The King's Players RPG

[the phantom]

Aldarion didn't bother to peek out of his cart as the troop approached the white city. Not only had he traveled to Minas Anor several times in his youth, but he was also quite busy reading The King's Players' production "Dragon Hunter". Somehow this particular work had fallen through the cracks and escaped his attention over the past couple years. Through the first half of the script Aldarion had been unable to determine which supposed historical event it was based upon, but he was slowly piecing together that it was a ridiculous version of the tale of Fram and Scatha. Where did they get this stuff? I mean really- how do you get 'Hadda' for 'Scatha'? And he has a midget-dragon sidekick that tells jokes?

When the cart stopped at the gate Aldarion whipped out ink and a quill and began editing- a task impossible to attempt in a moving cart. Half listening to the exchange between Brinn and the guard, Aldarion stopped writing mid-stroke and called forward to Rollan, "Did that guard say 'Lord Samwise the pheriannath' is visiting?" Rollan turned part way around and nodded.

Lord Samwise? No... it couldn't be the Samwise from the War of the Ring. He was just a stupid servant. Perhaps Sam is just a common name up that way.... Yes, that must be it.

A short time later Aldarion was holed up in his room getting on with his work. He thought for a moment of doing a bit of touch-up on the "Tale of the Ring" script, but gave it up as a bad job. I've already looked at it plenty, and they're unwilling to budge on the remaining changes I would recommend. Why do they insist on playing Saruman and Denethor as comic roles when they provide opportunity for such perfect madness and horror? That Rollan... I'm sure he could play a fine straight role if he'd just try! Or if they'd just let me put Therian in one of those roles. I wonder why Brinn always insists that Therian be a lady? Therian doesn't contradict her, but I can tell he's unhappy about it. Bah! But for the usual farmers we always perform for here in Minas Anor I doubt it makes much of a difference.

[Anguirel]

Unknown to any of the gallant troupe, their presence in the White City, and on this particular occasion of honour, too, had been long ordained at the very highest circles of the Court.

Some months earlier, it had all begun - as have begun other stories, both direr wars and higher romances than our own - with a jest, a coincidence, and a letter.

***

"Excellent news at last," the Lord Warden of the Exchequer, Cirdacil the Venerable, Lord of Burlach, expatiated to his close family as he mouthed his way through a prongful of excellent emulsified goldspinach.

For he was a man of precise, albeit frugal, taste.

Around his table sat a surprisingly young-looking and colourful company, when one considered the almost ostentatiously plain appearance of their host. Ecsichil, heir to the sloping city fief of Burlach, was a stolid gentleman with an evident weakness for scarlet drapery, in which he had enswathed his wife to the point of near total invisibility. On this taciturn lady's other side sat the second son, a bachelor, who always went by the by-name of Sador because of his unfortunate leg, born wizened; yet he was a handsome, dapper little man who seemed unable to restrain the gleam of manic intelligence in his every movement and word.

In between the two men in age were their sisters, graceful, tolerant and by some peculiarity, taller than their brothers; Aerwen, the elder, a diligent seeker after knowledge, was unmarried and likely to remain so, but Circilie, the whole family's favourite for the obviousness of her physical attractions and the calming nature of her conversation, was yet a new bride. This made her visit a rare occasion of family satisfaction, especially as she brought her new lord. Their union was already a success, as Circilie's figure was beginning to intimate; the man under question was the noblest and fairest in the room, Lord Amlach of Dol Amroth, an unlooked for catch for the new noble house of Burlach.

They were all delighted to see him; and he, though bored, was even more polite.

"What news, father?" Sador shot back. "The strife in Harondor?" Between them, the patriarch and his second son had done most of the talking so far.

"Closer, and more to my satisfaction, boy. I list little for your foreign adventures. No, it is this; the Master of the Revels, that wastrel Hallas, has resigned his responsibilities to spend more time hunting on his estate..."

Amlach, unnoticed, looked a little more interested. It always astonished him how little curiosity his father-in-law displayed about the humane arts; perhaps this new fascination was the signal of a sudden character change?

