Treachery of Men RPG

[Celuien]

By the time Ulfast reached his chambers, much of his ill humor had dissipated. In truth, the day had not been entirely unpleasant. He thought that he would have to speak with Ulwarth later. There, at least, Ulfast had a solid ally in enmity for his older brother.

It was frustrating that Uldor had not spoken against the summons. Ulfast knew that his brother would be against sending men to aid the Elves, whether or not he said it openly. Perhaps there was a way to prod him into open defiance. Little time had been spent with the Elves. More hours of forced politeness to the visitors might provoke Uldor into carelessness.

Ulfast smirked as he realized that he did not know whether a proper welcome for the envoy had been planned. The greeting they had received as yet had been small, but the arrival of an important ally after long journey deserved more attention. A grand feast would be in order. Ulfast scribbled a message inquiring about the preparations for such an event and summoned a servant to bring it to Uldor. Whether plans had already been made or not, the message would annoy Uldor. Had they already been made, Uldor would be irritated by the apparent stupidity shown by the message. If not, the reminder of the need to show courtesy to the visitors would anger him.

A grand feast would require Ulfast to appear in his finest attire. He thought of the new sword he had ordered. If the smith had been diligent, there was a chance that it would be finished in time for the festivities. He decided to check on the sword's progress. For a moment, Ulfast thought of sendng one of his men to the forge, but then thought better of it. He would go himself. The smith would understand the importance of his task if it brought a chieftain's son to his shop. And too, he could test the smith's loyalty to him.

He left the Ulfing hall and strode through the village streets, enjoying the startled, fearful glances sent his way. He came to the smith's shop and called to the craftsman.

"I am Ulfast, son of Ulfing. How goes the work on my sword?"

[Child of the 7th Age]

The master of the house hurried over to the door and extended a hand of welcome to his guests, "Fastarr, Hunta, it is good to see you both. My wife and I greet you." Knahdr turned towards Briga, indicating with a little wave of his hand that she should stand beside him. For some time, they made small talk, speaking of this and that and some of the strange customs observed by the villagers.

Then Khandr led his guests over to a small table where cups of sweet honey mead had been set out on a silver tray. He picked up one of these and handed it to Hunta, encouraging the rest to retrieve their cups and explaining, "We are still awaiting Bergr's arrival but let us have a little refreshment before we sit down at the table. Everyone lift their drink. It is right that we take a moment to remember our bonds of loyalty to our tribe and our pledge to be good retainers of lord Maedhros for that makes us kinsmen here in a strange land. A toast now for the health and good fortune of King Bor."

Khandr lifted up his glass and drank, beckoning the others to do the same. When they had all finished, he explained, "We will wait till Bergr arrives to discuss the details, but I must say this first. I have called you here for two purposes. The great hall of the Ulfang is a cold place to be. I sense little friendliness or warmth as existed in the days of old. It is a good thing to be able to sit and spend an evening with friends. But that is not the only reason we are here." Khandr sighed and shook his head, "I wish it was that easy. There are so many secrets in this settlement. And I am shut out from so much that I fear that something, perhaps something treacherous, is going on. The signs do not bode well for the fortunes of the Borrim or that of our King. We can not stay here and do nothing. We must act. What and how we act is something we must determine tonight. "

"Now we will wait for Bergr to arrive and sit down to a fine meal. Feasting first, and then planning...."

Suddenly Khandr stopped and glanced around the room, a puzzled expression reflected on his face, "But where is my second wife? Where is Embla? I do not see her." He stared over at Briga who shook her head and shrugged her shoulders as if to say that she had no idea.....

[Lalaith]

Embla stood at the back of the hall, in the shadows. Much as she had been doing for the past few hours, she was skulking and smirking. She had enjoyed watching Briga rushing busily about, and whispering anxiously with Khandr - who was all the while distractedly running his fingers through his beard. So much so, in fact that she quite forgot to adhere to her usual policy such occasions – to get in the way, pick quarrels and issue counter-orders.

She observed Hunta stumping back, discombobulated, with the cheese. Fastarr, meanwhile, had arrived looking unusually spruce – well-groomed, almost. She guessed by his flushed glow where he had been – the sweatlodge. She felt a twinge of jealousy. Embla had, in her misery, almost given up on personal adornment, but she was fastidious by nature and had been a frequent sauna guest back in the happy Bairka days. But the restrictions imposed on Borrim womenfolk meant that a visit to a public sweat-lodge was out of the question for her now.

