Treachery of Men Discussion/Planning Thread

[piosenniel]

Garen LiLorian has asked to join the game.

Garen - your name is on the list to post to this thread. Come say hello and put your Character Bio on when you get it ready.

~*~ Pio

[Garen LiLorian]

Hello everybody. Here's a rough character sketch, that may or may not work very well. It may be a bit modern. *shrug* Oh well. It was fun to think about. Please let me know if and how it needs to be changed.

Linked ~*~ Pio
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Garen LiLorian's character


NAME: Adbrandr

AGE: 22

RACE: Ulfing

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: Adbrandr's weapon is usually rhetoric, but he has the strength of his beliefs and so occasionally wields a dagger or a torch as becomes neccessary. In a real fight, he would use the same short spears and shield as the other Easterling warriors, though he is not trained with them beyond a basic proficiency.

APPEARANCE: Adbrandr is taller then average for an Easterling, (say 5'5" or so) straight limbed and beautiful. His eyes (which are blue) are fiery and passionate. His skin is fair (for an Easterling) and his hair is long, black, and tied in a ponytail. For an Easterling, he is slender and not very strong. He wears typical peasant clothes, though his family can afford better, to show his devotion to the working man.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Adbrantr is a political activist. Though a man in the prime of life for an Easterling, he is not married, continues to live with his parents and doesn't work or own property. Instead, he devotes his entire attention to his political agenda. He is a student (insofar as it is possible) who has decided that the Ulfings would be much better off allied with the Enemy. He is happy giving incendiary speeches against the Eldar, whom he sees as frightening, condescending aristocratic overlords and comfortable arranging mysterious fires or administering dark alley beatings to those he sees as collaborators with the hated Elves. He is extremely zealous and has a charisma about him, a strength of belief that sustains him much more then food or friends. He is strong but brittle, overly passionate but close-minded, intelligent but foolish.

HISTORY: Minor house carls in Ulfang's "court," Adbrandr's parents enjoy some status and wealth above most of the other subsistance farmers, and thus Adbrandr's life was less hard then most of his peers. He was only a small child during the relocation of the tribes, and carries only a small child's romantic vision of the "motherland" that the tribe relocated from. His knowlege of Elves is just as scarce, his only real experience being a vague memory of them as bright and terrible as they, according to him, commanded that the tribe settle in the area where they are now, an area pitifully too small for the growing number of Men, in his estimation. His youth, while less hard then most, was not easy by any stretch, and he blames this as well on the Elves. Hearing of the "Enemy" that dared to challenge the Eldar's claims of superiority with nothing but a few brave men and other creatures hated by the bigoted Elves, Adbrandr spent most of his teenage years trying to learn from the old men of the tribe about Elvish history and oppressions. Armed with a patchy knowlege of third-degree history, he had declared his contempt for the Elvish collaborationist views expressed by Ulfang and his two younger sons, and holds up the oldest as a misunderstood folkhero, worthy of praise.


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Garen LiLorian's post

"And that is why!" the crockery rattled from the thump as he be brought his fist down, staring feverishly around the dinner table at his companions. "Don't you see? What have they ever done for us? How have they helped us? By giving us what is already ours?! No! And no again!" His head traversed from side to side in an emphatic shake, but his too bright eyes remained fixed on his audience. On the table, his fist trembled with restrained passions. "This... this slavery, yes, slavery is an affront to our proud house that cannot, nay, will not be borne. Justice will out, friends." He dropped into a prophetic whisper at this last. "Mark my words. And you would be wise to side with the people rather then with the overlords when we rise up and throw off this yoke of elvish imperialism." He punctuated his impassioned talk with a deep swallow from his earthenware cup, revolutionary fervor burning deeply in his breast, his strange eyes darting over his audience.

"Yes, yes, just as you say dear." His mother pushed back in her chair uncomfortably, hands dry washing themselves in her lap as she looked imploringly at her husband. The other person at the table brought the palm of his large, hairy hand down on the table with a thump not unlike his son's, only a moment before. "And I say, that is enough of that nonsense, boy." He growled, foul breath washing over the intervening space, his small black eyes glinting dangerously. "Three times already ye've escaped having yer throat cut and fed to the crows, and each time ye come back more lunatic then the last. I'll na' have it under my roof anymore, d'y'hear?" The revolutionary started to speak strongly, but the hairy limb slammed the table again, a cup leaping off in fright, preferring the cool safety of the packed earth ground to the increasingly abused table. "No! I said no an' I mean no, boy! While ye live under my roof, ye'll do as I say, or it'll be me feedin' ye to the crows." The small part of his face not yet claimed by the ongoing struggle of beard, hair and eyebrows was a dangerous red and the hand not used for so scaring the cookware clutched the wooden handle of a long dirk at his belt unconsciously, the barest gleam of iron reflecting candlelight.