"...and I think I have persuaded our royal lord not to replace him. We are living in uncertain times," Cirdacil plodded on, oblivious to his son-in-law wincing at the sentiment and the cliche alike, "and, if the Reunited Kingdom is to be more than, let us say, a dream upon parchment, then, as I have always said, retrenchment must be the order of the day..."

Amlach watched the family's reaction, suppressing his disgust by running a hand through his wife's bright ringlets. Ecsichil was trying to catch a horsefly with his mouth, apparently. Amlach had never heard Lady Ecsichil express a view on anything. Sador was clever enough to be sychophantically attentive, Aerwen was above it all, and Circilie was playing with his own feet, in an admittedly rather adorable way. What a bunch of cultural Khandings he had on his hands here...

"If you reduce Gondor to a silent banking-house," he found himself shouting, "what remains to retrench?"

Before Circilie had laid down her palliative, soft hand on his arm, the old vulture had replied.

"Why, dividends, my boy."

***

"The man is a warrior, a prince and statesman! He should know better, much better, than a joke in such poor taste! If, indeed..."

Fragments of the Lord Cirdacil's white beard, efficiently if wildly rent, were filtering across his study. One got up Sador's sensitive nostrils, but he kept his cough quiet.

"I am certain His Majesty means no action not commensurate with the dignity and respect in which he holds you, honoured father..."

"...which is nothing! It can be none, no dignity, if he acts thus..."

The piece of paper uppermost on the desk looked surpassingly innocent. A centralised secretary hand and written with the utmost neatness,

To the Lord of Burlach,

The King Elessar, long esteeming your trusty and well beloved care of His Majesty's Exchequer, would like to confer upon you additional, signal and delightful favour.

Mindful of your lordship's long and proven role as an arbiter of taste, and of your late counsel given upon the setting forth from Court of the Lord Hallas, the King Elessar hereby raises you to the office of Master of the Revels with instant effect.

***

Sador had at last formulated the right soothing sentence.

"Father, you are right as always. The great conqueror of the Enemy, the heir of Elendil, would never trouble himself with a jest."

"But what, then, boy? What is the meaning..."

"The king says he is mindful of the counsel you gave him, father. He has appointed you to this post so that you may prove the rectitude of your view of it, once and for all."

Cirdacil was getting very old and he knew his second son was very clever, but he was instantly quick enough in the art of courtly administration to gather his son's meaning.

"You mean, my lad, that I, and not Lord Hallas, am to be the last Master of the Revels in Gondor? Through the...exceptional...quality of my offerings?"

"Precisely, beloved sire."

Cirdacil sat down, at last exhausted with the effort of shouting, at the desk which bore the hated missive, and picked it up.

"The letter avers that the next great Revel is to be a play - the very worst, morally, and the most extravagant kind among these fripperies - at Cormare, and in time for the visit of some obscure municipal dignitary, a halfling, no less, from furthest Eriador. By the Tree, for our state to be yoked to those penniless Arnorian maniacs and pint-size talking Druedain..."

"Father, father, be careful what you say!"

But Cirdacil's outburst was over. He had relaxed back into thought.

"Sador, were you following your brother-in-law's conversation at luncheon, when he began to rail regrettably on the deplorable subject of his provincial theatre?"

"I always follow conversation, father."

"What was the name of that rag-tag crew of mountebanks he mentioned that unfortunate friend has joined?"

"Apparently they have the affrontery to call themselves the King's players, father."

"See to it that they are hired!"

Cirdacil smiled, at last, with fully relished pleasure; but the moment was short, and his wrinkled face was tortured by worry as he glanced back at his departing son.

"...but whatever you do, don't pay the rascals in advance."

[Boromir88]

Branor got ahead of the others, as he fondly began recalling the best places in the city. When he spotted the sign with a white unicorn head, upon a green background and gold trim, he picked up the pace even more. It was one of Branor's favorite places in Minas Anor and he beckoned the others to follow him in.

The small tavern seemed busier, and thus more crowded, than what Branor remembered. When Amdir, Harrenon, and Therian caught up with Branor, Amdir perked up at the sight of someone he must have recognized. "I do believe, my friends, that is Master Samwise Gamgee."

The three players traded perturbed looks with eachother, all realizing there may be a serious issue with the script. "Please tell us that is a different Samwise and not the servant Sam of the War of the Ring?" Branor asked.

