Treachery of Men RPG

[piosenniel]

At Dag’s house

‘Granny, come here won’t you,’ Káta said in a low voice, gesturing to the old woman to stand by her side. ‘And you, Jóra, just here before us.’ Fálki still stood by the wagon, a hesitant look on his face. His mother motioned him forward, placing him just behind her and Dulaan. ‘Let’s go, then, and mind that basket daughter mine.’

The occupants of the house could not help but hear the clip-clop of the horse, the crunch of the wheels against the graveled dirt path way leading up to their dwelling. Mem stilled the spindle against her hand, her ear cocked toward the entryway. ‘They’re at the door, Gunna. Who is it?’

Káta rapped firmly on the wood, twice, and was about to knock a third time when the door swung open, Gunna’s face changing from one of a questioning look to a smile of welcome. Jóra stepped forward, a smile on her face. ‘Here,’ she began, holding the basket toward Gunna. ‘This is for.....’ Her mother’s hands fixed firmly on the girl’s shoulders, drawing Jóra back toward her.

‘Greetings to you and your house, Gunna,’ Káta began, in a more formal manner than usual. She nodded toward the forge where Dag’s hammer rang loud in the distance. ‘There were obligations which could not be left unmet, else Grímr would have come with us today.’ She urged Jóra forward, directing her to place the basket in the doorway at Gunna’s feet. ‘Accept this gift of food from our family to yours, if you will.’ Without waiting for the other woman’s reply, she went on, motioning Fálki to stand between her and Dulaan. ‘And if you will again, my son would ask to be allowed to gift a small token of his regard for your dear sister, Mem.’

Dulaan nudged Fálki, pointing with her chin toward where the basket with jam sat, half in, half out of the entryway. He reached inside his vest, drawing forth the small square of folded material. Grasping it lightly in his fingers he unfolded it, draping it carefully over the basket’s handle. A softly woven, light blue scarf, it was.

‘This was my mother’s scarf,’ Káta explained. ‘Her mother wove it for her from their finest sheeps’ wool. She was the flower and delight of my father’s life. And he often said, when she wore it wrapped about her head, that surely some lovely being had stepped out of a Spring’s morning just for him.’

A brief breeze skirted about the little group’s feet and riffled at the edges of the offering, inviting an answer.....

[Lalaith]

So calm, so solid, so safe...Embla knew she had done the right thing, found the right person. Fastarr´s touch and presence did so much to soothe the storm in her mind. Even the warm smell of him, redolent of leather and stables, gave comfort which helped focus her own turbulent senses. What this all meant, for her and for him, she did not know or even want to think about, just yet. It was what she had said, and what she had seen in her mind´s eye, that she must make sense of, now.

"The wolves...." She sat down on the grass again, and Fastarr crouched beside her, his hand on her shoulder, heavy and reassuring. "Ulflings...." she looked at her companion with a growing comprehension that was if anything, more terrifying than her previous bewilderment. "Fastarr, I think....those wolves I saw were men... who will turn on their friends....the Ulflings will betray us all....and the vampire, too...I knew this creature, it felt familiar, and close...."
"Embla..." Fastarr sounded urgent. "Even without your visions, I knew there was evil afoot. I was hastening on my way to find my lord Khandr - danger stalks him. But nor can I find it in my heart to leave you, frightened and alone. Will you come with meback to my lord´s dwelling?"

Embla felt great relief. She knew she could depend on this man, not just for comfort but also for a plan of action. "Yes, I will come." No more words were needed. Fastarr helped her into her saddle, and they both spurred their horses towards the Borrim stronghold, as fast they could go.

[piosenniel]

The Right of First Kill


‘At last!’ Valr flicked the reins against his mount’s neck, pulling up beside his brother. He was eager to be off on this, his first great hunt. The skin on his arms twitched in anticipation, mirroring his horse’s own excitement.

‘Ssst!’ Falarr glanced quickly toward their father, then back at Valr. ‘Quiet, now. It would not do to criticize, or seem to criticize, the Lords. They do things in their own time.’ He reached a gloved hand toward Valr, clapping him on shoulder as much to ground his brother’s energy as to offer a sympathetic gesture.

