Treachery of Men RPG

[bill_n_sam]

Gunna cradled the warm bowl in the crook of her arm as she balanced the bread in one hand, the stone jar of ale in her other. Giving the door a shove with her foot, she called back to her sister over her shoulder. “I’m going now. I’ve banked the fire, so if the baby awakes . . . “

“I know, I know.” Mem interrupted good naturedly, her unseeing eyes staring vacantly from her pinched face, but her mouth drawn up in a mischievous smile. “If the baby wakes I’ll make sure I stir up the embers and feed the fire until the flames are higher than my head and then I’ll turn my back and pay her no mind . . . “

Gunna smiled in response. “Alright, just . . . just, take care, and I’ll be back quickly.” She stepped through the door into the spring sunshine.

“I’ll be here!” Mem chuckled softly, her hands never ceasing their labor as she deftly spun a thread as delicate as gossamer from the spindle she held in her lap.

As Gunna walked the short distance under the town’s eastern wall, from where they had their small home to where her husband had his forge, she frowned slightly. It wasn’t only her uneasiness of what might happen every time she was required to leave Mem by herself which creased her brow. The growing tension amongst the Ulfings had many of her neighbors on edge. Gunna usually tried to mind her own business and not pay too much attention to the gossip of the women. This was growing harder to do however, since the return of Ulfang’s eldest son. The reconciliation between the two had certainly taken many by surprise, including Ulfast, who had apparently nursed great ambitions of succeeding to the leadership of their people. But his brother’s recall from exile had brought those hopes into serious doubt, and now . . . and now Ulfast called upon her husband to craft a fine sword.

Well, there was nothing to be done about it, she thought resignedly. All the inhabitants of the settlement, it would seem, were being called upon in such oblique ways to cast their lots in with one or the other of Ulfang’s contentious offspring. Her husband might try to walk the knife’s edge and remain neutral, but sooner, rather than later, every man would have to declare for either Ulfast or Uldor.

Dag’s back was to her as she slipped unnoticed into the shed. As always, she spared a moment to admire the muscles spread taught over his spare frame. The strength needed to wield a hammer for hours at a time was well evident in the contours of his shoulders and neck. Sweat gleamed on his skin as the warmth of the day grew. Turning around, he caught sight of her but did not immediately hail her or stop his labors. But she could tell, from the slight relaxation of the muscles around his jaw, and the easing of his features, that he was glad of her presence. Gunna set the food and drink down carefully and waited, arms across her chest, for him to speak.

Finally reaching a point where he could safely set aside the blade, Dag carefully replaced each tool in its proper place and then crossed to his wife. His fingers traced the crease in her brow where the frown rested still. “I hope this isn’t for me.” He teased gently, a slow smile spreading over his lips.

The frown flew from her face, as his wife smiled in return. “It is – and it isn’t.”

Dag raised one eyebrow quizzically, as he reached for the bowl of food and took a seat on one of the upturned stumps which he used either as fuel or furniture, as the need arose. Ploughing a piece of bread through the thick pottage and shoveling it into his mouth, he waited patiently for her to continue.

Gunna did not sit but took a wooden cup from a shelf and poured it full of ale, handing it to Dag. “You know why I’m worried. The rumors . . . about Uldor and Ulfast. I hear more every day. I’m afraid. Afraid you’ll be caught up in all of this. Afraid that you’ll be forced to pick a side. And what if you choose the wrong son? I’ve heard . . . “

Dag spoke around a huge mouthful of food. “Have you heard yet of our visitors?”

Gunna’s frown returned. “Visitors? What visitors? No, I haven’t left the house this morning. The baby was fussy and Mem . . . “ The thoughtful look on her husband’s face brought her words to a halt as she waited for him to down half the cup of ale in one long gulp.

“Elves, from the north.” His words meant little to her but the seriousness of his tone was enough.

“Elves? What does that mean? Why are they here? What do they want? They’re here – in town?”

“They take counsel with Ulfang and his sons as we speak.” Dag replied with deliberation. “I do not know why they have come. But it may be that we’ll have larger worries than the squabbling of a chieftain’s sons to deal with soon.”

