Treachery of Men RPG

[bill_n_sam]

Mem’s distracted face lit up at the sound of Tora’s voice. “Tora! So good to have your company. You’re never a bother. Come in, come in.”

Truly happy to have the chance to talk to the young woman, with whom she shared a close friendship, Mem was doubly relieved to have a chance to turn the conversation away from the startling revelation Granny Dulaan had imparted. Taking up at wooden spoon, she stirred the tea in the heating pot, saying, “Sit, please. I’m so glad your father sent you. It’s been a while since we had the chance to talk. Do you have time to take some tea with us? Kata is waiting for Gunna to return. I don’t know what is keeping her so long. Did you see her at the forge? She was taking Dag his lunch. I know he’s been quite busy lately – he’s even been asked to make a fine sword for Ulfast. But it’s worked out well for us.” She smiled confidentially. “Gives us a chance to catch up on all the gossip.”

Mem hoped that her friend would not notice how quickly she was talking, and how she went on and on. Having heard from different sources about Tora’s own sad experience with love, Mem had no desire to mention Dulaan’s bit of news. Turning her face back to where she knew Kata stood close to the door, Mem asked politely, “So, how is your husband, Kata? What news does he bring you of the goings on of the men of the town

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

To say that Hunta was taken off guard by Briga's abrupt manner and surprising request would be an understatement. He and the lord's first wife had exchanged but a handful of words in the time they had travelled together; as a guide and tracker for these nobles he had dealt for the most part with the second wife, Embla. Much as the younger woman's bad temper and rude manner annoyed him, she was -- at least -- someone he could more easily understand and empathise with. Like her, he was something of an outsider to this group having been engaged by the lord more or less at the last moment. And like Embla, he was not of that more courtly and refined class from which the lord came -- Hunta had been raised in a little more than a mud-hut and had slept beneath the stars at least as many nights as he had beneath a roof in his life. He had never felt truly at home or at ease with the lord and Briga, and he had always sensed that perhaps Embla felt the same. But her temper!

Despite his misigivings, Briga's request could not be ignored. As he wife of the lord her authority was real, and her self-possession and almost regal bearing was something he could not pretend had no natural sway over him. So it was with some amazement, and more than a little confusion, that he found himself accompanying the woman Gunna back to her home.

As they walked they made what small-talk they could manage, but it was difficult and stilted. So much of their lives were so different, that it was hard to find common ground. As they passed a group of rough looking youths loitering against a wall, one of them called out to Hunta. "Hoy there, barrakar!" he said contemptuously. "I hear you brought home a deer this day! Was it a grand hunt? They say that you were able to smell it out, and that you chased it down yourself. What does a mighty hunter like you even need with a dog?" They youths laughed.

Hunta froze in his steps and turned toward them. Their laughter faltered somewhat but the one who had spoken pulled himself up, not wishing to appear weak or chastened before his mates. "What is it barrakar," he asked, "Is it not true that you are a great hunter? Perhaps you fancy yourself better than the Ulfings in that sport, eh?" Hunta took a step toward them. "Watch out barrakar," the youth said. "You wouldn't want to do anything rash. We are only trading jibes with you...you can't offer violence to some jokes...not if you want to stay on the good side of the law."

At Hunta's side Laylah growled deep in her throat. Now the youths were truly nervous, for they had never seen a dog of her size or power. She stared at them, and the wild idea went through their minds that she could understand their words. "Keep that mutt away barrakar!" they cried. "You should have her on a leash, dirty brute!"

It happened so fast that onlookers barely saw it. Hunta stepped close to the leader of the group and raised his hand. The boy's own hand flew to his knife and drew it forth an inch from the scabbard. Hunta froze and it became clear in an instant that he had tricked the boy into making this first threatening move. "Now who is in danger of being on the wrong side of the law...Ulfing?" Hunta said quietly. "I believe the penalty for breaking the peace within the city walls is quite severe, is it not? I might be willing to let the matter drop, though....if you apologise."