It was a brief slience, but an awkward one, as Amdir looked perplexed by the question. "Uh, no...that is Samwise, Frodo's loyal companion in the quest to Mount Doom, the one and only Master Samwise. I hear he is excited to watch your performance, along with his family."

Branor's reaction went from perturbed to near frantic damage control. He pushed through the chairs and crowd as quickly as he could to get to where the hobbit was sitting. The hobbit's clothes were plain, but were certainly not attire a simple servant would be able to afford.

"Pardon me, but are you Samwise Gamgee, former servant to the gallant Frodo Baggins?"

"I am." said the hobbit smiling, mostly due to the awkward phrasing of Branor's question.

"Umm, you should be...dead?" Branor felt a sharp and rather painful jab to his ribs. It was from Therian's elbow who had now been next to him. Normally he would cause a huge fuss over someone hitting him (even if it was just an innocent knock trying to tell him to tone down), but Branor was too focused on Sam to care.

"I am sorry if it disappoints you that I am not." Samwise was still smiling though, probably due to Branor's complete ignorance. However, the hobbit did seem hurt when Branor followed up by saying "It does!" Branor suppressed another pained grunt as he felt a stomp on his foot, this one from Harrenon who was now on his right side.

"Er...I mean, it does, because you see...Master (it was weird for Branor to use that title for someone he thought was just a dumb servant to a great warrior) Samwise, I...and well my friends with me are part of the King's Players."

"You are!?" Samwise was suddenly more interested and invested in wanting to talk with Branor now. "Why this is what Gandalf would have called a chance meeting, I believe. My wife, Rosie and our daughter, Elanor, and I are greatly anticipating your rendition of the War of the Ring at the Cormare!" Branor gulped. "That's all Elanor has been talking about, these past weeks. She keeps telling me she wants to see the tales of Samwise the Brave acted out, instead of just hearing me tell them. I am not the greatest of story tellers, that was always Master Bilbo's specialty."

"Eh, erm, the problem we have sir is...our script-writer, Aldarion has you dying when the ghastly Black Lords, and their demonic King, attacked on Weathertop. I myself questioned our writer about the accuracy of the histories he had found, but he insisted you were Frodo's servant, and were trampled by the Black King's tusked and fell steed. That is why you see, Master Samwise, I thought you should be dead!"

[Formendacil]

"Please tell us that is a different Samwise and not the servant Sam of the War of the Ring?" Branor asked.

Amdír paused. The brief silence was awkward, as Amdír tried to discern why the actor would not want to meet the very subject of their play, and then said slowly, "No... that must be Master Samwise, who was Frodo's loyal companion in the quest to Mount Doom. I hear he has been invited to watch your performance, along with his family."

Amdír was about to say something about how King Elessar had also allegedly been invited, but considering Branor's reaction, perhaps it was just as well that he didn't get that far. The actor was distraught, and pushed through the crowd to get at the Hobbit, with Therian and Harrenon following somewhat more timidly.

"Umm, shouldn't you be...dead?" As Therian elbowed Branor, Amdír figured out why the actor was so distraught. Clearly, the Players' script had a somewhat different ending than the veteran remembered. Fortunately, Master Samwise seemed to be taking it well--though Amdír was not listening to everything either he or the actors were saying.

"Eh, erm, the problem we have sir is...our script-writer, Aldarion has you dying when the ghastly Black Lords and their demonic King, attacked on Weathertop. I myself questioned our writer about the accuracy of the histories he had found, but he insisted you were Frodo's servant, and were trampled by the Black King's tusked and fell steed. That is why you see, Master Samwise, I thought you should be dead!"

The Hobbit seemed a little taken aback at Branor's somewhat frantic attempt at damage control, and Amdír decided to say something himself, before the actor decided that the Hobbit's pause was cause for further wild statements.

"I'm sure it will all reflect on you very well, Master Samwise," he said. "I was present in the crowd for King Elessar's return and coronation, and I well remember three other Hobbits standing with Lord Meriadoc. I'm sure it's well-known that you're... er... alive and well. Probably Branor is just misremembering the script--after all, the first rehearsal isn't until tonight."

Then Amdír had a stroke of genius.

