The King's Players RPG

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

"Olog and a misses? Hehehe, that Olog was going to make mincemeat out of you boys, hehe." The ancient man was back to his laughter. "Mincemeat meat pies, filled with fruit and eagle eyes!"

Therian sucked a deep breath in and wondered if they should perhaps just slip away unnoticed. Bran seemed to have the same idea. Just as they began to back away, the old man spoke again. "Mighty dry in these parts, is it not? Of course the rain is north on the plains, and west with the horse folk, and of course up north in the Shire, but still, the city seems a bit too dry..."

"Uh," Therian began.

The old man cut him off and lay on the cobblestones to look up at the sky even as he pressed his ear to the ground. "The rain should come, and come much quicker, before the land gets any sicker."

"Bran, we should... maybe... fetch that Captain Formy fellow?"

The pile of rags twitched and sat upright again. "The hobbits are nice boys. Young, of course, but you're all young, you are. That Merry is especially clever, and Frodo seemed a little rash, but then it all worked out in the way that it does."

"It?"

"Of course it. It does. It always is."

"Beg pardon, but what is... it?"

"Life! Or Death, or baby's breath. All the same, ever onward. Old Man's speaking in cruel whispers again, I can hear him even from here, talking of evil things crawling in the dirt. Even with the King, there are still dark places where the sun will never shine, where hands will crawl, where halflings feel swords across their necks. Best keep the halflings out of the holes."

"Sir... Might we... might we help you in some way?"

"Therian, shut it. What did you mean about the halflings and the swords? And don't they live in holes?"

"Smials! Naked walk and naked lie, clothesless hobbits under sky. Ah, look!" The old man stood suddenly, quite spry, and pointed upward. Therian and Bran could see dark silver clouds moving fast on the wind. "I have found her."

With that, the old man tottered off down the road and before the boys could gather themselves to follow, he was quite definitely gone.

Therian swore.

[Formendacil]

Since it was clear that Branor and Therian had no intention of returning to the Inn, Amdír bid Captain Formy a good day, and continued on without them. He unhitched the horses from his cart once he reached the inn, and tethered them, before going inside to fetch help in hauling down the first setpieces. As he did so, he could not help but notice six handsome steeds already tethered. From their glossy coats and fine tack, it was clear to Amdír that someone of importance was present, and had a fearful premonition that it might be the new Master of Revels, the Lord Cirdacil.

A bit fearful, for he had not yet determined the measure of the lord, Amdír entered the Inn, hoping he was wrong, and wishing he was still carting his way across the Pelennor.

[the phantom]

Aldarion lowered himself onto the steps and broke the seal on the first of his letters. He looked to be pleasantly surprised as he read, and then his face showed great surprise indeed and morphed into a wide smile. But quite swiftly his grin was replaced by a look of confusion, and upon finishing the letter he quickly folded it and slipped it beneath his shirt into some inner pocket.

His eyes narrowed briefly as he turned his sharp glance to the second letter. With a swift motion he broke the seal and opened it. The suspicion displayed by his countenance was immediately displaced as Aldarion broke into the largest smile any of the players had seen from him since he had joined their group. His smile never completely faded as he continued, but it was tempered by ripples of puzzlement.

After reaching the end Aldarion hastily pocketed the letter and rose to his feet, still smiling just a bit.

[Mnemosyne]

Within the courtyard, Rollan and Amdir--the former explaining to the latter, as briefly and as best he could, what had transpired thus far--had gotten the stage back open, to yield a little more space to the usually cramped waggon. There were now a few chairs, stools, and other props scattered there, and in one of them was seated Brinn, her dress smart and her hair neatly pinned up. There was a very thin smile on her face, which not even the best efforts of her husband had managed to broaden. Asta was there as well, and Sereth, both of whom Brinn had sternly warned not to overreact to anything, and Aldarion as well, who had this peculiar look on his face, as if he were trying and utterly failing to keep a smile from it at all times. She hoped it was for their good, too.

After too long a wait, the Lord Cirdacil rode into the courtyard. "Pardon me for not rising, my lord," said Brinn. "I am unable at this time. Will you please take a seat, and tell us what it is you have come here to say?"

[Anguirel]

Presumably with the help of the inn's long-suffering ostlers and grooms, all six of the guards and nobles who constituted the visitors from the Citadel had got themselves mounted up again as they entered the courtyard. They had broken their fast with expansive satisfaction, and from dawn it had now become almost noon.

From his saddleback, the Lord Cirdacil surveyed the company who had been trooped out to receive him. Clearly, they were still badly under strength; if this Rollan was to be believed, for reasons relating to their "historical research".

