The King's Players RPG

[Anguirel]

None other than the fraudulent kidnapper of Asta's speculation, dapper little Sador of Burlach, was in fact by this time comfortably settled lengthways on a chaise-longue in the fine and fashionable mansion of his elder brother. A wide pair of Fornost windows had been cast open to let the breeze ventilate properly, which was quite necessary as both brothers, contrary to their father's habits and, had he been there, to his certain disapproval, were smoking pipes full of the herb of Eriador. They were not exactly each other's preferred company, and the presence of the three women was in truth a great relief; the silent Lady Ecsichil in her peculiar sectary full body gauze veil, lolling like her husband and brother-in-law but partaking neither of smoke nor speech; golden Circilie roaming about the room, making emendations and conversation; Gloredhel sitting straight and supple in a chair more aesthetic than comfortable, by her own preference.

"You sent Aerwen to go and catch this new player acquaintance of yours?" Ecsichil was asking, not for the first time. Unlike his wife, he did possess the apparent faculty of speech, though he avoided any topics of dangerous freshness. Sador sometimes, at moments such as this, found his brother surprisingly restful to be around after all. Ecsichil was an unsympathetic boor, and his existence, combined with his wife's predictable efficiency at producing straight, soldierly young sons, ensured that Sador would never inherit a scrap of land or a substantive rank; but, on the other hand, the elder son of Burlach did tend to emphasise by his style of 'thought' and behaviour the unusual wit and aptitude of the younger one.

"I didn't send her," Sador answered languidly, "father wouldn't like me arbitrarily to interrupt my elder sister's education on a whim about the theatre, would he now? But I told her my friend would be waiting, asked her if she was interested, and she expressed herself positively."

"Alright," Ecsichil said boredly, still following the old furrow for lack of anything else to say to Sador. "But is it all quite decent? This player, is he of at least presentable rank? Is there a chaperone?"

"A coachman, I think, Aerwen's usual one, but I mean, come on, brother dear. Aldarion is perfectly respectable, an old friend of Gloredhel's, no less." Sador looked automatically towards the object of his esteem and fear, but could not long maintain the gaze. "Anyway, we're talking about Aerwen here, one of the most famous scholars in the City and one of the shyest. I don't think she's going to conclude the ride pregnant with twins."

Circilie, a few months with child herself, and Ecsichil laughed at their brother's quip. No one saw Gloredhel's faintly narrowing glance except Lady Ecsichil through her veil, and she did not note it as any sign of emotion, a capacity, rather like speech, she had long since dropped, out of pure torpidity.

"Now then," Circilie remarked, bustling herself into the middle of the little party on a comfy chair by the Fornost window, "tell us about this play then, little Sador."

"That shambles? Why?"

"Oh, don't be so modest, kidling brother, I don't mean that funny affair being scraped out at the inn. I mean the play you want Master Aldarion and darling Gloredhel to help you read out after supper. And yes, I definitely want a part this time. Give me something funny."

Circilie's dimpled dollish looks were very good for moulding, and she made one of her famous silly faces, faces that had briefly amused even her husband, Amlach. Even Gloredhel laughed a little at this one, though it might have been, for all any of the rest of the family knew or cared, only the mirth of courtesy.

[the phantom]

"If you wish," said Aerwen to Aldarion, "I shall try to show you a better playwright even than your old master."

Not entirely certain how to respond, Aldarion shrugged and nodded. He was anxious to get to the party, but did not wish to be discourteous and rush Aerwen. He doubted very much that she would show him anything new anyway.

What's it going to be? A collection of those ridiculous Gondolin works? No action or intrigue whatsoever- just philosophy and praising the Valar. Or perhaps some obscure Numenorean playwright? Ha- I seriously doubt there is a single play ever written in Numenor that I have not come across in my studies. I've covered all the writers of Gondor and Arnor as well, and even the few Harad turned out. But I suppose I should humor her.

[Anguirel]

In which the star-cross'd passion of Rumillo and Írildë is first laid before a discerning, and limited, public (Aldarion by name)

"I have to move fast and visit regularly to catch the newest scripts here," Aerwen explained to her new acquaintance, as they passed through the threshold of the establishment, under a hanging sign depicting an ibis.