"Perhaps you could give us your own account of events--just so that we can make sure there aren't any errors in the script. Little errors, I mean--I'm sure you don't actually die in it." The Players waited with baited breath for the Hobbit to make an answer.

"I reckon you have it right enough," said Master Samwise after a long draw on his pipe. "I was indeed Mr. Frodo's servant by all rights, what with tending his gardens with my gaffer from my tween years. We came to close enough to death in Mordor as it was. If Gandalf hadn't come and saved us on those giant eagles, the Black Rider probably would have had us, if the fires of Mt. Doom didn't get us first."

The hobbit drew on his pipe again.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Therian was relieved. "Our apologies for our friend Brandor's memory lapse, Master Samwise."

Sam took a sip from his pint, his small fist dwarfed by it. Was that the fist that brought down the Dark Lord? A fist so small that a pint of beer could crush it?

Sam smiled. "Well, I always said I was the simple one, really. Simple Sam, my gaffer always said, though Pip was the fool." He laughed to himself, and Therian wondered if there was some story there. "But far's I know, I didn't die."

"And," Therian added, "We are quite glad to learn it for ourselves first hand. It is not every day one meets a true hero."

"Ah, well," Sam said, "there were heroes of all shapes in those days. Any what stood against the big bad, that is, and that was not easy never mind how big or small or live or dead you might be. Dead was not so permanent then, you know. Even when King Elessar - he was Strider to us back then - came with the Dead Army, people ran with fear, but it turns out they were on our side, even if they were more on their own, if you follow me."

"I am sure we all do. Another drink?"

"Ah, yes, maybe just one more."

"A Dead Army? Ghosts? I had heard something of it," Therian lied, having never heard such a thing at all, "but I thought it must have been a mistake. Ghosts with swords? How could a ghost hold a sword?"

"Ah, well, you see, I never knew quite how that worked, but I think mostly folk saw them coming and just ran without staying to find it out themselves."

"I would fight gallantly!" Branor boasted.

"No doubt you would, Brandor," Sam said. "Some did. Princess Eowyn fought better'n most, and that Witch King was dead as they come!"

"Branor," Brandor corrected.

Therian elbowed him in the side. "Eowyn? The Shieldmaiden? She was truly there at the battle, amongst all the men? And truly fought the Dread Fell Rider of the Demon Black Dragon Beast? Tell me, is it true a witch cast a spell to give her the body of a man so she could fight and actually win?"

[Thinlómien]

Sereth didn't really feel like eating, but she tried to. Brinn would think something was wrong if she didn't eat, and Brinn had too much in her hands already so Sereth didn't want to add to her concerns.

The chicken was well prepared and delicious, but Sereth could not bring herself to enjoy the taste. She told herself she must be going crazy. What was wrong with her? She had been acting all her life and suddenly she felt nervous about it.

Of course, she always cared about how people liked her and how her performance was received, but it had always been a more pleasant sensation of anticipation. This year was different though. She didn't feel so comfortable with the role of Frodo anymore. It was a crucial role, but she would have swapped places with Therian any day, or with Asta, or anything... You're not old enough, she told herself, although another part of her kept asking why not?

Still, she could live with the situation. Any role that would take her to the stage was something to be happy about, and something as big as she now had should make her grateful. She needed to rehearse more. She wanted to make Frodo perfect - as heroic and as strong-willed and brave as he was in all the legends. And that would not work if she had this silly anxiety inside her.

And she could not eat either, she was chewing the same piece of chicken for more than a minute now. With effort, Sereth swallowed it and turned to Brinn, who was sitting next to her. She blurted out the foolish question that had been on her mind ever since they entered the city:

"Brinn - the Lord Samwise is not surely the Samwise?"

[Mnemosyne]

Rollan was right--Brinn did need the food. She ate quickly, though neatly--there was still so much to be done!

Sereth, meanwhile, was only picking at her food--and she of such a growing age, too! She hoped the girl was not getting stagestruck, so odd in someone who had lived the theatrical life the way Sereth had. She looked up at Brinn, and suddenly said: ""Brinn - the Lord Samwise is not surely the Samwise?"