The revolutionary leaned forward in his chair, his passion turned cold. His bright eyes glittered like a snake's and, as though taken with the metaphor, his body appeared coiled and tense, ready to strike. His voice, perhaps feeling left out, came in a hiss. "You cannot suppress the truth, father. You cannot kill it with your cold iron or stamp on it with your boots. You are just like every other fat, self satisfied house carl, living off the work of the people, offering nothing in return. A mangy wolf, living off of the scraps the elves feed you, and the meat you can steal without bringing down the wrath of the people upon you." His head made another slow traverse. "No more, father. Strike me all you wish. I never wanted your protection, and I renounce your soveriegnty over me."

The bearded thundercloud darkened and he reached for a handful of the rough shirt his son was wearing, but the younger man slipped his grasp and moved to the door gracefully. "Farewell mother. Find the truth before it finds you." He intoned, and was gone. "Damn blast that Elf-spawned, goblin loving excuse for a milk blooded son of a pox-ridden -!" His father's bellow cut through the night. "You know it's only a phase, dear..." The peacemaker laid her hand on her husband's arm, her voice soothing. "This is the third time this month, and he always comes back, talking about filial piety and the values of this revolution he seems to want so much." She looked out the door sadly. Her still glowering husband clenched and unclenched his ham-like hands, looking for something to hit. "... I'm for the lord's house." He said after a moment through gritted teeth. "If that blasted goblin lover gets his feet too cold and runs back, he can sleep in the field with the animals, d'y'hear?" His wife nodded obediently, privately resolving to do nothing of the sort. "Well then." The man of the house took another look around, as if daring the furniture to utter revolutionary slogans, then ducked into the night after his son.

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[Child of the 7th Age]

Garen,

Glad to see you're here.

__________________

My minor character is still to follow but here is my main one. I'll add in the name of Embla's clan/family later as well.

Linked ~*~ Pio

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Child of the 7the Age's character - Khandr

NAME: Khandr

AGE: 40

RACE: Eastern Man - Borrim

GENDER: male

WEAPONS: Unlike the other Borrim, most of whom wield curved blades, Khandr bears a straight sword. It is a blade of fine workmanship gifted to him by Maedhros as a recognition of loyal service in Bor's court. The hilt is silver, adorned with an intricate pattern of intertwining leaves, a pattern more typically elvish than is generally seen in a mannish blade. Khandr’s penchant for this unusual sword puzzles some of the Borrim, but he considers it a physical embodiment of his clan’s oath of loyalty and will not set it aside. He bears a serviceable crossbow that is a gift from his father along with a quiver of 25 arrows; a throwing dagger stashed inside his leather boots; a sturdy hunting knife; a shield of wrought iron; and two ancient spears that once belonged to his grandfather who dwelled far to the east. It is a dangerous world, and Khandr makes sure he is never without a weapon

APPEARANCE: Khandr stands 5’, 5” and weighs about 165 pounds. His black hair is kept short, although it curls a little around the nape of his neck. His skin is tanned from the sun, and one side of his face is marred with a scar that runs from the top of his right ear down to his nostril. Despite the troubling scar, his dark brown eyes look honest, a rare and sometimes dangerous trait in these troubled times. Khandr wears a leather thong about his neck that has a symbol of his clan suspended from it. This device is wrought from the tusk of one of the giant mûmakil and presumably reflects the region from which his clan originally came. Although the son of one of the more prominent members of the Borrim, he dresses simply: leather riding boots reaching to his knees, dark trousers and a tunic, a leather jerkin that’s usually left open, and, when needed, a heavy cloak.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES:

Khandr is an honest man who would love to pass his days in quiet: hunting, supervising the herds, enjoying his beloved first wife, and passing on customs to the younger ones in the clan. Unfortunately, that is not to be. His own household and the wider world he inhabits are filled with strife, a situation he privately deplores. Living in the north, he has seen firsthand the ugly work of Morgoth and his minions, and he despises them. Khandr is by nature a peacemaker, but one born into an age when peace is not possible. In personal terms, he can be stubborn and inquisitive to the point of exasperating others. He is bright and observant and on occasion has learned things that would be better off left untouched.