Grímr motioned them up beside him. The host had remounted and as swiftly as Uldor urged his own mount ahead the others briskly followed. ‘Now remember, the Lords should blood their lances and blades first. If we see a boar, we’ll give a yell out to Uldor and drive it toward him.’

‘Just Uldor?’ Valr asked, wanting to fix this rule in his mind. His father’s words had carried a certainty about them; the accompanying look on his face emphasizing the importance of what he was saying.

This was not the first hunt Valr had been on, thought it was his first as a hunter. His part on those previous times out with his father and brothers and sometimes his father’s friends had been to scout the prey and with shouts and noisy wooden clappers to drive the game toward the hunters. ‘Tis the first step toward being a hunter,’ his brothers had told him, reciting by rote the instruction of their father. ‘Noting the habits of the animal you wish to bring down, thinking as it would think will help you first to find where it has been and where it’s gone and what it will do when found and cornered. So was I taught by my father and him his father before. And so will it be with my sons.’ They had grinned as they had spoken to him that first hunt when he was nine years old, their twinned voices sing-songing the words. ‘Enough!’ he recalled his father had chastened them. ‘Let’s hope he doesn’t send the quail all higgledy-piggledy as you did, Falarr!’ Valr had taken those words to heart, both the instruction and the gentle admonition.

The hunters fanned out as the chase progressed. Valr’s eyes scanned the area they were passing through, old habits kicking in as he did so. Were this my brothers and father, he thought, his eyes fixing on a scattering of oaks with their thickets of low growing bushes beneath, then I would head that way for sure. He turned his horse toward the trees; his eyes flicked toward Falarr as he rode off, grinning widely at his brother. ‘Come on!’ Valr urged him. ‘Here’s your chance to show me you aren’t the bumbler father made you out to be.’

The two made a wide berth to the right of the trees and undergrowth, darting round to come toward them from the side farthest from the other hunters. There were acorns scattered beneath the boughs in the small clearing, some trampled in the soft dirt, some only empty shells, and overlaying all was the sharp-hoofed patternings of animal hooves criss-crossing the ground.

‘Good eyes, little brother!’ came the hushed whispering of Falarr as they neared the area. ‘Let’s see if there’s one fine hog left hiding among the leaves.’ With a gleam in his eye, Valr nodded at his brother, and giving a quick kick to his mount’s flank he urged the horse forward at a measured pace.

There was a scuffling sound in the thicket followed by an increasingly angry squeal. From beneath the cover of the shrubs a swarthy, hefty figure shot out and away from the approaching men.

‘Father!’ Valr cried, seeing Grímr approaching riding toward them. ‘Head him off!!’ Grímr rode at the charging boar, turning him more toward the other hunters.

‘My Lord! My Lords!’ Valr shouted, waving his lance wildly in the air toward Uldor and his brothers who rode apace off. ‘A boar.....a boar for your lances!!’

[Child of the 7th Age]

Khandr bid his wife goodbye and immediately retreated to his study. A large chest was positioned along the side wall, one that held many of his personal belongings. He knelt down on the floor, raised the heavy lid, and reached inside, lifting out a smaller wooden box shut tight with a copper lock. Placing the box on the table, he removed the thong from around his neck and inserted the attached key into the lock. Once it was open, he began removing the contents of the box, setting some sheets of paper and assorted items to the side, until he finally came to the small journal that he was looking for.

Khandr drew out the small leather case and sat down to read the entries: information that had been passed to him by the other Borrim when he had asked them to make inquiries of various people. He finally found what he was looking for. He read and reread the passage and quickly reached a decision, scribbling an extra word or two onto the last entry. Then he went and retrieved two sharp daggers from the wall and thrust them inside his belt along with the small leather case. If I am going to meet my death, he grimly mused, I might as well do so in a useful way. He stalked out of the room and decided to cut through the large storeroom that led to a door used occasionally by tradesmen to deliver their wares. He would be less likely to run into anyone that way.