“Are there many? Have they come in peace?” Gunna asked anxiously, her nimble mind trying to grapple with the unknown factor which had just been introduced into their lives.

Dag set the empty bowl at his feet and pulled his young wife onto his lap. Wrapping his arms around her, he wished in his heart that this was all that was required of a man to protect his family from the vagaries of fate. “No, there are only two, at least, so far. I don’t know why they’re here, but it’s no secret that Ulfast pledged himself long ago to one of their kind. This is why we have been allowed to settle here, to hunt and farm without fear of attack. Perhaps now, they require the debt be honored.”

Gunna laid her head on Dag’s shoulder, feeling the calm, the reassurance she always felt when he held her. “Perhaps they are just paying their respects to our Chieftain. Perhaps they are just wanting further pledges of his continued loyalty.” She said hopefully.

“Perhaps.” Dag repeated, although the skepticism in his voice was clear. “Well,” he said, standing abruptly and setting Gunna firmly on her feet. “It’s back to the forge for me. Are you away home?”

“I thought I would drop by the house given to the Borrim for a moment. I hear they are having some sort of a feasting for their own people and are looking for some extra provisions. I thought perhaps they would welcome that wheel of fine goat cheese Mem got for the thread she sent to Belig, in exchange for some fresh meat. Belig told me the Borrim are good hunters and have fresh game practically every day.”

Dag snorted disdainfully. “What’s wrong with the meat we get from Tokr? Why do we need to trade with the northerners?”

“That last haunch of venison had maggots in it already.” Gunna explained simply. “Tokr keeps the fresher meat for himself and gives us the old. I just thought we should . . . “

Yes, yes, alright.” Dag said smiling once more and waving his hand dismissively. "I have no time for women’s concerns. Trade with who you like, but don’t be wandering all over the settlement. This visit of these elves makes me uneasy, and I don’t want you to leave Mem and the baby alone for very long.” He pulled Gunna to him quickly and kissed her forehead affectionately. “Now leave a man in peace to do his work.”

[Dimturiel]

Tora was standing outside her house, her eyes fixed on some unseen point somewhere in the distance. Her expresion was thoughtful, sad even. She wished she had something to do, something to take her mind off her thoughts. There were days when she would do nothing but work from morning until night, when she would sink into the blessed oblivion of sleep. And then there would be no time to think or to remember who she was and where she was living and in what times.

She would often hear the people talking about the troubles that they had, about the things that happened in the world outside their settlement, and she could very well realise that things were not quite right, that the world was unsafe and that something perilous was stiring. And then there were the two Elves that had arived that morning. Why were they there? No one knew clearly, or else they would not tell, not even to themselves. Some foretold great changes, yet what kind of changes? It was too much to hope that they were to be for the better. In a world like this? How could they be?

Yet it was not only the sudden intrest of the Elves in their small settlement that bothered Tora. Nor was she only troubled by the fact that things were going bad in the world. There were other things too, that clouded her mind, things that were threatening to break the composure that she had had for so long.

Tora was well known for the way she handled things. Whatever had happened to her, she had always been calm and resigned, an attitude that made many admire her. She never complained. She never wept or cursed fate shaking her fist at the merciless sky. Her way of behaving seemed grand to some, the way she seemed to be defying fate's decissions.

Yet was it really bravery and defiance what she was doing? To her it sometimes seemed that she was merely protecting herself from life's sorrows. It was easier to grind your teeth and accept destiny's ways, if only openly. It was always easier to pretend that if the world did not care much of your story then neither do you. There was nothing to admire in such attitude. It was nothing more than an act of defence against sorrow and madness.

[CaptainofDespair]

Never one to enjoy courtly procedure, Ulfang only tolerated the petty vassal-chiefs that laid about his hall. In his younger years, back in the East, it had been a necessary tool to keeping them in line, to protect his own power. But he was old now, and under the watch of the Elves. These minor ‘lords’ no longer mattered to him. His rule was law, and none would dare challenge him in his own kingdom.