HISTORY:

Khandr, his father, and brothers are in the personal service of Bor. Khandr has inherited a considerable stretch of lands, both forests and plains, in northern Beleriand and owns large herds of horses and flocks of goats and sheep. He employs servants to care for these, since most of his time is spent at Bor’s court or on official business for him, carrying messages to distant locations. Khandr’s most recent assignment brought him south where he is trying to negotiate a marriage agreement. One of Bor's nieces was looking for a husband, and it was thought wise to try and tighten the alliance with the Ulfings Since Khandr has a reputation as a peacemaker and someone skilled at building bridges, he was chosen to negotiate the settlement. Unfortunately, relations between the two peoples have now deteriorated to the point that Khandr finds himself frustrated at every turn in his efforts to forge a new marriage alliance. He is at the point of giving up and returning home, but hesitates to do so since it will disappoint Bor and his son.

Khandr is doubly frustrated in his personal life. His married his wife Briga at the age of seventeen and is still deeply in love with her. More recently, however, Bor asked him to enter into a second marriage for reasons of cementing an alliance with a powerful family. Taking a second wife is a common arrangement among the Borrim who still keep many of the old ways. He wearily acceded to this request without much enthusiasm. He vowed to treat Embla kindly but to make sure she understood that she was second to Briga. When the new bride arrived, Khandr quickly realized he had taken on more than he had bargained for. Much of his time is now spent trying to put out fires between the two women since they are frequently at odds.

Khandr has two daughters in their early twenties, one married and one single, but neither has travelled with him to the court of the Ulfing. He has always yearned for a son but that wish has not been granted.

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Child of the 7th Age's minor character -- Briga

NAME: Briga

AGE: 36

RACE: Borrim

GENDER: Female

WEAPONS: Briga owns a small bow which her husband has taught her how to shoot for purposes of sport, but she has never been in a physical fight.

APPEARANCE: Briga is short and lithe, standing less than five feet. She has brown curls that fall to her shoulder and, when she is happy, her dark eyes sparkle. Though approaching the age of thirty-six, she looks considerably younger than that. Her dress is modest, as befits the first wife of a high ranking official.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES/HISTORY

Briga has been loved and sheltered for much of her life. Her parents showered her with love and affecton and her husband has done the same. Khandr and Briga played together as children. They were sweethearts from a young age and have continued to be extremely close as husband and wife, though Khandr protects her from the worst intrigues of the court and from comprehending the reality of Morgoth's attacks on Beleriand.

Shy and reserved with those outside the household, Briga focuses her energies on her husband and daughters and the few close friends she admits to her heart. She is from a wealthy family and has never had to struggle for money or position. She is naturally good natured and gentle but sometimes fails to see the very real problems that people face whose past have been far more difficult than hers, whether in personal or economic terms. As a result, Briga sometimes lacks real sympathy or understanding for those around her who are struggling with difficult issues that she has never had to face. And to make things just a bit more difficult, she is also a person whose feelings can be easily hurt. Her one sadness, which she keeps to herself, is that she has failed to give her beloved husband any sons.

Although Briga hates to argue, she will defend her loved ones with tooth and claw if she feels their best interests are threatened. She was prepared to accept the presence of a second wife in the household with grace, since that is part of traditional Borrim culture. She had hoped to make that second wife a sister and share things with her. What she did not count on was Embla's sharp tongue and open hostility from the very beginning. Briga can not understand the kind of problems that Embla has encountered in life and, as a result, has a hard time feeling any sympathy towards her. The real question for Briga is this: will she continue to ignore the complexity of life and fail to recognize that there are people around her struggling with things she can barely imagine, or will she grow in understanding, wisdom, and grace?