The storage room was half empty and in complete darkness as there were no windows or other openings that would let in the outside daylight. Cursing himself for being without a candle, Khandr fumbled his way to the other wall, when he heard a noise from behind. He was still a long ways from the door that led to the back courtyard. Whirling around and drawing out both daggers, he snarled, "Who goes there? Show your face."

[littlemanpoet]

"Who goes there? Show your face." The words were the snarl of a man expecting his death.

Thorn came into the dim light.

"I am Thorn. You gave your man command to hide me in your house. I thank you. I did not expect to see you again. You have done as well as could be hoped."

[Child of the 7th Age]

"Ah, Thorn, it is you." The snarl was gone, and Khandr sounded strangely calm. "I took no chances. I owed it to my family to make arrangements for them, and I have done that for both my wives. Now there is something I must give you."

Khandr reached inside his belt and drew out a small leather case, the same one that he had been reading in his study just a short time before. "If something should happen to me, give this to whomever you think would get the most from it. Some time ago, I asked each of my wives and the Borrim retainers to gather information from those at court, both men and women. Some had better luck than others, and one or two, I think, may have learned things that they did not disclose. Still, a smart man can read between the lines. I ask that you not open this now. But, if I should die, sit down and read this over, and see if it is of any use. I can not put all the pieces together, but what you spoke to me on the field is also what I have been sensing. But perhaps you or someone you know would have a little more luck in understanding things. Now I go to the palace to see if I can turn up another piece or two...."

Without waiting for an answer, Khandr turned and stalked out of the cellar into the outside courtyard and then headed quickly down the street.

[Noinkling]

At Dag's house

There was a small gasp, quickly stifled, as Káta finished her little speech. Gunna’s eyes widened at the woman’s words, her eye’s flicking quickly toward her sister who sat on a little stool spinning some wool and then back to the scarf-draped basket in the entryway. For her part, Mem looked expectantly toward the entryway, a smile of delight at the promise of such welcome company lighting her features.

‘Well, sister,’ Mem said, wrapping the unspun yarn about her spindle and setting it aside. Her hands now free, she smoothed her skirt over her knees, and gestured to the cushions near her. ‘We should not keep our good friends waiting. Please, have them come in.’ Káta glanced at Gunna, waiting for her invitation.

Jora squirmed away from Granny’s side, her eyes on the baby just to the other side of Mem. ‘Oh, there you are, little sweetling!’ she laughed dashing across the threshold. She swooped down on the little girl and swept her up in her arms. ‘We’ve brought some of Granny’s jam,’ she confided to Mem as she sat down at the woman’s feet. ‘And Mother packed some of her sweet buns, the ones with the fat currants in them. Jora dandled the baby on the ground in front of her, the infants delighted squeals breaking the silence at the door.

‘Come in the,’ Gunna said motioning for the others to enter and seat themselves around the low table in the center of the room. ‘The scarf . . . it’s lovely,’ she went on, as she picked up the basket and followed Káta in. She gave Káta a smile. ‘I don’t suppose it’s for me, now, is it?’

‘It’s for you, Mem,’ Jora whispered. ‘You heard what mother said, didn’t you,’ she continued. ‘It’s really pretty. Blue like the sky and soft as ever.’ Jora went on with her running commentary to Mem. ‘Fálki’s brought it to give to you, you know.’ Her voice dropped even lower. ‘I think it means we might be sisters.’ Mem felt the heat from this last pronouncement rise to her cheeks.

Granny moved past Káta and Gunna, to a place near Mem. She patted the seat near her, one closer to the young woman. ‘Come, Fálki. Sit here.’

[Gwathagor]

Jord could feel it in the air; it, and its symptoms: suspicion, hate, fear. It pervaded the Ulfing village, like an invisible plague of the spirit, infecting all it touched. None were free from its influence, and none would acknowledge its presence. The false camaraderie of the hunt was a glorious, futile attempt to cover and ignore it. The strained relations of the three princes bore witness to its presence. Like the walking, living specter of the king, it haunted the halls and minds of the Ulfings.

Good, she thought. Good. These people are ripe for picking. I am the harvester.

She closed her eyes, and gloried in the foul stench...of treachery.