Having wasted most of his day among the rabble of his court, the Ulfing chief was not pleased when he heard of the coming of the Elves. He had hoped to retire away to spend some time hunting before the darkness of night prevented him from doing so. Being so old had limited those few pleasures he did gain from the world, and to have even those taken from him by usually trivial assemblies left him prone to a good deal of anger and resentment. Though many still cowered away from him when angered, a good number of his own people recognized he was not as fearsome as he had been even a few years earlier.

When the Elves announced their presence before him, Ulfang greeted them in the most civil way he could. Even for him it would not be wise to belittle those who came on Caranthir’s behalf. Ulfang’s own minions were yet another matter. But the land he now stood on, after all, had been practically gifted to him. Despite a failing memory, the chieftain reckoned that he knew why the Elves had come. He had, after all, entered into a military pact with a Son of Fëanor. Perhaps it was that time now, for his able-bodied warriors to be called into action against the Darkness of Angband.

Stroking his grey beard, with the envoy standing before him, Ulfang posed a question. He desired to see if exactly what he thought was true. “Tell me…Lachrandir,” he said gruffly, having almost forgotten the envoy’s name. “Do you come to speak on the alliance I entered into with your lord, Caranthir?”

Before the Elves could answer, Ulfang became extremely animated without even the moment elapsing. A haggard warrior, standing guard near the entrance of the Hall, had left the door open. In his old age, it was minor infractions such as these that could set off Ulfang. His face turned red in mere seconds, and his breathing became heavy and labored. Pointing and shouting, with bits of white spittle flying from his mouth, stray droplets clinging to his beard, the chieftain ordered him removed. The court remained silent, and the chief’s sons did not even flinch in their stone-carved seats. Such outbursts had become normal. Settling back into his throne, Ulfang spoke once more to the Elves. “I apologize,” he stated, “for the lack of decorum by my people. They need a firm hand to guide them.”

[bill_n_sam]

Leaving the stone jar of ale for her husband’s thirst, Gunna gathered up the empty bowl and hurried out into the afternoon sun. Her thoughts whirled as her feet carried her through the twisted lanes that crisscrossed the Ulfing settlement. Unconsciously sidestepping the scattered piles of refuse which threatened her fine leather slippers, Gunna mulled over all that the arrival of these elves might imply for their family. The arrival of the hunters from the north had been unsettling enough, at least at first. Although distantly related, these men and women had quite definitely been regarded as strangers by most of the Ulfings. Even after a month, they were treated with at least skepticism, if not downright suspicion, by the inhabitants of the town. If it hadn’t been for Belig’s assertions that the Borrim were not so very different after all from their southern cousins, Gunna would not have dared approach the house which now lay just around this last corner.

Even holding tight in her mind to Belig’s assurances, Gunna found her stomach muscles contracting as she regarded the facade of the house which had been given over to the Borrim dignitary, his family and retainers. Belig had opined that she had seen this man, Khandr by name, and that he did not seem at all that imposing a personage to her (which she had emphasized with a sharp sniff). Gunna thought, however, that one who came seeking to bind one of Ulfang’s sons in marriage must wield some power in his own land, and in his own home, certainly. As she steeled herself to approach the residence, Gunna wondered how the women of such a house would conduct themselves, and whether she would seem coarse and common to such as these.

It was with great relief that Gunna saw the house was extended in the back by a walled in yard. Perhaps, she thought hopefully, she could enter that way and attract the attention of one of the servants, and not even be required to deal with a wife or daughter of the house. Pulling nervously to straighten out invisible wrinkles in her wool tunic, she steeled herself and stepped nervously through the open postern door in the gate.

Immediately, Gunna spied a woman pulling water from a cistern at the far side of the yard. From the woman’s garb, it was difficult for Gunna to decide whether she was servant or family, for her clothes were plain, but the cloth was of good quality. Unsure of how to address her, Gunna opted for a simple and direct, “Good day to you, mistress. I’ve come to see about bartering some cheese for fresh meat.”

The woman turned and regarded Gunna with a sharp eye. For a moment she did not speak and Gunna wondered if she had heard her. Gunna had just opened her mouth to repeat her offer, when the other said abruptly, “Goat or cow?”