She looked at Fastarr again, as he joined in the toast proposed by Khandr. Oh, she knew him well, by reputation at least. This was the killer of Starkadr. It had been before her mother died, when she still lived among the Bairka. She remembered the woman Aud, returning shamed to her people. Mourning her dead babes and her dead lover, grey-faced and wasted by tragedy and scandal. The child Embla – always observant - had viewed this sad figure with a mixture of pity and intrigue.

Now it was she, Embla, who was shamed at the hands of the Borrim. But hers was a dull, hopeless shame, with no memory of a child or a lover to add spice to her despondency. Abruptly she was pulled out of her brooding thoughts about the ill-fated Aud and her Borrim husband – for the latter had just stepped, inadvertently, on the hem of her long cloak, not seeing her in the darkness.

“Dolt,” she hissed. The man recoiled and stammered something in apology. She looked him up and down with all the haughtiness she could muster, taking in Fastarr’s attempts to smarten up his apparel and appearance. “Better wise language than well-combed hair,” she added. The proverb seemed to hit home and she enjoyed watching the blush spread across his wide, honest face.

[Durelin]

Did he dare touch her? Her eyes flashed with rage, but Jord did not pull away from his grip. There was nothing she could do, not until the Lord Morgoth was through with him. But the way his hand felt tight around her wrist, squeezing flesh, muscle, bone, and blood together… It…hurt. Yes, it was pain. She cursed this weak body, and would have torn it apart, relishing in the pain and knowing that it signified destruction, if it had not been a gift from her Master. A gift…and more than she deserved. But she would more than earn it once she was through with this thing before her, which dared to look her in the eyes, to face her with anger and scorn…

The present…she was locked into it, in this body. She drew herself back, and returned Uldor’s gaze without flinching.

“…if you report, you can tell your masters this…”

Oh, my master already knows…

So this was the depth of the complexity of a mortal mind? Apparently Jord would not even have to try to manipulate the man into thinking the way she wanted him to. All she needed to do was state something, and he would gobble it up. Of course he was “wiser,” he had determined. And no, no oath was necessary. Melkor did not require the honor of fealty from Uldor, as if he should expect an oath to the Highest Lord to mean he would receive as well as give. But why wait for someone to give when you had the power to take? Like a rabbit in the hunter’s snare, this man would be secured, snatched up by Morgoth’s mighty hand, and Jord had only to lead him into the trap.

Not that it would take much pulling from his strings. It seemed playing him a simple tune, as long as it was played well, would get him to dance for her well enough.

“I will use it all to my own good and I will gain what I seek.”

As if this was news to anyone? He had not done a good job hiding his ambition. Rather he had wasted it away on pathetic conquests: mostly women and wealth. Power, by the standard of Men, he already had through birth…but naturally he wanted more. More than his father’s throne, and certainly more than it was underneath another power he could not hope to stand up to – the Elves.

“And your ambition will serve you well, Prince Uldor,” she said slowly, resting her hand on his that held on to her other wrist, and allowing herself to be pulled slightly closer, “in gaining…whatever it is you want…” The truest followers of Melkor were always rewarded…as long as they remained useful, that is.

“Anything you desire,” she whispered, as her lips twisted into a smile. The words rolled off her tongue, a sickly lullaby. “Now that is how it should be, is it not, my lord?”

[Kath]

Bergr sat at the door of his hut, carefully threading a needle in the waning light. After being informed of the feast he was expected to attend he had realised that he would be required to wear something rather more formal than the hunting gear he lived in most of the time and so he had gone home and rummaged through the chest that still held mementos from the days when the small Borrim envoy had first entered the Ulfing settlement. His search had turned up some fine clothing, fit for the occasion in style but not quite ready for use as the years had left them dusty and falling apart in places.

A short journey to the stream running along the edge of the woods followed this discovery, where Bergr pulled off his boots and waded into the water to scrub the garments clean, remembering with amusement his first attempt at washing clothes. The stream that day had been flowing very fast and as he had leant back to stretch his back he had fallen, dropping the tunic he had been holding into the water as he landed in it with a splash. A few shocked seconds passed before he noticed that his clothing was now swimming downstream and would soon be out of sight. Leaping to his feet he had run dripping down the riverbank, one eye on the tunic floating along just ahead of him and the other on the unwashed clothes he had left behind. A wild grab that nearly had him tipping head first into the stream finally returned the tunic to his hand and he had trudged back home to sit by the fire and dry himself off, his wife's merry laughter ringing in his ears as he imagined what she would have thought of the situation.