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Child of the 7the Age's post - Khandr

With a weary sigh, Khadr leaned back in his chair and tried without success to sort out the tangled events of the day. He had been home from the great hall for more than two hours, yet his head was still throbbing. He could hear the angry voice of his first wife Briga issuing from down the hall as she criticized second wife Embla for her lack of cooperation and continuing bad spirits. The two women constantly disagreed about household arrangements. Briga would point out when Embla was shirking her share of the work, while the latter would glare out at her, saying nothing but with a nasty scowl on her face.

Not that Khandr would place the major share of blame on Briga! The house had run flawlessly in the old days when she had been the only one on board. He had taken a second wife to extend his own network of alliances and influence and to provide a female friend for his first wife. All his good intentions did not seem to be working. The newcomer Embla had upset the delicate household balance with her sullen face and bitter words. As second wife, Embla should have the good sense to accept that she was not going to be the one on top. Khandr was not an unthinking brute, and a little graciousness and cheerfulness on Embla’s part would have gone far towards earning her many special favors and rewards.

The arguments, however, showed little sign of abating. While Embla did not openly challenge his authority or that of Briga, she sometimes flung out occasional side insults or vague sounding threats which left no doubt that she was bitterly unhappy. Once in a while Khandr glimpsed a real sadness in Embla’s eyes and wondered if he shouldn’t make some effort to sit down and talk to her and try to figure out what was wrong. He did not like confrontations, however, and tended to shy away from Embla rather than run the risk of finding himself in the middle of a very unpleasant conversation.

In any case, Khandr did not have the leisure to deal with the matter now. He had enough on his hands trying to untangle the increasingly confusing web of diplomacy. Any serious attempt to improve the situation with Embla would need to wait till they returned back home to the land of the Borrim. That day could not come too soon as far as Khandr was concerned. This was the fourth week that he and his wives had been in the encampment of the Ulfings. He missed his daughters, and there had been absolutely no progress in trying to forge a marriage alliance between the two kindred peoples. All his effort to negotiate a union between one of Ulfang’s sons and the young niece of Bor had been unsuccessful, despite the assurance that generous gifts would be made as part of the bride price. Some members of the Ulfing entourage even seemed to take offense that the woman would be designated a second wife. That was part of the traditional ways, and Khandr could not understand why this should be a problem.

Khandr felt increasingly baffled over what was happening with the Ulfings. He and his father had always enjoyed good relations with Ulfang. But Ulfang now seemed incapable of making a decision and constantly referred problems and issues over to his sons, especially Uldor. Khandr’s conversations with the sons had been singularly unproductive. They seemed to talk in circles, promising much but never committing themselves to signing an agreement. On top of all that, there were numerous rumors sweeping through the general populace that the delicate balance of peace and war was about to be upset, and they would all find themselves in the middle of a war. Khandr had heard nothing official along those lines, yet he could not help feeling that there was some truth behind these gloomy prognostications.

Khandr bent over his desk and began work on the list of gifts to be sent with the new bride once an agreement was reached. He was still having trouble concentrating. One further regret tugged at the back of Khandr’s mind. If only he had been blessed with a son! The young man could have acted as the arbiter in the disagreements between the two women or, even more likely, Khandr could have avoided the marriage and put forward his son as the bridegroom instead. His son would have been closer to Embla in age and perhaps understood her more. With a weary sigh, Khandr turned his mind away from personal affairs and redirected his attention to the matter of deciding whether twenty or twenty-five goats should be included as part of the bride price.

[Anguirel]

Garen, thankyou for joining. There's one slight alteration you should make in your profile - we've decided that Uldor the Accursed is more likely to have been viewed by Tolkien as the eldest son than the youngest. So your last bit should read something like:

he had declared his contempt for the Elvish collaborationist views expressed by Ulfang and his two younger sons, and holds up the eldest as a misunderstood folkhero, worthy of praise.

You should also be aware that your character is engaged in active treason and so is, at first, in some danger from Ulfang's establishment. Free speech probably isn't tolerated greatly under Morgoth's shadow. But that should make things more fun...

pio, I'd like to add another cameo to the list of available characters. I've decided we can't have a proper Ulfing RP without an appearance by Brodda the Easterling. He's of Ulfang's sons' generation, though I'd guess him as rather younger; maybe 30s. I don't think his birth date is recorded. He is to ultimately become chief of the Easterlings, so he's a pretty vital role - the Fortinbras of our Hamlet, if you like...

My Easterling woman's character description and my first post for the game should be finished by the end of today.