"If they fall to obscurity, a few copies are bought up by collectors - among whom I have sometimes myself bidded - and the rest tend to be burnt. But if they catch any attention - either noble patronage, or the esteem of some city scholar or poet, or even become performed by some touring company - they are in danger of suppression by the Revels office if they get too successful; and in any case, Lindir of the Ibis doesn't like books that get too popular; he thinks it prejudices the tone of his merchandise..."

The shop was a great deal more extensive, and less comfortable, than it had looked from the Course outside. It was impossible to get a straight or diagonal view in any direction, so contorted were the L-shapes of its dustily clustered shelves; Aerwen looked tentatively in one direction in particular whence they saw a cold, absorbed man with a shaven pate, presumably the Lindir Aerwen had mentioned. But she took Aldarion off down another path, wriggling through the impromptu corridors with all a bookworm's hunger and facility.

"Of course, many of the best scripts - the back catalogue of the Swan Players, for example - have been performed already, and this presents a lesser problem; they already have a reputation, and a market, and sponsors to back them; you find them handsomely bound in folios with gilded edges. What I'm going to show you is a bit odder; a playwright whom, ah, rumour has it has been performed somewhere; but no one knows under quite what circumstances; ah, yes..."

They were immediately under a silver plaque that informed them Theatricals, L. Aerwen impatiently shifted the initial volume, the anonymous and long Lamentable Trago-History of the Laiquendi, obviously looking for something not far off from the start, and last settled on a small, dark quarto, neatly but unspectacularly bound in a blue that was almost but not quite black. Silver impressions on the spine read Lameleg, Beren, Arvedui part 1.

"Right author," Aerwen was muttering, half to herself, "wrong plays; rough prentice pieces only..." Her long white hand with its bitten nails whipped out a volume only a little bit further along, identical in appearance except that it read Lameleg, Beren, The Tragedy of Romillo and Írildë. She passed it to Aldarion with a gentle smile, open at this Prologue:

Two shipholds, alike in antiquity,
In Vinyalondë, where we lay our scene
From ancient to first mate in mutiny
Have risen, spilling blood and rum unclean:
From forth the bilges, midst these fatal crews
A pair of star-cross'd lovers take their chance:
Whose misadventures and untimely news
Be interspersed with duelling and with dance.
The fearful passage of grim Anfalas
And the continuance of the boatswain's rage
Whom, but the vinous leaf, naught may relax,
Is now the bare hour's traffic in our page:
The which, if you (when wearied) yet forebear
To slumber on't, we'll venture good repair.

"Romance, pirates, and a fairly harmonious measure of versification," Aerwen murmured with an intonation between scepticism and admiration, "but my, the poetry has barely warmed up here...do flick on..."

[Nerwen]

"Kidnapped? For pity's sake, Asta, now you're just being absurd," Brinn told her with uncharacteristic sharpness, though she was still absently stroking Sereth's dark hair.

"Your zister zpeaks zense, Asta," said Coldan reluctantly. "I hardly zink Aldarion could be overpowered by Lord Zador, of all men."

"As if I hadn't thought of that! He'd have a gang, wouldn't he?" Ideas were springing up like weeds in the fertile soil of Asta's imagination. "These so-called guardsmen are probably in it, and that dreadful old man, and of course those two "ladies" who invaded the Common Room this morning.

'Besides, Sador can't be his real name– now that would be absurd." She had remembered, now, where it was that she had first encountered the name: attached to the maimed servant character in that deplorable, but supposedly factual, historical play Aldarion had tried to foist on them. "In fact, I'll tell you what, I don't believe there's anything the matter with his leg at all. I'm sure he's just pretending to be lame, to put us all off our guard– and– and make it easier for him to vanish once his schemes are complete. Why it's just's the sort of thing a master criminal would do."