Brinn creased her brow. It had been something she was trying not to think on. "I do not know," she said. "Surely I had heard that Frodo was left to make the final stages of the journey alone, and the loss of his servant had heightened the tension so much more! You must admit it made the play much more dramatic!"

Rollan spoke up from his food--he had a bit of a belly and took especial care to furnish it at mealtimes. "But I don't think we have much to worry about from him. You heard the guard himself--he's a lord, and not likely to care so much about common entertainment, especially on the First Circle! He'll probably be too caught up in all the ceremony in the Citadel to give us any trouble."

"Even lords need to laugh, Rollan," said Brinn. "And Sereth has a point, anyhow. Everyone here knows that this Lord Samwise is a guest here, and his family. We may have to change things a little, just so they won't be confused, whether he is the same Samwise or not. Pay it little heed, Seri." She smiled, only a little more confidently than she felt. "We'll make it work, whatever it is that happens."

They finished their meal in silence--Sereth only half cleaning her plate. Brinn frowned, but didn't say anything. On their way back to the carts, Brinn took Rollan aside and said, "Do you think we should ask Aldarion to change the script?"

"Depends. Can we make him the comical sidekick? Ah, yes--the rustic, country lad, always quick to see the joy in a situation with his native wit!"

"You're too tall, love."

"I'll walk on my knees!" cried Rollan, and he immediately suited the action to the word, eliciting a laugh and a quick swipe on the head from Brinn.

That brought to mind another question, though--if the Samwise in the play was an esquire, how was it that he was now a lord?

[Boromir88]

Branor's teeth grinded when Therian told Master Samwise that his name was Brandor. However, causing a scene in front the Lord and in the Rohirric Unicorn would be most rude and unprofessional. Branor knew what Therian was getting at, because on more than one occassion Therian had taken delight in provoking him. If that's the game Therian wanted to play, Branor knew precisely how to get back at him.

But there seemed to be more than just Samwise being alive that the King's Players have gotten wrong. As the hobbit began telling the troupe about the real Lady Eowyn, and Meriadoc Brandybuck increased panic crept in Branor's face. Branor thought they needed to keep composure though, because Sam's curiousity about the play was growing, "I must say these are some of the strangest questions about the War of the Ring that I have ever been asked. Of course the Lady Eowyn, was a lady and Master Merry was a he..."

Branor was sorely tempted to let Therian reply and hang himself by letting him boast to Master Samwise where he believed women truly belonged in society. However, since Amdir and Therian recovered for Branor's slip up well enough, Branor decided to in the very least, repay the favor.

"Yes, of course, we know that stuff. We have a firm grasp on the true events, but have met none of the real heroes we are to portray. So, we want to make sure we get their true personality and characters as close as possible. Why Harrenon is the dashing Elf Prince Legolas, as well as the dreadful Witch-King and my friend Therian, is interested in the Lady Eowyn, as he will be playing the Lady in our tale." But Branor, could not resist taking an underhanded swipe that he thought would get under Therian's skin. "Afterall, he is a strapping boy, is he not? I mean, with his youthful and adorable face, I thought he was perfect for the part. I, naturally, am to play the King Elessar." Branor proclaimed proudly.

"Is that so?" Sam replied. "Well, you may be interested to hear that the King has been invited to attend the performance too. I have no doubt, King Elessar would be most pleased to be portrayed by an actor as great and noble as yourself, Brandor." Branor ignored the mistake, mostly because it was clear to him, Sam had recognized his true gift. However, he did not catch the slightest of smirks that Sam gave Therian.

"Tell me about King Elessar some more, if you do not mind all these interruptions and questions. It would be the highest of honours if the King attended our humble play, and saw me in his role. I do not want to act as Branor would act, but truly want to transform into the wise and great King Elessar, on stage."

"I do not mind the interruption at all. It is not every day that you get to meet and talk with the actors who are playing as you, and your friends." Samwise raised his mug of ales and motioned for all four of them to sit. "Let me see, there is a lot I can say about King Elessar, or Aragorn as Mister Frodo and I called him, or Strider, as he was known in Bree.