Jord was standing on the porch of the king's hall, and her hair and gown were blowing gently in the warm wind. Eyes still closed, she breathed deep through her nostrils, gathering the breaths and thoughts of the village, listening closely to the words contained therein. But this was no Song, no Deep Truth. This was a hungry creature scenting for its prey.

I am not the harvester, she thought, and smiled. I am the hunter.

Early that morning, she had stalked silently down from her chamber and out through the hall onto the porch, and there she had stayed. She had watched the town come to life, watched the scurry and bustle begin. Once or twice she had nearly smiled instinctively as she watched mothers going to market with their children. Even now, she frequently found that her human body had a mind of its own, and had to be controlled with great concentration and focus. Inwardly, she cursed her mortal prison, and cursed its base instincts and tendencies and weaknesses.

I am better than this. I am purer. I am the hunter.

She had watched as the hunt had been organized, as the huntsmen had mounted their horses and sharpened their spears. Both Uldor and Ulfast had ignored her as they passed her on the porch: whether out of spite, or out of some confused attempt at subtlety, she couldn't tell. She could never tell.

They were both fools, she told herself, but useful fools. Both believed themselves the sole possessor of her good favor.

Ulfast, clever, capable Ulfast is already mine, and Uldor will break soon. He believes treachery beneath him, but deep inside he knows that he is loyal to no one but himself. Soon he will come to see that my master’s way is the way of profit and of gain. Then it will be a matter of time, while one brother makes up his mind to do in the other. I will start the chain. I will clear the path. I will make the first kill.

The princes and their grand hunt had been gone for nearly half an hour when Jord left the porch. In the street she paused momentarily and looked around her once more. Once more, she took in the scent of the breeze.

Blood...I can smell it. It is on the wind, it is coming soon. I am the hunter. The hunt is up.

Then she moved through the crowd, unmarked, in the direction of Khandr’s dwelling.

[piosenniel]

At Dag's house

Fálki could feel the warmth rising at the back of his neck as he nodded at Granny. This will not do! he admonished himself. Had not his father taught him the art of staying steady in uncertain situations? He took a deep breath and walked slowly to the proffered seat, kneeling carefully so as not to touch against Mem, but to be on a level with her as she sat upon her low stool.

Jóra looked up at him from her place at Mem’s feet, a hint of gleeful anticipation in her eyes. He raised his chin to her, indicating she should move off a pace. A glance at her mother’s raised brows confirmed the command and she swallowed her protest. Though she scooted away the least distance she thought would satisfy. The baby girl she sat firmly on her lap facing the unfolding scene. ‘Now you be quiet, sweetling,’ she whispered into the baby’s ear. Jóra gave the little girl a gentle hug. ‘I might get to be your auntie!!’ For her part, Gunna stepped quickly to Mem’s other side, sitting down close to her sister, her arm resting about Mem’s waist in a light manner.

A certain studied quiet fell about the room, then Káta spoke a few words. ‘Mem,’ she began, drawing the young woman’s attention with her voice. ‘Grimr asks that you forgive his absence at this visit. There were.....obligations.....the discharging of which could not be put off.’ She paused, thinking how best to proceed. Putting her sense of convention aside, she slipped into her heartfelt thoughts. ‘Long have I wished for a good match for my son, Fálki. Now he is grown to manhood and I....that is, both his father and I can see his thoughts, his wishes and hopes, have settled on someone. On you, Mem. And we would welcome you, if that is your choice and that of your family,’ she added, her gaze taking in Gunna as she spoke.

I think you heard, as we first entered,’ Káta smiled at her daughter as she began again. ‘Heard that we had brought a small basket of gifts for your family. One of them is a scarf my mother handed down to me, one her mother made for her. I’ve given it to Fálki, to give to the woman he chooses for his wife.’

Granny leaned in toward Fálki, whispering a few simple instructions to him. He unfolded the woven scarf and laid it carefully across Mem’s knees. His hand brushed barely against her hands folded tightly in her lap, a quick touch only, and hastily withdrawn.

A voice at the doorway startled away the woman’s response.....