[Pitchwife]

"Vait, you're losing me", Coldan interjected as soon as Asta paused to breathe. Apparently the morning had been anything but eventless at the inn, and he was getting more and more confused by all those references to things which had happened in his absence. "Vy are you talking about two ladies now? Vas zere another one besides zat perian woman - vat did you say her name vas? Elanor?" The name sounded much too grandiose for a halfling; if he had come across her as a character in a play, he would have thought her a fitting counterpiece to 'Mary the Elf'.

"Elanor Gamgee", Brinn repeated impatiently. "She's Lord Samwise's daughter. - Now listen, Asta - "

"Samvise Gamgee's daughter?" Coldan interrupted her. "You mean, the daughter of ze one I'm playing, ze one who didn't die on Veathertop after all, whom Branor and ze others met ze other day? And she's going to help us viz ze play?" This was more luck than they could ever have hoped for. "Zat's vonderful! Vat did she tell you, Brinn?" He couldn't wait to have a look at the notes she had just shown them.

"Oh stop it, Coldan!" Asta cried out, bumping against his ribs in an aborted gesture of exasperation. "We don't have time for this now! There won't be a play as long as our playwright is being held in some dungeon the Valar know where!"

Coldan almost made a sarcastic remark about her passionate concern for Aldarion's safety, but having learnt a lesson or two since yesterday, he bit on his tongue just in time.

"But vat reason would Sador hev to - ", he started to object, when something clicked in his mind and the pieces came together. There wouldn't be a play without Aldarion; much as he hated to admit it, Asta was right about that - and perhaps this was just the point.

"Actually", he corrected himself, "zis may not be as crazy as it sounds, Brinn. Zat Lord Cirdacil who left Sador here viz us isn't too fond of us, is he? Judging from vat Rollan told me, he'd be glad for any excuse to run us out of town vizout heving to pay us. Sador vas left viz us under ze pretense of working on ze script viz Aldarion and helping him iron out the mistakes ve hev made, but has anybody seen him doing anyzing of ze kind? To tell ze truth, I heven't trusted zat sweet-tongued clubfoot from ze moment I first saw him. Vat if his true orders are to sabotage our play - and vat better vay to achieve zis zan by kidnapping our playwright?"

[Galadriel55]

Things were finally beginning to come together. The grown-ups went on arguing, ignoring the girls' presense, and they've said enough for Thiliel to grasp the situation. Apparantly the Lord Sador who they were talking about was the handsome young man who was also staying at the inn. She couldn't believe it! Not him as well!

Thiliel made a small attempt at speaking up after Asta finished, but fer faint voice was interrupted by the man's. She told herself that it is a sign for her to keep her mouth shut and not stick her head in things where she is not wanted. But she couldn't, just couldn't keep silent! Not after what she had just heard.

"No!" the shout came out uncontrollably, "No, it cannot be true! They cannot all come down at the you like crows on dead meat, just because you are playing on Comrare. First Lady Elanor, now Lord Sador. Who will be next? King Elessar? Impossible! Why do they all stay in your way? You want no harm, you just want the people of Minas Anor to be happy."

Thiliel swallowed hard, hardly holding back the tears now. Looking directly at Ceebrindal, she said in a soft voice, hardly more than a whisper, "You will still preform the play, won't you?"

[the phantom]

Aldarion flipped quickly through the pages. There was no time to give it a proper look, but he thought he had the basic shape of things. Aware of the fact that Aerwen was hovering quite close, Aldarion allowed himself to mumble a few of his thoughts aloud so that she could hear.

"Not the form usually employed for dramas.... the adherence to rhyme and meter... I tend to find that sort of thing distracting in serious works... more common in comedies, and I don't care for many of those... though this does flow better than most... pleasing to the ear... yes- the writing is certainly a step up from other productions I've done in this style... and the subject of course is an excellent choice if this is THE Írildë, the descendant of Vardamir's youngest child I believe, and the aunt of Hallacar... I love plays set in Numenor... no time to judge the plot really, but I'm interested to see where it goes..."