Mith, I wonder if you could PM me what you know about my page, so I can weave him into the first post?

[Kath]

Here is my character bio, it may be subject to change as some bits don't sit quite right with me, but I've been fiddling with it for three days now so I'm probably making it worse rather than better. Yell at me if you do see anything that needs changing.

Linked ~*~ Pio
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Kath's character


NAME: Bergr

AGE: 31

RACE: Eastern Man - Borrim

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: A sword and two sharp daggers hang from his belt and hunting knives are strapped to his shins. He carries a lightweight but sturdy bow along with a quiver of arrows. His armbraces are sharpened to protect him if all weapons are lost.

APPEARANCE: Short at 5’4” and heavy set, though light on his feet. Broad shouldered with a grim countenance he can appear frightening and unapproachable unless he smiles, which is rare. He has brown eyes and dark brown hair which hangs straight to his shoulders if left down but is almost always tied back to keep it from his eyes. He has a beard which is the same dark brown as his hair. He wears a simple tunic and breeches, adding a vest in colder weather, and short boots. His only concession to armour is his armbraces.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: His personality often matches his appearance, grim and hard, except around children. To some his affinity for youngsters is seen as a weakness but he enjoys their company and innocence, and he protects them as though they were his own. He keeps his own counsel and rarely speaks his mind to others, but when he does his words are measured and deliberate. He is liked among his own people.

HISTORY: Bergr originally went north with the rest of his kin and made a modest living for himself, being skilled at tending the land and hunting. He married and lived in relative peace for a time, but his wife died in childbirth and, feeling the need to escape sadness, he travelled south with other hunters. Since arriving at the Ulfing settlement his natural skills have made him popular with some and an enemy of others.

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Kath's post


Stalking into his home Bergr threw his catch down onto the low table that sat near the glowing embers of the fire and threw himself down to the floor next to it. Taking out his knives he dealt with the reward of the hunt quickly and efficiently, some going into the pot he would have his evening meal in that night, some he prepared to keep, and some he set aside for those who needed it more than he did. For the widows whose children were barely able to survive on the little their mother could provide them with, the only ones that even half accepted him here.

Since the day he’d arrived he’d received nothing more than suspicious glances and whispered comments behind his back. Few said anything to his face, they were not that stupid, but he knew of it all the same. Still there was no love lost on his part either, Bergr disliked this area. It had too many hidden secrets and too much hostility. However, it served his purposes for the moment, and so he would stay.

With a grunt Bergr pulled himself out of his maudlin thoughts and busied himself with cleaning his knives and the table. This done, he carefully wrapped the meat he was not keeping in cloths and, taking up the small packages, left.

As he neared his first stop the children of the hut ran out to him, used now to his heavy footsteps, and the younger ones threw themselves at his legs. Barely breaking his stride he allowed two to cling on to his lower limbs and pulled a third up to dangle from his arm.

“Yours, ma’am.” He spoke gruffly but gently to the woman standing over the fire, indicating both the children and the package he held in his one free arm. She had smiled and taken his burdens from him, allowing him to make his escape and continue on.

He returned, empty handed but lighter hearted, having garnered a similar reaction from every household. Sitting down to his own meal he stared into the contents of the pot for a few moments, wishing there was someone to share it with as he did every day, and then set to, his hunger outweighing his desire for reflection.

Later he found himself sitting in a corner of the small inn that he went to on occasion. He usually stayed out of places where there were going to be a lot of Ulfings as his presence was bound to cause trouble, especially when the men had imbibed a little more than was good for them. Today though he had decided that he did not want to be alone, even if the alternative meant being surrounded by these people.

So far things had been quiet. He had kept to his corner, only venturing out when the bar was clear to order a drink, and then skulking back into the shadows again. Most of the inhabitants were too busy discussing the happenings of the day to pay any attention to him, and Bregr appreciated that, enjoying being able to find out what he had missed while hunting, and it seemed that todays news was particularly interesting.




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[Anguirel]

My Ulfing woman is here. Fea, if you want me to change the last bit, do say.

I'll write a bio for her son Drenda too at some stage.

Linked ~*~ Pio
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Anguirel's character - Gausen

NAME: Gausen

AGE: 34

RACE: Human, of the Ulfing tribe of Easterlings

GENDER: Female

WEAPONS: The sharpness and acidity of Gausen’s tongue is proverbial.

