name gave him an inkling and without knowledge of the correct rite and ritual he would follow his instinct.

A pyre seemed appropriate for the Feanorian and as a smith's son he knew how to build a fire to burn hot and strong enough that nothing but ash would remain.

Having decided, the need to act overruled his reluctance to leave his master unattended. He made a slight bow, then turned and left the hall to find what was required for his purpose.

[Folwren]

Ulfast was dead. His blood was still pooling beneath him. Uldor looked at Brodda, a question flickering in his dark eyes. Treachery! The word echoed in Uldor’s mind. But where was the treachery? Lying at his feet, perhaps, but not in Brodda.

Ulfast had actually tried to kill him. Why? Why had he tried? Why had he not had someone else do the job? Who had prompted him to raise his own hand and strike? He must have known that it was too dangerous.

Perhaps there was more of a web binding close around Uldor than he thought. Perhaps there was a greater power at work.

With a growl of anger stemmed from indefinable fear, Uldor shoved his way past Brodda and quickly hurried back towards his chambers.

A decision must be made soon! Tathren, now that Lachrandir was dead, would be leaving shortly, and an answer must be given for him to take to Caranthir.

But then there was lord Morgoth. His ambassador, Jord, seemed to appear with the thought. He saw her amidst the slanting shadows of the pillared hall through which he now walked.

He altered his course to draw near her. She faced him. He hardly noticed the darkening, purple bruises lining her pale throat. He looked her in the eye, a thing even he rarely dared to do.

“Tomorrow. Tomorrow you shall have my answer.”

Then without awaiting a response, he turned and walked away. He locked his chamber door and went to the window. There he sat a long vigil, watching the sky darken, the moon rise and pass over the field of stars, and even when the moon passed from his sight and sank towards the western sky, still he sat, wakeful and silent.
His thoughts took on the form of images. Picture after picture rose before his mind’s eye. War was waged. Elves, men, orcs, and creatures for which he had no name fought and died. Sometimes the elves won in the struggle, but only at bitter costs. More frequently, Morgoth, the mighty on, the dark, cruel master, won - and his vision ran with blood…blood but infinite power.

Then came the memory of Lachrandir’s body – torn and mangled. And then he saw Ulfast – gasping in shock and pain before crumpling to the ground at his feet. There was power. There was the ability to rule over life and death. The elves did not have it. Ulfast had not had it. Uldor had not died. He was vulnerable – aye, as long as she stood against the greater power, he would always be subject to execution.

Power. The word tempted him, just out of reach but so near! So easily achieved! He but had to speak to Jord and tell her that he had decided. Tathren would go home, bearing promises of aid. This way, Uldor and his people would profit Morgoth most, for in the heat of the battle, Uldor and his men could take the elves unaware and tip the scales to the Valar’s end.

The red rim of an angry sun rose above the eastern horizon.

Udlor’s mind was made up.

[Mithalwen]

Tathren's swift elvish feet carried him swiftly outside into the night. He had not realised that day had turned into evening as he had kept his lone vigil, waiting long and in vain for the Ulfing lords to pay their respects to his master, he would wait no longer. Perhaps it was not their way to do so....uncharitably he wondered if they were so primitive that the death of one was no more noted than if a starling were lost from a flock of thousands.

Nevertheless he managed to procure wood and oil - the glint of silver aiding communication and overcoming any reluctance to deal with the elf. The elves had inspired awe and curiousity in the settlement since their arrival and if Lachrandir's death had shown them to be vulnerable, the fell look in his page's eyes discouraged any notion of treating him with anything other than caution.

He built the pyre alone, outside the walls of the stockade, on the banks of a nearby stream. It took longer than he expected and the stars of Varda flowered as he laboured. They were fading in the first promise of dawn when he bore his master's body to the pyre in his arms - an awkward burden despite the lightness of the long frame .

Tathren wept as he made his slow progress. The guards dared not hinder him and opened the gates wide for him to pass. The boy's tears coursed down his face and onto that of Lachrandir that rested against his chest.

At last Lachrandir lay upon his pyre. Tathren had removed the banner of Caranthir - it would be needed yet if the Ulfings kept to the arrangement- but the elf lord bore still the star of Feanor on his breast. Tathren paused only to remove his master's dagger - the only personal item he had carried about him. He knew Lachrandir had crafted it himself and determined to keep it in his remembrance. He placed a kiss on his master's brow - something that he would not have countenanced in life - Tathren whispered a farewell to his uncle.

Gazing at the familiar face for the last time he took the firkin of oil and poured it over the pyre and with a moments hesitation over Lachrandir also til his hair and garments were soaked and glistened. Tathren stepped back and kneeled by a small pile of kindling. He took out his firestone and with Lachrandir's own blade created the spark that lit the pyre. Tathren stood back and averted his eyes until the flames obscured their task. The elvish body was soon consumed by the fire but the pyre burned on filling the sky with smoke and lighting it red. As he watched Tathren sang a lament for his master and the sound haunted the dreams of many Ulfing villagers though they might understand no word of it. But Tathren stayed until all was ash and the only light was that of morning.