Here, at last, was Miz Celebrindal, suppressing her pain with a surprising amount of proud dignity from her chair. Flanking her was Rollan and another female player, whose rudimentimary visual similarity to Celebrindal made it easy enough for Cirdacil to guess she was her sister, even without Sador's perennial helpful whisperings. At either side of this family arrangement stood a child, gripping the sister's hand and looking solemn, and a thin, good looking fellow in respectable clothing. That, Cirdacil thought, will be Amlach's friend. They share the supercilious confidence in their faces, their certainty that they are the best at their frivolous artistry...

Keeping a respectful distance from these five players was the company's carpenter, and Cirdacil's only direct servant here, Amdir.

"Pardon me for not rising, my lord," the mistress of the King's Players began. "I am unable at this time. Will you please take a seat, and tell us what it is you have come here to say?"

"I am seated already," Cirdacil answered briskly, tapping his saddle, "but I shall descend a little if you would rather; since we need to talk about things of importance, no courtesy should be wanting."

Waving one of the subordinate guards to dismount too, the lord got out of his saddle without any great elegance, though he was, after all, a very old man. The chosen soldier supported his arm, and steered him to the most comfortable of the chairs facing the threadbare company. In the background, the young lord and the other three guards, including their leader, still hovered a little awkwardly from their horseback position.

"Well, first," Cirdacil, putting aside further preamble, started, "you may have heard about the circumstances you are performing in this year; the visit of the Perian consul, and of the Court itself. I must immediately stress that none of this is in the least exaggerated. This year, you are all the King's Players indeed. Forget about Bard the Northerner, or whoever your previous patrons may have been; you're about to have to live up to your name's most high-vaunting expectations."

Cirdacil paused to glare at his escort, apparently to ensure all their expressions were suitably solemn, then went on.

"I am, as you perhaps know, the Lord Warden of the Exchequer as well as, more recently, Master of the Revels, so I know with particular accuracy how much gold we can offer you for a successful performance. I am able to extend forty golden castar to be shared among your company, on top of your usual takings, if your performance is pleasing. Furthermore, you will be ratified as the official theatrical company of this city, licensed to play when the King sends for you, and rewarded on each separate occasion."

He had been speaking in a glum monotone while he announced these arrangements, but as he changed tack, he perked up a bit.

"Of course, you may not be pleasing to his majesty and his majesty's guests. And if you are not, it is otiose to add that your play's run will be over. I myself will almost certainly lose my office and responsibility for the Revels." He spoke here in an impassioned tone, perhaps mistakable for panic, though it was, in fact, anticipation. "If you fail, indeed, there may not be any plays in Minas Anor anymore."

Cirdacil now rose to his feet in a peremptory and powerful motion, leaving the guard who had helped him assume his place lagging paces behind.

"And in this regard, you have made a pretty deplorable start. Hardly had your, ah, rehearsing begun, when rumours from the very most exalted of places reached me that many of you were drinking all over town, dragging the city into disrepute before honoured guests in the name of your supposedly sacred art."

Perhaps surprisingly, at this pitch of anger he laid his eyes on the stalwart, loyally attentive carpenter.

"You, Amdil, no Amdir. I was under the impression you were a sensible fellow. Yet you led three other of these poltroons to a low drinking-hole, where they brought shame upon us all, in front of the Perian consul, no less." He snorted with decision.

"I am disappointed with you, sirrah, and I dispense with your services forthwith. Perhaps this company will still adopt you amongst them, if they don't think you more trouble than gain."

He breathed anew, in a more relaxed rhythm, as if with the sense of a task well done, before turning his head back in the direction of the pocket of riders.

"Now, Sador, come forward!"

The young lord trotted nervously up to a level with where his father and the guard were sitting. Cirdacil continued to speak, at last in a rather satisfied tone of voice.

"I gather you've been having certain difficulties with your script, Mistress Celebrindal, Master...Aldarion? yes, that was it, Aldarion. Anyway, I've decided that while this business arangement is forced to endure between us, I might as well loan you my son, Sador. I can spare him for the next fortnight, if I must; I am not a judge of artistic merit, proud indeed not to be such, but my second son is a noted scholar and thinker, and may be able to assist you if you fall into any egregious lapses of taste or decorum."

Cirdacil got up and now stamped back to his horse (again leaving the guard trailing and gawping at the old man's vigour,) while his son lingered.

"It will be an honour to assist," the young man added to his father's last speech. Then, after setting his mouth in a thin frame that proceeds many an ordeal, he dismounted, and shuffled himself forward on his bad leg towards Brinn, putting out his hand.

"Sador of Burlach, Mistress Celebrindal; I am greatly looking forward to our dramatic partnership. I have some small acquaintance with your playwright, by repute," and here he directed a look at Aldarion that almost had awe in it, such was its shy admiration, "and will be, well, quite thrilled to serve any of you in any capacity."