The youth's eyes narrowed into slits of impotent fury. He knew he was caught and had no choice. "I apologise for raising my hand in anger against you," he recited formally.

Hunta smiled, and it was not a friendly sight. "Not to me, you fool....to my dog."

The youth snarled but the laws of the Ulfing lord were strict, and his guards were sturdy. As his companions fought snickers of contempt the youth looked at Laylah and said, "I am sorry." Laylah sat and wagged her tail, leaning her head against her master who scratched her behind the ears.

Hunta returned to Gunna. "All right," he said without emotion, "I'm ready to go."

[piosenniel]

Now what are those two talking about?

Káta stepped out of the entryway as tea was readied. She’d peeked out the door to see if Gunna were on her way, but there was no sign of the woman. Granny looked a little smug, a considering look on her face. Hmmm.....cat got in the cream...., she thought to herself.

And Mem’s cheeks seemed a little flushed as she spoke. ‘I . . . I never even imagined . . .’ Imagined what? Did her ears hear rightly? Fálki?

Káta was about to ask how it was that her son’s name had come up in conversation when the sound of someone’s voice calling her name broke in on her thoughts. She glanced round to see a familiar face....Tora.

The conversation took another turn; Mem turning her attention toward the new guest. And soon a question was thrown Káta’s way.

‘So, how is your husband, Káta?’ Mem asked. ‘What news does he bring you of the goings on of the men of the town?’

‘Ah, my dear Grimr.....he’s fine, fine. Went hunting just today with the twins and his friend, Erling. We’ve brought a goose, in fact, they bagged,’ she added, ‘thinking your family might enjoy it.’

Káta thought for a moment about the second part of Mem’s question. She did not think Grimr would want the men’s business he was involved with talked about in a loose manner. Instead she spoke in general terms of how the men were abuzz about the Elvish visitors to Ulfang’s hall. ‘Grimr and the boys, I know, are thinking the promised battle will be coming soon now. The coming of the Elves heralds that, don’t you think? They’ve been setting their bows and spears and knives and such in order already. I’m supposing that will just pick up pace now. Why even we women,’ she said laughing as she looked toward Jóra and Granny, ‘have been drafted into fletching the new arrow shafts they’ve been making.’

She took a cup of tea offered by her daughter. ‘How about Dag, Mem? Is he busier lately.....making parts for weapons?’ Káta sat down near Jóra, smoothing her skirt beneath her on the cushion. ‘And your father, Tora? Any news come his way?’

[Mithalwen]

Tathren had not imagined that the audience would be such a tense affair - and it had barely started, the letter had not been read yet.

He was not offended that he had not been presented to Ulfang. He was Lachrandir's servant. A person of no consequence. He had been offered a seat, a courtesy extended to visitors in the customs of most cultures but that was all.

He followed his Lord's lead in matters of comportment; he sat when Lachrandir sat, rose when he rose and attempted the same composure. And if he had to speak he doubted his words would have the same condecension as Lachrandir had shown when they entrusted their horses to the servant. For his master such address was a natural mode of address. He guessed that he would have addressed an elven groom in like manner; here though the grosser disparity in status made his manner seem more patronising.

Neither would his own speech carry the same authority as Lachrandir's. It might prove too gauche or too glib for the situation and having observed the old lord's ire and rivalry between his sons he had wit enough to realise a misjudged phrase could have unfortunate consequences.

Really it was a relief not to be expected to speak. It was all Tathren could do to maintain a dignified silence. The chairs were not designed for someone even of his height - he was unable to divine from a sideways glance how Lachrandir managed to assume a easy and elegant pose despite his even greater height. Tathren felt he could not stretch out his legs as if seated by his own fireside and the chair was to low to tuck them back with comfort. He was only too aware that if he fidgeted he would disturb the bag that he had propped at the side of the chair and that if it fell it would not be the soft thud of a bundle of clothes but hard, metallic, at best a clink, at worst a humiliating clatter of coins that would incur his lord's disapproval far beyond his previous mild irritation.

He was anxious for Lachrandir to speak and defuse some of the tension - but he feared also that the envoy's words might have the reverse effect and be a flame to the fuse.