'Indeed he did have many names, not as many as Gandalf, but still a handful. I do not want to keep you from your business too long, so I will tell you my first impression of the man. I will never forget that, at the Prancing Pony in Bree. He was the most dishevelled man I ever did see and was in desperate need of a bath." Wait, hold on? King Elessar, dirty? And smelly!? With all due respect, Master Samwise had to be wrong about the King.

'In fact, I told Mr. Frodo, that Strider had to be up to no good. He had done nothing but eye my master from a dark corner. I said he had to be a spy of the Enemy, and could not be trusted." Yes. Samwise, has to have someone confused with King Elessar. He was wrong and when Branor was just about to correct him..."I could not have been more wrong about him!" Ha, I knew it! "I am sure you know all the tales of his great and heroic deeds, so I will not go into all that, but Mr. Frodo and I owe him our lives. After Mr. Frodo defeated the Dark Lord, Gandalf had told us how Aragorn strove against the Dark Lord thru a palantir and then marched an army to Black Gates. It was all a diversion, to draw Sauron's Eye away from us, as you rightfully know."

That was it! It all made sense to Branor now. King Elessar's many names, his disgusting uncleanliness when the warrior Frodo, and his ignorant servant, first met him. Elessar was a secret double-spy! It was clear now, how Frodo was able to defeat the Dark Lord in single combat. No doubt, Frodo was a worthy champion, but that part of the tale always seemed fishy to Branor. Distracted Sauron by striving against him with the palantir. And Frodo obviously knew how to defeat the Dark Lord because Aragorn had given Frodo secret intel. Strider...no Aragorn! No Elessar! The secret double-spy-king, one of Sauron's most trusted spies, was really working for the greatest warrior in history, Master Frodo Baggins, and gave Frodo all the information he needed to defeat the Dark Lord in single combat! What this palantir thing the Master Samwise mentioned, Branor did not know, but he was sure to bring all of this new information to Aldarion's attention.

[Dimturiel]

Harrenon wondered whether he had ever had the misfortune to be in a more uncomfortable situation before and decided that it surely was not possible. Nothing could have been worse than what was happening now. They had been in Minas Anor for less than an hour and Branor had already insulted someone who appeared to be a very important person in the city– despite everything they had heard of him. He stepped on Branor’s foot quickly, but did not dare to admonish him in front of Lord Samwise. He told himself that he should be thankful; that at least Branor had had enough tact to tell Samwise “We thought you were dead” than “We thought you were nothing more than Frodo’s halfwit servant”. Why had they been lead to believe that anyway? What else had they got wrong?

Harrenon was grateful that Amdir had the presence of spirit to ask Samwise for an account of what had actually happened. It was better that they knew soon what other false knowledge they had than to present an erroneous version in front of Lord Samwise and his family and who knew what other important personages. He listened apprehensively to the conversation.

Harrenon had to roll his eyes at Therian’s question about Lady Eowyn. It sounded ridiculous even to him and he was not so sure where Therian had heard that one. He turned his attention to Samwise to hear what he had to say.

“Now really,” Samwise said slightly uncertainly. “I haven’t heard any of the sort. There were no witches then – unless you count Lady Galadriel and she was in Lorien at the time. I’m sure Lady Eowyn was very much herself when she felled the Nazgul. But I wasn’t there, of course. Master Merry would know more.”

“Master Mary?” Harrenon asked puzzled, wondering why Samwise was calling an elf-maiden master. An elf-maiden who, moreover, should have been dead long before the battle of Pelennor Fields.

“Yes, of course,” Sam replied fixing Harrenon with a questioning stare. “ Master Meriadoc Brandybuck. Surely he too is in your play, isn’t he?”

“He…” Harrenon repeated, his voice dry, desperately attempting to compose himself and not give away another blunder the Players had apparently made. “Why…yes…yes, of course he is…”

He could see panic in Branor and Therian’s eyes and he could not blame them. Harrenon tried not to imagine how the others would react when he told them that particular piece of news.

“If I tell them Mary the elf-maiden of Rivendell is actually Meriadoc Brandybuck of the Shire,” Harrenon thought, swallowing uncomfortably. “Brinn and Aldarion are going to kill me. as for Asta…well, Asta will surely feed my body to the mechanical dragon if I tell her she’s actually supposed to be playing Meriadoc the Hobbit who doesn’t even die when we thought she…well, he did.”