[Mnemosyne]

"Thiliel," said Brinn, "let me remind you that Elanor means us no harm, and, so far, has done nothing to obstruct our play--in fact, she has been most helpful. Lord Sador, doubtless, has his own reasons for being with us in the first place, and since we do not know them, we cannot know if he means good or ill." Truth be told, she did suspect him, but she had been around people long enough to know that this wasn't the sort of thing you ought to make known, and if she told anyone except Rollan, Sador would probably find out. "It's impossible to make a full guarantee, Thiliel. But I assure you, I am going to do everything in my power to make sure that we perform this play, and that we perform it well, and so far, none of the accidental complications we have run into have proven enough to stop us. But, unfortunately, doing everything in our power means that we need to drop this idle speculation and get back to work."

"I'll tell you what, Asta," she said. "If Aldarion isn't back by tomorrow morning, you have my permission to conduct a full-scale investigation into the matter. For now, though, we wait--and more importantly, we figure out, with what information we have, how we're going to rework the casting for the play. Remember, we did write plays before Aldarion joined us." She drew out a sheet of paper, reworked from Elanor's notes, with the list of the Nine Walkers and an attempted sketch of their relative importance.

"We'll start with the Halflings, since they're now the folk I have the most reliable information on. I see no reason for Frodo to change at all, though we'll almost certainly have to change the way we write him. Sam, however, is going to have to be on stage the same time as Frodo, through the end. He's going to have to..." she peered at her notes "...slowly become more and more of a hero as Frodo continues to fade in the presence of the Ring." What exactly had they gotten themselves into?

"Merry and Pippin are very dear friends of one another, and both related to Frodo. Merry is the older one of the two and tends to plan things out more, while Pippin is more impulsive. They get split up, though, and Merry gets to help the Shield-Maiden defeat the Witch-King and Pippin saves the Steward Faramir's life."

Elanor had told her a good deal more, of course, but she wasn't entirely sure how to go about implementing it. Most worrisome was the lack of any firebreathing dragons... but they couldn't not put Smaug in!

[Pitchwife]

Coldan wasn't sure Brinn was taking this matter seriously enough. They had but three days left to get the play into shape and rehearse it thoroughly enough not to blunder too badly on Cormare. If they didn't begin investigating Aldarion's fate until tomorrow, another day would most likely be wasted. True, they had written plays without Aldarion before; and not so long ago he would have been zealous for a chance to take the Gondorian's place and confident he could deliver a better script anytime. But never before had the stakes been so high, the deadline so close; and knowing his own tendency to procrastination, Coldan had to admit to himself that he wouldn't be able to pull it off.

No, this would never do. As far as his personal feelings were concerned, he would blithely have left Aldarion to rot in whatever dungeon Cirdacil and Sador had thrown him in till Dagor Dagorath, but for the play's sake, the man would have to be found - if indeed he wanted to be found; Coldan was far from buying into Asta's kidnapping theory wholesale, and he wouldn't have been surprised to find out Aldarion had jumped ship and gone over to the enemy. He had been friendly enough with Sador at the common room last night, or so it had seemed. Sure, he had been quite passionate about his desire for the play to succeed and elevate him back to his former glory among the playwrights of Gondor - but what if the other side offered him an easier road to fulfilling his ambition? Either way, they would have to find out.

But it was clearly no use to pursue the matter further with Brinn, especially as she was now sharing what Elanor had told her about the halflings and he was eager to hear that. He gently nudged Asta in order to catch her attention and silently mouthed the word 'later', hoping thereby to appease her long enough to allow him to concentrate on what Brinn was saying.

"They get split up, though, and Merry gets to help the Shield-Maiden defeat the Witch-King and Pippin saves the Steward Faramir's life."

"But, Brinn", he hazarded to object, "if Sam remains alive all zrough ze play and even becomes a sort of hero figure, I can't play him and Gimli at ze same time. It's all vell once the Fellowship splits up, but between Rivendell and Parth Galen zey would hev to be on stage together. And who else is short enough for either part?" Casting these two characters had been one of the rare cases where his squat stature had worked to his advantage. "And did she tell you anyzing about Frodo's and Sam's adventures in Mordor? Like, you know, the part where zey fight ze great dragon?"