[Gwathagor]

Jord had not slept that night. She had not even been in her room. After her brief meeting with Uldor, she had spent her night stalking the empty moonlit corridors of the great building, her body in pain and her mind wracked by doubt. She had felt so sure once that either Uldor or Ulfast would join her, would join Angband, but now Ulfast was dead and Uldor was undecided. Hour after hour she retraced her steps along the timber halls and passages, just as she retraced in her mind the course of the past days. She would pause sometimes, in the throne room or on the porch. Had she gone wrong? What else could she have done? For now the complete success - or complete failure - of her mission was in another man's hands. She could do nothing now. Nearing the stairs to the dungeon, she hurried past and tried not to think of the old man who had very nearly been her undoing. Indeed, she had come within a hand's breadth of failure and had only just pulled herself back from the brink. And yet she felt she was there again. If Uldor would not turn, what else could she do?

Whence this doubt? Jord thought. I am Thuringwethil and I have feasted on kings, men and elven. I am kin to gods - nay, I AM a god, a goddess, and I will not be gainsaid! Have we not always been victorious?

And yet she did not fully believe it, for she could not shake the memory of a certain pair - woodsman and elf princess - who had once done great harm to both her and her master. It had happened before, and she was afraid it could happen again. She was afraid. Fear ate at the edges of her mind, pursuing her from all sides. Her humanity frightened her and her supernatural power frightened her - could she call on it again? Would her human form not be burnt or broken by such power? Her fate frightened her, for it was out of sight and, she felt, out of reach. All was dark now before her, and behind her as well, for that way lay death. Perhaps death lay in wait for her again, just beyond, in the coming darkness? She could not tell.

And so it continued through the blackest of nights, until all she knew was doubt, and fear, and an overpowering sense of helplessness as the dawn grew ever nearer.

The first rays of morning found Jord, hooded and cloaked, standing on the stone porch of the great hall, facing away west where the darkness lingered longest.

[Folwren]

The first thing he must do was get Tathren out of the city. Lord Caranthir had waited too long for an answer to be sent for him. He would be impatient and suspicious by the time the young, inexperienced ambassador had returned home, and that would not do for Uldor’s purpose.

He dressed himself with care and then sent word to Tathren to come to him in the great hall. He then went to Ulfang himself. Ulwarth was there with their father, when Uldor came in.

The conference was short and to the point. Uldor told his father that he intended to send Tathren back to Caranthir - with a message that they would fight for the elves. That is all he told Ulfang. There was no reason to tell a dotard old man all his plans for battle and victory. By the time that came to pass, he would likely be dead! So Uldor merely told him the surface of his intentions, and Ulfang sent him out with his blessing to so answer the elven lord.

Uldor went, and found Tathren waiting for him.

“I believe it is time that you left us,” Uldor said, smoothing his countenance to the correct form of regret and feeling for what had passed the previous day. “I am more sorry than I can express at what has happened.” Tathren said nothing, but his piercing gray eyes remained fixed on Uldor, and the inwardly crooked man had difficulty keeping his calm. “I have called you to give you our word in reply to Caranthir. We shall uphold our given oath, and will fight with lord Caranthir against the might of Morgoth. Tell him this.”

For the next several minutes, Udlor was busy telling Tathren all the details - how many men there would be, how they would communicate before marching out with the elves, and all the rest. Tathren took the messages almost in complete silence, nodding his head at certain points and occasionally giving a question.

Finally, he had gone. Uldor paced for a moment in the wide and empty hall alone, and then he knew that a more important meeting now had to happen. He went out in search of Jord.

[Gwathagor]

Jord was not far. Just outside the hall she had waited, listening in awful horror to Uldor's conference with Tathren. What was he doing? Was it possible that this Easterling dog should keep his word to Caranthir? It was difficult to believe, but she could not deny the evidence of her own ears. She had failed after all; Morgoth would cast her aside, broken, if alive at all. She began to feel cold.

Suddenly, the meeting was over and Uldor was walking through the hall-doors. In a violent burst of energy born of desperation, Jord seized Uldor by the throat and pressed him against the wall where she had been leaning a moment before, nails digging into the skin.

"Remember Lachrandir, Uldor? Remember Khandr? They set themselves between Lord Morgoth and Lord Morgoth's Will to their own undoing. Would you share their fate?" She was gambling a little now, but it was the only thing she could do. She held Uldor's gaze. "I killed them both. I, Jord, who remember the first mountain and the first wave and the toppling of the Two Trees, who am more than woman-kind." She was really gambling now, for she did not know whether she would be able to summon her power should Uldor attempt to use force. She smirked a little. "Do you wish to see me as I am, Uldor? Do you wish to see the Claw of Morgoth unveiled and raised against you? Do not toy with us."

Uldor spoke steadily, but mastering his emotions only with great effort. He did not wish to provoke this thing.

"It was a lie. I lied to Tathren," he said quietly. "Now hide the knife before someone sees. My guards will not hesitate to spear you first and then ask what you were doing."

Jord dropped the knife and began to shake - and then she began to laugh. It felt extraordinarily good, and for once, she was almost happy to be stitched into this mortal frame.

"Let us talk, Uldor. Where can we be alone?"

"Follow me."

For next several hours, the two of them sat and talked in Uldor's quarters. War was brewing between Morgoth and the sons of Feanor, but neither Jord nor Uldor knew when it would erupt into flame. For the present, then, it seemed best that the Easterlings should continue to appear loyal to the elves, in order that they might gather information for Morgoth and that their eventual betrayal might be all the more potent. Uldor would take a census to determine how many men of military age he had, but, otherwise, they would discuss logistics later. Jord had a message to deliver to her Master.