This time the washing was managed without such an adventure. It was the sewing that was giving Bergr trouble, his thick fingers were meant for clutching a spear or sword not pushing a piece of thread through something so small he could barely see it. The job was made harder by the setting of the sun, and as it became darker Bergr became more anxious, knowing he was going to be late for the feast if he didn't get this sleeve done soon.

A last pull of the needle meant he was finished, and a quick wash later he was dressed and ready to go. It was truly dark now, but long years of hunting in places with little light as well as easy familiarity with the place meant he was able to rush through the streets to Khandr's house with little worry of getting lost or falling over something and making a fool of himself.

He arrived at the house a little out of breath and found himself confronted by Hugo merely seconds after knocking on the door.

"In you go." The servant said, not giving him a chance even to wish the man a good evening. "They're waiting for you."

Bergr found himself being hurried into the hall he had visited on a few occasions and saw that the others had already arrived. Khandr was also there with Briga, and he strode over to make his apologies.

"I am sorry for my lateness my Lord and Lady. It has been some time since I have attended such an occasion and it took me some time to prepare for it."

[Anguirel]

Drenda had not found himself discontented with Brodda's ambiguous reply to his own nondescript question. A connection had been established, that much was clear. He had smiled coldly and served Brodda with a cup of mead, as was customary when a lesser member of court left the company of a greater one. On their next meeting, he thought, he would talk business, and it would be more private; he knew where Brodda kept his house, not far from the eastern quarter of the settlement where Uldor stayed when he grew weary of his father's hall; the area was a focal point for all the yes-men of Brodda's sort.

He could offer Brodda quite a lot in terms of service, he supposed. He was young, but unimportant, and could hear where others tended to be more noticeable. He was useful enough if things came to quarrels; he was, at least, taller than most Ulfings, the Chieftain's sons included, and he knew himself to be an excellent hunter.. And he was the son of Drenduld, noble in blood if scant in wealth. All he asked was an opportunity and support of a certain kind.

Drenda left the hall in a hurry and proceeded to the stables, where a score of horses stood, lazy and tethered, a couple of bored grooms slipping in and out, clamping their noses pinched shut at the smell of ordure. The steeds of the ambassadors were not to be found here; they answered to no binding, and had consented only to be led aside to a paddock where they fated, of their own will, for the return of their Elven masters.

The boy selected his own bay cob, the most valuable thing he owned but a poor creature compared to most of these enormous, brash, snorting beasts. He saddled the animal and rode out, heading for his mother's house.

***

"Well? How did your little meeting go?"

Gausen never took the Chieftain's Hall seriously, scarcely recking anything of her allegiance to Ulfang as one of the tribe, and her attitude irritated her son, making him feel like a small boy chided for stealing food.

"It is as I thought, mother," Drenda replied stiffly, "but to a much greater degree. Caranthir's rider has asked for seven thousand soldiers."

Gausen whitened behind her black veil, and then threw it off, her eyes candles in inky pools of darkness.

"Seven thousand? That must be, what, a quarter of all the males in these lands...well, well. You will go, of course," she said, speaking more quietly now, "as if there had ever been any doubt about it." Her fine son's laudably high passions would never keep him from a sword for long, and this she had always known.

"Aye, mother, and not as any foot-soldier, either, but truly as my father's son, if my designs go to plan. Look, I spoke with Lord Brodda..."

"You men speak much, and very portentously too, I'm sure," Gausen interrupted, feeling her son writhe like a rattled cat, "but such concerns mean nothing to me. I'll see you settled and wealthy in my own way, before you go off and get yourself killed. If you deny me the chance to be a mother to you, dearling, then I shall ensure I am a mother to your son."

Drenda tossed his head, rather resembling a horse in his annoyance. "Mother, you know, I really have other things to think about than wives. I mean, not that I couldn't have any woman I asked for, but..."

"Don't be silly, dear, or arrogant; I know you deserve a Chieftain's daughter, but you can't afford to be too casual, starting out with so little. I have obtained the name of a certain farmer, with one daughter he wants taken off his hands. The girl's name is Tora. She won't bring you much in the way of money, but she's a firm enough thing, sober and sensible by the sound of it..."