[the phantom]

How did this man come to be Master of Revels? thought Aldarion. This business of not clearly knowing the name of Amdir- surely if he had done his homework in speaking to the previous Master of Revels he would know Amdir better than that. And so far as being unsure of MY name- well, if he was truly a fan of theater he wouldn't have to cast about for my name. And if he in fact knows my name but simply wished to appear as if he didn't know it- then it was a very low as well as feeble means of promoting his importance while perhaps attempting to impress upon me the low status I possess in his eyes.

Aldarion tried not to roll his eyes. He seems like one of those ambitious political sorts I always hated back in Dol Amroth. But, well, it won't solve anything to treat him poorly or react negatively. The payoff he is offering is considerable, and the patronage of the King himself, well- that is precisely the sort of thing I dreamed of when I joined this group!

Aldarion was pleased when Sador took over the conversation. He was considerably more pleasant than his father. "Thank you for your generous words, sir, and thank you in advance for all the support I am sure you will give us," said Aldarion, and stepped forward and handed Sador a letter.

[Nerwen]

"Asta, can you please let go now? It hurts," said Sereth in an agonised whisper.

It was only then that Asta realised that under the strain of her valiant struggle to obey Brinn's orders and not say anything whatever at any point in this extraordinary meeting, she had been slowly tightening her grasp to the point of all but crushing the girl's hand.

She tried to keep her hastily muttered apologies out of the ears of the Master of Revels' son, but to no avail, judging from the quick, amused look he gave her.

Asta bristled at what she took to be the first sign of Sador's belittling aristocratic ways.

She really did not at all like the fact that they would have to deal with a noble at such close quarters– particularly not one who was sure to interfere with everything they did, and maybe force all kinds of unwelcome changes to the script. Who knew what would please a "noted scholar and thinker"? As if people like that ever went to plays in the first place! And then, the young lord was badly lame, and, by the way he dragged his leg, suffered from something much more lasting than a sprained ankle. That added a wholly different kind of awkwardness to the situation.

Asta just stopped herself from grimacing. Things were going to be very tricky in the days to come, very tricky indeed. True, they were not being marched off to prison, or likely to be, and instead had been offered a chance at success beyond any but her wildest daydreams– if all went well. There was the rub. Asta had already begun to imagine all the things that might not go well. With her naturally suspicious mind, she guessed there was much more to Lord Burlach's fair offer than appeared on the surface.

She was troubled, too, by this mysterious business of Aldarion's. Asta had always known, in a vague sort way of, that the playwright had what Brinn called "connections", but it was a different matter to see the proof before her eyes that he was not in truth one of them, but belonged in some measure to the remote world of lords and captains. And then, what could be in those letters? She would have to find out, whatever else might befall.

[Dimturiel]

Harrenon and Coldan were now heading back to the inn, after a very intriguing talk with Bergil. Their new acquaintance had proven himself very helpful, asking few questions and readily accepting to give them whatever information they required. He told them many things about King Elessar, of whom he spoke very highly. He fondly recalled the first time he had seen the King in the Houses of Healing, just after the battle on the Fields of Pelennor was over. As a matter of fact, Bergil spoke about the King with a sort of reverence that seemed much more than the formal respect a subject is taught to have for his lord. Harrenon guessed there was a story behind that too, but he said nothing about it. Bergil also told them quite a lot about Eowyn and gave them some information about Boromir and Denethor too. All in all, they had done what Brinn had sent them to do. They had found whatever information they could about the Men that had been involved in the War of the Ring and it had come from a very reliable source.

“We did well, I should say,” Harrenon commented to Coldan. “I think we have all we need, don’t you?”

Coldan nodded to confirm this.

“Of course,” he added. “Ve vill have to change half the script, now.”

“Yes, that’s true,” Harrenon admitted. “Even more, if what the others find also does not match with what we already had.”

The two arrived at the inn without any incidents. Therian and Branor had not yet returned, but all the others were there together with Amdir.

“It’s good that you are all here,” Harrenon said in greeting. “We have quite a lot to tell you. We seemed to have a rotten luck when we first did research for this play. I am sorry to say this, but most of what we have thought was true is actually wrong.”

[Thinlómien]

Sereth listened to the old man with a serious face while secretly regretting she had childishly taken Asta's hand, for the woman was squeezing her fingers numb. "Asta, can you please let go now? It hurts," she whispered rather urgently. The woman let go and whispered an apology at Sereth's direction, which the newly arrived young noble smiled at.

Sereth didn't get it though. She definitely didn't like the old nobleman - all nobles are like that, Aelin would've said but she had been gone for years now - and what on earth was he doing making his son interfere with their play on top op everything else? Sereth was sure the man would ruin Brinn and Aldarion's work - as if there hadn't been enough trouble already.

"I don't get it," she said to Asta in a voice that was intended to be a whisper. "What's happening? Why was that old self-important... piece of nobility blackmailing us?"