Somewhat nonplussed, Gunna hesitated before realizing what the woman was asking. “Oh, oh, goat! Of a very good quality. About this size.” Gunna tucked the bowl under her arm and held her hands apart to indicate the size of the wheel. “Well ripened.” She added, the woman’s dour countenance for some odd reason compelling her to find convincing reasons for the trade. “My sister received it from one of our chieftain’s wives, in exchange for the fine thread she spins. It was she that told me that you have fine fresh meat to trade, for your feasting.” Realizing that she was virtually babbling, a rare occurrence for the usually taciturn Gunna, she abruptly shut her mouth and gazed at the ground, feeling the woman’s eyes still upon her.

“Who is this, Embla?” A second female voice, softer than the first, caused Gunna to raise her head. This other woman, who was standing in the threshold of a door leading into the house, smiled encouragingly at her, saying, “Can I be of service?”

Being so politely addressed made Gunna stammer a bit. “Y-yes, mistress. I . . . I’ve come to see . . . to see if you’d like to trade. Some cheese for some fresh game.” Gunna’s eyes darted nervously to the first woman, still not sure if she was servant or family. That one’s face had darkened as she glared at the one in the doorway. Not wishing to give offense, yet not knowing what to say, or to whom to say, Gunna once more stared down at her shoes, miserably wishing she had not been such a fool as to come here in the first place.

[Anguirel]

Caranthir's ambassador watched the Easterling leader with an impassive face, but in his mind he could not help feeling contemptuous towards the human ruler. Perhaps, as he had suspected moments before, the old Adan was in his dotage; but even so, it did not do to reveal such an indignified rage with a subordinate to an envoy of one's overlord. Lachrandir kept his features immobile as Ulfang raved at the hapless guard, the Elf's eyes fixed, staring without deviation at the empty stone chair. He saw, with a hint of amusement, that young Tathren had adopted the same tactic.

When the choleric old barbarian appeared to have settled down, muttering his apologies, Lachrandir inclined his head slightly.

"Very well, friend. May we proceed to business? You were right to remember the accord you signed as a vassal of the Lord Caranthir. The time has come to fulfil your vows."

Ulfang's greying brows brindled slightly. It was unlikely, perhaps, Lachrandir reflected, that he enjoyed being referred to as a vassal in front of his nobles. He decided to make a more deliberate effort towards courtesy.

"You must be aware that our armies have been strained for some time by the onslaught of the Enemy," he continued. "My master has determined that the security of all our lands, the lands of Men and Elves, must be defended, likewise, by Men and Elves. I come with a summons, my lord Ulfang, a summons to muster your forces directly you can prepare suitable numbers."

Lachrandir produced Caranthir's missive, a roll of silvery vellum bound with a loop of grey Elven-twine; he had previously transferred it from his other possessions and slipped it inside his cloak. The eyes of Ulfang as he saw the letter seemed to encapsulate contradictory emotions; a little excitement, even lust in its sharpest form; but weariness also, the Elf thought. If mortals curdle in age, then this one is surely nigh on rotten and beyond use.

A pause hung for half a minute or so, before Lachrandir pressed a little further. "Shall I read it to your lordship?"

"I can read it for myself," the old man answered, half muttering, half growling.

"Of course," Lachrandir said carefully, "but it is the custom for the herald of a lord to read it to the lord's vassal first." Vassal. Again he had dropped a dangerous word, but in his irritation he had felt the Man could profit from such a reminder.

"I know the custom," Ulfang said quietly, "but in any case, we ought to wait."

Lachrandir was puzzled now, and nigh on exasperation. Was this some absurd superstition among the Easterlings, that a letter could not be read before twilight, or something similar? Tathren glanced at him, and to his annoyance it seemed to him that the younger Elf was attempting to calm him.

"You see, this empty chair," Ulfang explained, faltering somewhat, "and these two full ones. You can see that my third son, that my son, my third son, is not yet here."

Silence settled again, before the chieftain continued to elucidate.

"Uldor. My son Uldor. I will not have Lord Caranthir's letter read until he is here,"

"I see," Lachrandir replied. "Well, could it not be arranged that..."

But the chieftain was unexpectedly rearing himself up off his leaden throne. His head was still scarcely on a level with Lachrandir's, but in his moment of uncharacteristic decision he seemed altogether taller and firmer.