[Anguirel]

The Envoy, too, was not easy in his mind. He struggled to sum up the slew of human characters bursting upon him, rupturing against each other. Lachrandir noted the old Chieftain's reluctance to act before the arrival of his eldest, apparently more favoured son; the newcomer, Uldor, who was himself a knot of contradictions.

The Chieftain's heir was plainly flawed, and evidently could scarcely abide either of his brothers, which hardly augured well; but he did not seem to be entirely without qualities, either. There was force and decision in his tone that the rest of the brood seemed to lack, and Lachrandir was inclined to approve of his brusque manner, his irritation and desire for clarification. Plucky, one might say. This Uldor was an iron poker, heated to whiteness, with a brashness that burnt. As for his principal foe among the other two brothers, Ulfast, his respectful bearing to the Elves was good, but he was unwise to let himself be possessed so quickly by what looked distinctly like envy.

All this thought honed itself with the rapidity of impatience in the mind of Lachrandir, and his reply to Uldor was prompt, a simple "Ay." He rose from the mean wooden seat he had attempted to arrange himself upon with ill-hidden relief, broke the wax seal that bound the scroll and let it plunge floorwards. Four feet and eight inches of parchment unrolled themselves, until the missive hung composed in the hall's thick air, and Lachrandir began to proclaim it. The hall around ceased its murmur and disturbance, almost all eyes hanging upon the messenger.

The letter began simply: "To Ulfang, from Caranthir greeting. We would make known to thy hall certain tidings, desires and commands, which we trust you to fulfil."

But the missive was the work of more than one hand; Caranthir had written the parts of present import, but, as tradition dictated, they were interspersed with various ancestral litanies and chronicles detailed by the Lord's Loremasters. The gawping Easterlings were treated to a long passage of what, to them, were incomprehensible and somewhat frightening chants in some half-enchanted tongue. Lachrandir gave a gruff apology for the letter's length, before declaiming in the Quenya of a long-forgotten Court the Oath of Fëanor. The might and terror of the words penetrated the unknown language, and the spines of the Men tingled with trepidation. But at last, after a summary of other affairs in the usual Sindarin, including the loss of Thargelion at the Bragollach, Lachrandir reached the subject of his journey.

“...Forinasmuch as thou, Ulfang, called the Black, hath been accustomed to owe liege-homage, saving thy dignity amidst the tribes, to us, Caranthir, fourth son of Fëanor, rightful lord of Thargelion but for the false disseisin of the Enemy; by this and by the ties of loyalty between thy vassals and mine, thou art bidden to provide fighting men in service, to the number of seven thousand..."

A number of gasps sounded in the hall. The Elves had ordered bands of warriors to follow them north before, but a muster on such a scale was unprecedented. It meant at least a third of all the fighting men in South East Beleriand.

"...under thine own command or under such a proxy as it pleases thee to dispatch, to meet with our own powers and those of our youngest brothers, the Lords Amrod and Amras, on the twenty-seventh day of the month of May; this army being dispatched, under the lordship of our eldest brother Maedhros, Lord of Himring, to avenge upon the Enemy the grievous and perfidious hurts that he hath inflicted. For amongst these art listed the slaying traitorly of our sire and grandsire, the ruin of our realms in the north, and the unlawful withholding of the Silmarilli, greatest work upon Arda, that our father Fëanor crafted, and that we hath sworn, on pain of the Everlasting Darkness, to regain. So it is ordained on this, the eleventh day of April. And we hath sworn, once having raised up this great Union of Maedhros, never to abandon it, and charge thee to swear likewise.”

There ended the commands of Caranthir, though the letter continued a little longer with various good wishes and thanksgiving on account of loyal services rendered to Ulfang and other chieftains; as well as several hints that more lands and fiefs might be expected if the war went well. The Elvenlord ended by declaring that one Silmaril had been plucked from Morgoth's crown, and with the aid of the race of Men, he fully expected that he and his brothers would retrieve the other two.