[Mnemosyne]

"That, Coldan, is precisely why we need to rework the casting," said Brinn. "In fact, unless we want to start pulling orphans off the street, height will be an issue for five out of the nine. I think, at this point, it is better to cast based on who will play the roles well than who will look the part." She paused. The distinct lack of dragon in Elanor's tale was not something that she particularly wanted to bring up at the moment...

"As for the adventures in Mordor, apparently there was little they could do at that point aside from 'starve,' but if we can do it well, I don't have as much of a problem with taking some artistic liberties."

"Zo," said Coldan, "Vhere does ze dragon come in?"

"Whenever the play begins to drag on?" said Rollan.

Brinn glared at him.

"Look," said Rollan, "if my dear wife is speaking correctly, I think she's trying to say that there is no dragon in Elanor's version of the story."

"Not precisely, no," said Brinn, glaring at him even more, "but there is a giant spider..."

She trailed off, seeing the looks on the other Players' faces. Asta was going to kill her.

[Anguirel]

Aerwen stood close to Aldarion as he mumbled his views in the gloom. It was more musty than cold, but if he had watching her, she would have appeared to be shivering a little. In fact, she was in large measure suppressing a peal of gentle laughter.

"So I take it, then, that you still prefer Lord Imrazôr," she whispered back with an unusually mischievous expression. "Indeed, I am not certain whether you are right, either in the reason that makes you hesitate, or the one that attracts you..."

For a moment Aldarion might wonder disconcertingly about the strange, scholarly maiden's words, context and meaning; she clarified herself only after a pause.

"For this playwright can master plain-speaking too; and, what seems to me his noblest form, unrhymed but stately verse. Forgive me if I take the book back..." Aldarion handed it over with a frown. "Something like this," the Lady of Burlach continued as she opened at another section,

"It is the gull that sings so out of tune,
Straining harsh discords, luring off the elves.
Some say the gull makes navigation sweet;
This doth not so, for she divideth us:
Some say the gull and mermaids swap their song,
O, now I would they had changed faces too!
Since craft from craft that voice bids us now moor,
Hunting thee hence with hunt's-up to the shore,
O, now be gone; more land and land it grows...

"...but no doubt I am boring you, Master Aldarion. I fear, too, that you are wrong about the writer's historical intentions; this play seems to me to exist in a pure void, a world of art, with no reference to any goings on of the legends or the records. As for the name Írildë, well, what's in a name?

"I thought it best though to show you this, as I suspect you will be hearing more about this poet's work this evening. My dear brother seems to have, er, taken an interest in his work; perhaps their apparent common affliction moves him. Anyway, it has become quite common for him to read and act out scenes from these plays of Master Lameleg's, with picked guests, and I would be very surprised indeed if he did not ask you, and our well beloved Gloredhel, to join in tonight..."

Somewhere the distance was a sound of running water, and a chiming of a sort of gong. It seemed to alarm Aerwen sufficiently to break her meditation, and she replaced the book quite suddenly.

"Old Lindir's water clock! We really must be getting on; I do apologise, I had quite lost track of things. Master Lameleg remarks somewhere else that There is no clock i' the forest, an adage that accurately reflects my sense of time whenever I am near books..."

She gave Aldarion a mock-woeful grimace, and led him out in a fitful rush. Her instructions to the coachman were fierce and urgent, and he whirled them up the Fifth and Sixth Highways with extraordinary - indeed nauseous - zeal. Lady and player alike would look and feel quite dizzy as they alighted in front of the manor belonging to Ecsichil of Burlach, their destination fulfilled at last; the coachman, who was used to his trade and barely groggy at all, pre-empted them to step up and give a firm knock on the tall town-house door, with the ceremonial cane kept for just such contingencies.

There was a sound of activity beyond, and soon a number of people opened up, enough to make any less magnificent entrance look quite cramped; the host, Lord Ecsichil, wearing a rich jerkin of tawny orange and his favourite scarlet sash, his handsome but rather brutish face flushed from wine or perhaps waiting; his brother, the evening's master of ceremonies just as their father was the City's, hanging back with his usual confident smile, and...

"Aldarion, at last" the demurely dressed, darkly beautiful woman between them said first, uttering her first substantial words of the evening, "you have been too long, and too much missed among the players of the Swan..."