Treachery of Men RPG

[piosenniel]

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.

[piosenniel]

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.

[piosenniel]

Nogrod's post


It was getting dark as Fastarr came back to his tent. He lit the greaselamp and took off the boots he had worn all day. The stench was bad enough. Slowly he streched out and dropped the boots between the first and second linen walls of the tent. Then he got up and took the lamp into the tent itself. Even though the rugs on the ground were thick they felt a bit cold to the feet. The spring seemed to have taken a few steps back.

Fastarr took a couple of the firewood and lit a small fire. Only after the fire started dancing did he took his belt and scimitar away. It was a bliss to be on one’s own after a busy day. The kettle he had put on the fire started hissing slowly, marking that something was happening but that there was no hurry whatsoever. Lazily he studied his stores to find some tea, honey and wine. Ah, the water is almost used. I should get some more. It’s easier to do it now than as a first thing in the morning... Well, not just now...

The water boiled. He added similar amount of wine into the water and waited for the right sound to emerge from the kettle. Then he put some leaves to his cup and carved a piece of solid honey to join them. As the wine-water was about to boil, he poured it over the leaves and honey and put them aside to steep. The sweet and comfortable fragrance spreaded all over the tent and took him over.

Fastarr laid on his back waiting for the tea. Why is Khandr still waiting? Can’t he see that this is not going to work? Too much power-play, too little love, I say. We should go home the first thing tomorrow. I should tell him that. And all these rumours, and the Ulfings in the first place... What do we do here? We should be with our own kin if something does happen, not here among strangers who wish us no good...

He was feeling so nice and lazy laying down on the rugs that had only started to warm up under his body that he had to really make an effort to sit back up again and take the tea before it would get cold. The air outside really felt chilling right now. But the cup happily was still hot and the scent of the drink filled his head. It was indeed hot enough to burn his mouth so he sipped it carefully, turning the cup around between his fingers as not to burn his hands. He could feel the warmth of the drink going down his throat all the way to his stomach. Life’s little luxuries this is... this surely is...

It surely had been a busy day. From the early morning onwards Fastarr had been on the move. First he had taken Khandr’s and his wifes horses to an outing in the surrounding countryside. They had made a good sport of it and the horses seemed to be happy with it, as usual. After the lunch he had walked around trying to hear what people were talking, making a few discussions with the locals himself too. That was not something he especially liked but he was told to do so and so he had to do it. There was lots of talk, lots of ranting and lots of just mere boasting. There was nothing he could report Khandr about, if not for the overall tension and talk of evil that clearly surpassed his taste in quantity as well as quality, even if it was just joking. Maybe it was just the way these Ulfings were?

In the afternoon Briga had asked him to join her on her way to the market and he had made her company. Even though it had ended him carrying all the stuff she had wished to buy, he liked Briga. She was a Borrim-lady of the house with all the qualities and good to her husband’s retainers. Fastarr had nothing to complain. But shopping with ladies were a lot of work.

The evening had went with a lengthy bargain with a local smith who was trying to take a preposterous payment for the little work of changing one of Hengst’s horseshoe and changing some worn parts of the bridles. He had actually managed to settle the dispute to a reasonable level but was more than angry afterwards. It was near he ran over a couple of kids that called him, the foreigner, names when he was getting down the street with Hengst towards their place.

But still he had had to take a tour on the local inns to hear the latest. There had been nothing new tonight. Just the usual gloating and whispering outside the hearing of the stranger. No one was friendly and Fastarr saw no reason to be friendly either.

The tea run out soon enough. Fastarr took the last draught of it and got slowly up. He went to his bed and draw the quilt over him. Different persons he had met today whirled through his mind. Embla... she was one of the Bairka, one of those who had turned his life into a misery a long time ago and now she was there everyday to remind him of it. And still it was unsettling to him. But it was not just hate he felt.

[piosenniel]

Lalaith's post

Embla stirred the fire and smiled to herself. It was not a very pleasant smile.
Briga, the senior wife - the hag, as she privately called her - had lit this fire in the hearth, and then told her to tend it. She, proud daughter of the Bairka, had obeyed - but she had her revenge. Small, unimportant victory, but sweet nevertheless.

Open conflict was not her method. After all, Khandr, her husband…she clenched her jaw in anger at this last word, now so empty of any meaning it had carried in her girlish dreams. In those days, she imagined she would wed according to the customs of her people. A hand-fasting with a young man of her own choosing, each cleaving solely to the other. Yes, in open conflict, her “husband”, Khandr would take, as always, the hag’s part.