Drenda gave a deeply exasperated snort. "Look, mother, I thought you were the one here who got ahead by touting out your body. I am Drenduld's son, and I..."

"None of that!" Gausen's teeth were bared now, in what was almost a snarl. "What time I choose to spend with the Lord Uldor is my own affair, and in any case it is purely a matter of friendship. You owe a great deal on that horse of yours."

"And?" Drenda was less certain than he sounded. His mother's ability to leap onto a new, more pressing subject often startled him.

"I have a little put aside, boy, and I will honour your accords about that horse - I know the dealer well - if you will go and speak with this girl's father. He's a simple man, and your blood should clinch the agreement."

Drenda thought about it, but not for very long. He really needed that horse if he was to keep his station at Ulfang's Hall intact, and the debt was becoming insupportable.

"Done," he said. "Now where does the old man have his house?"

[bill_n_sam]

Dag


“I am Ulfast, son of Ulfing. How goes the work on my sword?"

Dag still held the farmer’s knife in his hand. The notch that Tora’s father had managed to put in it had been a bad one, and it had required more careful attention to repair it than Dag had anticipated. He had just dipped the blade in water to cool it one last time when the girl had arrived asking after it. . Not having had a chance to reply to the girl’s shy inquiry, upon hearing Ulfast’s abrupt words, Dag looked to the entrance and regarded the chieftain’s son steadily, the wariness he felt hidden within the depths of his heart.

Dag understood perfectly well that Ulfast’s declaration as Ulfang’s son was not one of instruction – for who amongst the Ulfings did not tread more carefully when this embittered and thwarted second son stalked the streets of the settlement? Ulfast’s reputation for cunning was matched only by his tenacity in holding a grudge. Once angered, whether for real or imagined insult, his determination to exact revenge knew no bounds. It was said that neither of the two glittering daggers that hung at his belt had retained their virginal quality for long after Ulfast had commissioned their crafting. That had been back in the years of his brother’s exile, when such exquisite weapons were an outward symbol of the power he wielded, with his father’s blessings. Dag wondered how long the yet unfinished sword which this lordling now demanded would have to wait to be baptized with the rush of blood from yet another of Ulfast’s enemies.

As always, Dag weighed his words carefully before he spoke. “The work progresses, my lord.” He inclined his head but kept his gaze upon Ulfast, neither impolite nor obsequious. “There yet remains a good two days to see its completion.” He offered no further information or explanation, not wishing to volunteer more than was required.

His gaze flickered briefly to the girl standing just inside the doorway, willing her to remain silent, to avoid bringing the attention of the chief’s son upon herself, and thence, her family. Deliberately taking a step back, without turning his back to Ulfast, which would have been a grave and unforgivable breach of etiquette, Dag casually placed the knife aside on the edge of the forge and extended his hand in the direction of the sword where it lay on a side table. The metal was a deep, thunderhead grey, and any fool would know it had not felt the kiss of the flame for quite some while. Dag’s mind worked quickly, hoping to fashion a reasonable explanation should the chieftain’s son question that fact, some answer which would satisfy, and divert attention away from the presence of the girl, or the significance of the knife.

[bill_n_sam]

Gunna & Mem


Gunna chewed thoughtfully on her lower lip as she reentered her small home. It was an unconscious habit she had, a sure sign of inner turmoil. When Dag caught her at it, he would tease her gently, offering to do the gnawing for her, which invariably garnered him a smile and a kiss. But today, she continued her worrying unmolested, her thoughts chasing each other like mice in a cage, trying to fathom the undercurrents which were sweeping through the town, hard on the heels of the elves.

Sitting next to her sister, drawing the baby into her lap and positioning her to nurse, Gunna said, “I’m sorry I was gone so long. I should not have ventured to the Borrim’s house. Were you worried?”

Mem placed her hand on the child’s head, gently stroking her fine, dark curls. “No. We were fine. You know I’m able to take care of things here – I’ll bet I know every square inch of this house as you can not.” She leaned her thin shoulder against her older sister’s arm. “Don’t fret.” She said softly. “Kata and old Dulaan, they understand. They won’t censure you.”

Gunna wondered once more at her sister’s intuitive ability to always ferret out what was troubling her. It was almost as if Mem could read her mind. No doubt it was the many hours they spent together, day in and day out, which made it so. Yet, Gunna herself was often at a loss to know what her little sister was thinking. She sometimes came out with the most startling proclamations, or questions.

“I have an admirer, it would seem.”