APPEARANCE: For a woman of the Ulfings, Gausen stands tall and proud, at 5’3”. She is slender, even slightly wasted looking. Her features have a lean delicacy to them, enhanced by the intensity of her stare. She always dresses in a black robe topped by a sable cloak to drive away the cold; she wears a translucent black veil which she sweeps off in moments of anger.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Gausen is an intimidating proposition, dignified but ready at any moment to succumb to the grip of cold fury. Her temper is colloquially known by the Ulfings as “The Anfauglith Wind”. But, as so often, this furious imperturbability is a shield that hides considerable vulnerability. Gausen is cripplingly vain and cannot understand that the harshness of her life is causing her beauty to fade. As such she is apt to exploit more power over men than she possesses, a debtor to pride.

HISTORY: Gausen was married at the age of fifteen to the Chieftain of a lesser clan under the vassalage of Ulfang the Black, Drenduld; her own ancestry is similar; noble in the pettiest of senses; and this makes her apt to assume airs apposite to a great Queen or Empress. Drenduld was a vile husband to her, but she loved him to worship and dreamed that he might one day take Ulfang’s place, swaddling herself in an elaborate image of a paradisical marriage she had never truly known. She quickly bore Drenduld a son, Drenda; but Drenduld showed her if anything less interest or consideration than before. The child Drenda became, and remained, the fulcrum of her existence.

Shortly after the first banishment of Uldor Ulfangsson, Ulfast, the Chieftain’s second son, gathered power in his hands for the first time and did not hesitate to use it in the punishment of his enemies. Drenduld had once slighted him, or so he said; many rumoured that he in fact sought to seize Drenduld’s petty estate. A duel between the two men left the arrogant Drenduld dead, and Gausen’s life forever changed; her husband’s possessions seized, she and her son were plunged into poverty.

They never left it. Gausen rents a pair of beds in a hovel near the hall of Ulfang. It is a strange and chilling place, lavishly decorated with all Gausen’s remaining, tattered finery, where her son Drenda, now sixteen years old, is nurtured for the great destiny Gausen believes is his birthright.

In the meantime she schemes for the restoration of her former comparative glory. She nurses a hopeless but determined fantasy; that Uldor, greatest son of Ulfang, whom she has often seen in passing and whom she has been presented to at the hall, might deign to love her and protect her son. Uldor’s lecherous disposition has led him to give her faint encouragement.

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Anguirel's character - Drenda

NAME: Drenda

AGE: 16

RACE: Human, of the Ulfing tribe of Easterlings

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: Drenda can wield a scimitar with a good deal of skill, though not as much as he supposes, and is also extremely competent with a bow and arrow after a childhood filled with hunting. He has never fought anything other than wild beasts before, but imagines he would be perfectly capable of doing so.

APPEARANCE: Drenda's handsomeness is a credit to his mother - and indeed entirely due to his mother, for his father Drenduld was thuggish and grim of visage. Taller than most fully grown Easterlings at 5'7", he seems set to become taller still. His form is lithe and agile, his limbs long and wiry, his shining black hair is his mother's delight, and his sparkling eyes seem set to charm the women of the Ulfings.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Apart from the vigour of youth, Drenda's character has in truth few attractive characteristics; for if his looks are his mother's, his mind is his father's. He knows how Gausen dotes on him and is perfectly filling to exploit it when he needs coin or credit; but he feels no loyalty, let alone devotion, in return, only a vague sense of possessiveness that lead him to be suspicious of men who visit the hovel. He longs to prove himself in battle, but his convictions are too shallow for him to care much about the circumstances.

HISTORY: Drenda has spent fourteen years soaking up the love, energy, and funds of his widowed mother. All that can be spared has been spent on Drenda's advancement. This has been to a degree successful; Drenda was granted the status of a lesser chieftain's son by Ulfang two winters ago, and since then his days are spent more often at Ulfang's hall than with his mother. This has tripled his vanity, already inherited mightily from both his parents.

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Anguirel's post - Gausen/Drenda

The quietness of the hovel was disturbed only by the recurring circles of Gausen’s distaff. She span the greyish flax, and watched it form, coagulate, like some eerie shadow of a marsh. Once brought out of this dim room, peered at by her narrowed, unadulterated glance, it would become a garment like any other. It would be given, along with the rest of the batch, to the horse-trader’s wife, and the horse-trader would in turn allow Gausen’s son to retain his steed for another month.