"There ends my missive," Lachrandir finished solemnly. "Perhaps we could discuss arrangements for my Lord's muster in some more private place?"

[Dimturiel]

Tora sat pondering on Kata's question. Her father did not usually share the news that he heard with his family, save only when it concerned a dire problem, something inevitable that would affect their lives in some way. It was still too early to be certain that great events were to follow, and his father was not the one to speak until he was certain that his thoughts were worth saying. In this aspect, Tora resembled him completely.

"Well, you know how my father is." she told Kata. "He rarely tells us his thoughts. But I cannot deny that today he seemed worried. I somehow think that he does not find the coming of the elves good tidings. Yet my mother does. She says that great things are to come, and that our settlement will benifit much from them. Well, but you know quite well what my mother is like. She thinks that good will come out of many things that are actually ill."

Tora paused, shaking her head. She sometimes wondered how her mother had managed to survive all these years, being forced to endure disappointment after disappointment just because of her way of thinking. And despite of all that had happened, she still stubbornly mantained her hopeful view of the times that were to come. But what if the coming of the messengers would bring only ill, which was more likely to happen? Would she be able to survive this disappointment also, or would this be the one that would break her? Wishing to draw her attention from her troubled thoughts, Tora began speaking again:

"I for one think that something is indeed approaching." she cofessed. "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?"

[Folwren]

Uldor sat in mute and stunned silence. He struggled to let none of his mixed feelings to show on his face. His jaw clenched fiercely and his eyes remained narrow as the appallingly long missive was read out. As the introductions and the half intelligible words ran on, though, his attention and his tenseness slackened. His relaxed and slumped lower in his chair. Until his eyes fell on Ulwarth. The youngest son was crumpled in his chair until he looked as though he was practically dead. Uldor sat upright suddenly, his back became rigidly straight again, his eyes opened fully and he turned them once again on the envoy.

At that moment, Lachrandir looked up, he briefly met Uldor’s eyes as he made some sort of apology. Then he spoke in a louder, more commanding voice. It was a language that Uldor did not know, but it caused the blood to heat in his veins and he felt his very heart move with some emotion that was both hot and terribly cold at the same time. The silence in the hall as the elf read these words was heavy and so still that it was almost piercing.

Then, finally, he came to the point of his letter. Every eye, every individual attention was on the elven messenger. He read his lord’s bidding. Seven thousand men under the command of Ulfang himself! Uldor cast a look at his aging father. What would he think? How would he react? Surely he would not make an answer to this elf before Uldor had a chance to speak with him. Surely he would not. Uldor looked again at Lachrandir. What would Uldor advise? There was so much to be considered! Seven thousand men to be sent to fight another’s war. He commenced to listening once again to the missive.

Then another thought struck him violently. Would they be permitted to say no? Or was this a command, to be obeyed without question? Once more the muscles in his jaw tightened, his black eyes flashed as his eyelids became slits in his face.

“There ends my missive,” the elf said, looking up and beginning once more to roll the parchment. “Perhaps we could discuss arrangements of my lord’s muster in some more private place?”

For a very brief moment, silence met his question. Then Uldor seemed to bring himself out of some spell with a little difficulty. He stood up slowly, bringing himself up to his full height, meager besides that of the elves.

“We can go back into the next room. It is a private place, prepared for such purposes, with chairs enough for all of us, and a table. We can discuss whatever arrangements you think will be necessary. Am I not correct, sir?” he asked, turning towards his father.

The old man nodded his head slowly in agreement and stood. He stepped down from his chair and led the way towards the door. Uldor stood aside and motioned with his hand to the elves to follow his father. Lachrandir moved forward at once, and Tathren rose and followed close behind him. The three brothers came behind the elves.

The room they entered had no windows. Lamps lit the room in a smoky light and a fire burned in a huge fireplace at the far end. In the center stood a large, round table about which was placed several carved chairs. Ulfang walked with steady, measured steps to the chair closest to the fire and there he sat down. The others found themselves chairs and as it turned out, the two elves sat on a side of their own, with the four Ulfings facing them from the other opposite side of the table.