It took a moment for Mem’s words to register. Gunna turned towards her sister, unsure of what she had just heard. Mem had the same placid look on her face with which she usually faced the world, and Gunna was sure she had misheard her.

“What did you say?” Gunna asked doubtfully.

“An admirer. Old Granny told me.” This time, a small, shy smile played about the girl’s lips and her sister knew that she had in fact heard correctly.

“Dulaan? Dulaan told you that you had an admirer?” Gunna sounded so dumbfounded
that Mem smiled openly that such an outrageous thing should come to pass. “Who is it? How does Dulaan know of this? Did she give you an actual name?” Gunna knew as well as anyone in the town of old Granny’s fondness for joking. Perhaps she had merely been jesting with the girl. But, no! That would be too cruel indeed. Dulaan was very fond of Mem. She would never play such a prank on her.

“Yes, she did, in fact. Falki.” Mem spoke in her same, quiet voice but Gunna felt the girl’s arm tremble against her own.

“Falki? Kata’s Falki?” Gunna shook her head in disbelief. How could this be? How could it come to pass that this boy, this youngster who had been in and out of her house time out of mind in the past four years, could have developed any feelings for her sister, right under her very nose, without her knowing of it? How old was this stripling anyway? With a start, Gunna realized that he was 19 – almost a man grown now! How they change so quickly, from that awkwardness of a youth to the poise and confidence of a man. Still!

Gunna snorted in derision. “And how does old Granny know this? A little bird told her, I suppose?” Gunna used the old woman’s favorite way of expressing any rumor which she had heard being blown on the wind.

“I suppose you could call him that.” Mem replied with a smirk. “But he seems more a young man than little bird to me.”

“You mean to say Falki himself has told this to Dulaan?” Gunna was almost speechless. Almost. “Why, that boy never says more than two words together at a time! Why should he be so talkative about this?” Gunna’s eyes narrowed. “And his mother? Did Kata speak of this to you?” If so, she had committed a serious breach of etiquette, talking to a young woman before approaching her family first. By rights it was Dag who should first be hearing of this. Gunna resolved to add this to his list of items to talk over with Grimr, if he had the chance.

Again, as if she read her sister’s mind, Mem placed a gentle hand on Gunna’s, saying, “No, I don’t believe Kata knows anything of it. Or, if she does, she didn’t say anything to me.” Mem hesitated, and when she spoke again the pleading in her voice was clear. “Gunna, please, say nothing of this to Dag. He has so much on his mind as it is. I don’t want to trouble him further, or . . . cause any trouble between the two of you.”

Gunna regarded her little sister. Not so little as she once was, Gunna thought ruefully. Could it be? Could the prospect of marriage seriously be entertained? The idea had never even crossed her mind, and for that, she chided herself now. Of course, Mem was blind and that had always seemed sufficient reason to hold her close, protect her, shield her from prying eyes and laughing, pointing fools. Gunna had never considered the possibility that perhaps Mem would want more for herself, that the girl would secretly dream of her own home, her own child to cradle and love, her own husband to hold her close in the cold nights, to cherish and take care of, as he would cherish and take care of her. And that such a man now loomed on the horizon, possibly, and might want to take Mem for his own, that was something Gunna had never in her wildest imaginations foreseen. And what Dag would make of it all, heavens only knew! He too had grown quite protective of his “little sister”.

Gunna looked more closely at Mem, seeing her with new eyes. Thin, frail, smaller than most, still, Mem was developing a womanly curve to her body, her face was longer, thinner, less child-like, Gunna herself had been two years younger than Mem was now when she was betrothed to Dag, and Dag had been younger than Falki was now. Yes, time had moved on, and Mem right along with it.

Sighing, Gunna placed her hand to Mem’s cheek. “Yes. Now is not the time for such talk. All the men’s mind will be full of the coming of the elves. They will have much to think on, and talk of, amongst themselves. There will be time enough later, for talk of . . . of, a marriage?” Gunna smiled in spite of her misgivings to see Mem’s face light up at such a prospect. Wrapping her arm about Mem’s thin shoulders, she whispered in her ear conspiratorially, “We’ll keep it a secret for now, just between you and me. But I think I’d like to have a talk with old Granny, soon. Very soon.”

Mem hugged her sister back, holding her tightly. “Yes, please do! Find out what you can, and if . . . if . . . you speak with him, tell him . . . tell him, I’m waiting, right here.”