Any service that could be done for him was worth any length of gropings upon a darkened loom. She would have worked outside, for the day was bright – she could see that from where she sat – and it would have allowed her eyes more rest. But that would not, in this instance, do at all. Only lesser women worked outside, where the female art, the feminine struggle, for illusion failed them; where tears and stains and lines were mercilessly revealed. Better by far to shroud herself in propriety, Gausen knew.

She had not seen the subject of all her toils, the redoubt of all her hopes, for above a week. Gausen did not consider blaming her son for this; far from it. She had brought him up now; he was a man, in all, she wryly thought, but his extravagance. But that too was Drenda’s affair, not hers. He was by right, she thought in fury, a chieftain’s son; a right confirmed in oath by Ulfang himself! Why should he not live like one? It was reasonable, then, that he dwelt at Ulfang’s hall, burning with the splendour of his youth, and kept his horse, two hounds and a falcon. How her pride blazed for him then. For Drenda was beautiful, not merely to her, but to all others. He towered already among the tallest of the Ulfings. His features, which were her features, shone with grace and power. And if she had to labour in the dirt to maintain that power? Then by the gods, labour she would.

And then she heard the word, its unenthusiastic tone belying its enchanting significance, at the entrance to the hut.

The word was “Mother”.

Like a lapdog Gausen leapt from her seat, throwing back her veil, her eyes gleaming with anticipation. He had come. He never came here now, never usually. But he made an exception now. What filial piety... she ran to the threshold and embraced his tall, thin, figure, like a sapling still, she thought fondly, a handsome sapling, but no tree yet.

“Drenda...” she cried, but he endured her clutches with an ambivalent glance, and stepped uneasily out of them.

“Mother, we should talk.”

“Come in, then, come in!” But still Drenda hesitated upon the wooden doorstep. The look in his eyes moistened his mother’s. He is ashamed, now he is a great man, she thought, to enter the room where he lived as a boy.

“Drenda,” she said, summoning some of the sternness she reserved for all but her child into her voice, “it is not the feeling of a nobleman to quail at his mother’s house.”

Drenda bowed his head, surly but not wishing to argue, and stepped in. At once Gausen reproached herself. Had she been too sharp with him? Would he leave more quickly now? Had she squandered minutes with her son over a point of pride?

“Mother,” Drenda said, “have you got Father’s things? I need them.”

“Your father’s things?” Confusion mingled with relief in Gausen’s mind that Drenda had not taken offence. “The circlet of his lordship and the sword-belt of his authority? Are...are you certain you need them, my dear?”

“I’m not going to pawn or sell them, if that’s what you mean,” Drenda answered sullenly. “Yes, Mother, I need them. Things are happening fast outside your hut. There’s...there are going to be opportunities, Mother. I need all the dignity I can muster.”

But Gausen had shrunk back further into the darkness of her dwelling; partly to find the relics of her husband she had stored for fourteen years, but also to conceal the fear that spread across her face.

“Will there be war, then?” she asked quietly, her back to her son.

“I do not know for sure,” Drenda answered without emotion. “But an envoy has come from the Eldar. Whatever happens...”

“Oh, Drenda, Drenda, my boy, be careful with your life,” Gausen exclaimed, the sobs starting to conquer her soft voice, “which I have preserved with all that remained of mine.”

Drenda coughed, embarrassed. “Have you the circlet and the belt, mother? I should be present at the Hall to watch the Envoy’s reception.”

“Ay, my son, ay, my good lord,” Gausen whispered. “Take the emblems of your right, my boy, and stand tall in the hall. I know you will have no equals there.”

She passed over a bundle of black silk, laid her hand on her son’s shoulder, and stole a swift kiss from him before he left, laughing at the bristles of his fresh beard. He did not give her another look, but she listened, rapt, to the beating of his horse’s hooves as he made his way to the hall.

When they died away, she considered the news he had brought. If war was to come, she had but little time. She must see Uldor, must convince him to accept her, must solemnize their bond, before the men of the Ulfings left for the north. That way lay glory and preferment for her son.


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[Feanor of the Peredhil]

I like it. I'm pretty sure I've yet to write a legitimate bad guy. Bring on the lechery!