When her worthless father had sold her into what she regarded as little better than concubinage, she was horrified. But she at least imagined her existence would be soft and pampered - that the ageing husband would dote on his new young bride. Inexplicably, her youth seemed to hold little allure for Khandr. Instead, he clung to the familiar, middle-aged comforts offered by the hag. His infrequent visits to Embla’s tent were due to his longing for a son, not for her nubile charms.

So, when ordered to sit by the hearth, Embla made sure her retort had nothing to do with the task at hand, nothing to which Briga could reasonably object. You will not choke on big words and pig fat, sister wife, she said grinning. The older woman was discomfited, Embla could tell, and puzzled. Was this perhaps a curse or insult among the Bairka? Then Embla gazed deep into the fire, rubbed her ear-lobes, touched the skin beneath her eye and muttered dark and obscure words.
Axe-time, sword-time, shields are sundered,
After the wolf do wild men follow.

Embla knew well that her people had a somewhat mysterious and even oracular reputation among the Borrim. And now this gave her great satisfaction – the older woman looked distinctly alarmed, and left the room hastily. Of course, it did not take much to unsettle or intimidate Briga at this time. None of the Borrim were comfortable in their current surroundings. None except Embla herself. She was used to living in an alien, hostile environment – she had, after all, been doing so since her marriage. In fact, she rather enjoyed observing the discomfiture of the rest of the party - her husband, the hag, and those two doltish hunters - watching them feel as unwelcome, as wary, as ill at ease as she herself had always been since she first arrived among the Borrim.

As for her menacing pronouncements….Embla smirked again. Many of the women in her family did indeed have the sight. She remembered well the gestures of the Bairka sybils, and the kind of words they spoke when their visions came upon them, and she knew how sinister they could be. But she also knew enough about the sight to know that her Eye – if she did possess the gift - was too clouded by hate and anger to reveal any real truths.

[piosenniel]

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.

[piosenniel]

Fordim Hedgethistle's post:


Laylah ran ahead pulsing with the excitement of the hunt, silent in anticipation of the kill. They had tracked the buck for leagues and now it was close. Hunta could smell its spoor himself and hardly needed his companion’s more sensitive nose now, but after her many hours faithful labour he could not deny her. He swept through the low brush with no more sound than the wind, his rapid footfalls little more than the scurrying of small animals through the brush. They came to the edge of a clearing and pulled themselves close to the ground. The buck was standing now, his great brown head with its tall antlers erect and alert.

Their quarry was cunning. He had come to the field to flush out his hunters, to force them into the open where he could see them better and know what he should do. Hunta smiled and stroked Laylah’s thick neck. She acknowledged his hand with a low whimper and turned her head to lick his hand. Her lips were pulled back revealing long teeth, and her short golden coat stood up in a long ridge down her back. “Good girl,” he told her. “That was a good run and a fine pursuit.” Laylah merely returned her gaze to the buck; she knew there was still work to do. They began slowly to track their way around the edge of the clearing, looking for a place where Hunta could loose his bow.

The buck stirred and stamped his hoof, looking at the woods for the predators that he knew lurked within, but he could neither smell nor hear anything. He knew they were still there with the instinct of the hunted, but he was an old and wise in the ways of the forest and kept his head where a younger animal would have panicked and fled. A noise came to his ears which twitched and swivelled the better to hear. Lifting his head he heard the sound of fast approach, and the calls of musical voices in the air. He turned and fled toward the forest, and there came a sudden shaft from the side. Too late he tried to flinch and it buried itself in his flank, bringing agonising pain with every stride. He crashed into the forest wall and ran on into the trees, but the pain mounted with each step and he could feel something wet and hot running down his legs.

Hunta cursed foully the ill fortune of the hunt – and the riders who had so stupidly thundered past the clearing. His wonderment at their appearance and bearing was overcome by his anger. His shot had merely wounded the buck, meaning many more hours of tracking through the woods looking for his prey. The arrow had struck deep and hard and though the buck did not know it yet, it was already dead. But Hunta felt sick at the thought of the great beast wandering in pain and bewilderment, only to be dispatched at the end of struggle with a knife through the throat. It had deserved a cleaner death.

Calling Laylah to him he followed the blood trail back into the forest.

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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.