"Ulwarth!" he barked, and the corpulent occupant of the left-hand throne got up. Ulfang nodded with a grim smile.

"That's more like it. Go and find Uldor, lad. We can't keep Master...Lachrandir here waiting, can we?"

"Ay," Ulwarth muttered, and retired, his mail clanging, from the hall, swiftly loping out with bitterness on his unsightly face. The Elves refrained from watching him go.

"You have been standing for too long," the chieftain remarked, his tone now measured, even merry. "Guards! Stop idling and bring Caranthir's messengers some seats, now!"

[Celuien]

The guards, not wishing to fall under Ulfang's capricious wrath, hurried to obey their lord's command. Two chairs, shabbily cushioned in fading red velvet, were brought forward from behind a screen and gently placed behind the Elves. Very carefully, for the aged chieftain was watching for carelessness as a cat stalks its prey, and the jarring sound of too quickly dropped chairs against the elm covered floor would surely disturb Ulfang's thin veneer of good humor again.

Such concerns mattered little to Ulfast. His eyes followed Ulwarth in his passage from the hall, and he glowered from his stone chair. The court waited yet again upon Uldor's ease. The lazing fool. Ulfast held him in contempt, and that distaste now spread to his father for his dependence on his eldest son. Why must we wait? Does Uldor rule here, or do you? Ulfast longed to give voice to the thought.

"Aye. You have been kept waiting on your feet too long. Please, be seated. I am sure my brother will join us shortly, if he does not sleep the morning away." Ulfast laughed, and the sound echoed merrily in the timbers as though the jest had been genuine, but there was no mirth in his eyes. Ulfang glared, and the threat of another outburst brought a palpable tension to the room. Cursing himself for his weakness, Ulfast turned from his father's gaze, and calm returned.

"Well. Since we cannot yet speak of serious matters, perhaps we can talk of other things. Tell me, Master Lachrandir, how did you find your journey?"

[Anguirel]

Though the discourse between the Elvish delegation and Ulfang was one thwart with awkward silences, the restive Ulfing court was not over concerned with precedence, and a gradual hum of talking, drinking, and quarrelling reasserted itself throughout the hall. Guards and petty nobles alike came and went, both through the main gates and through entries at the side, without any fuss. None of the lordlings bothered bringing weapons, and by the same token none of the guards bothered searching them, though occasionally one of the hopeful circleted incomers, out of favour, would be roughly turned away without an explanation.

Among the new arrivals was a group of young bloods, seventeen years old at most. Their regalia was bright with polish, their voices were loud, brash, and confident, and their developing beards waxed into as coherent a form as possible. The young men were the very acme and exaggeration of the insecurity that characterised the cowed nobility as a whole.

Among this band was Drenda, son of Drenduld, and last hope, all-absorbing love, of his mother Gausen. Of the gang he stood tallest - indeed he was among the tallest men in the hall - but his features betrayed definite unease, and he seemed made self-conscious by his height. He spoke but rarely, leaving it to more comfortable, more powerful, companions to prattle and waste words.

The truth was, Drenda was a nobody, and standing in this assembly of ragged chiefs was a potentially vast risk. He possessed no land. He ruled no tribe. He was a chieftain's son, but not a full chieftain, by order of Ulfang's decree; but so were all manner of base-born men, if they could buy the title.

Yet he was his father's heir by right! A right robbed, he thought with hatred, by Ulfast, son of Ulfang, who sat yonder; the slayer of his father...

That was why he was here. That was why he paid not a whit of attention to his companions, and kept his gaze fixed on the lofty Elves, the scowling Chieftain, the tentative politics. Drenda was mortal, he well knew; but he meant to build his fortunes if war came; to win distinction, reclaim his lands and settle a long over-due score, on behalf of a father he had never known.

Ulfang was a dotard, Ulwarth a frowning fool. Ulfast was his foe. That left Uldor only, even if Drenda distrusted him, and disapproved of the attentions Ulfang's heir occasionally paid to his mother. He would enter Uldor's service, and set himself upon a path that would make the name of Drenda great.