Treachery of Men RPG

[Anguirel]

“Every reasonable man is afraid when he goes to war. But going to war with these people... I don’t know which I would fear more, the enemy or these people around me,” Fastarr had concluded decisively.

Lachrandir allowed the words to hang in the air forsome moments, but it was quite obvious that he intended to reply to them. His brows had creased and his eyes were filled with a deep fire; the very stamp of disapproval lay on his face.

"Master Fastarr," he said at last, "there are some Elves at the court from which I come who would take your words as proof of all the weakness of Men; that we should never have accepted your tribes into our lands; that you are a feckless race given to squabbling amongst yourselves.

"I do not myself believe such ill of your kind," Lachrandir continued with a wry smile, "and I remember that the Elves, too, have had their bitter feuds and divisions. But such arguments are still the material Morgoth's agents love to use."

The Elven envoy looked Fastarr squarely and determinedly in the eye. "Your peoples must unite, whatever misgivings, or else become vassals of Orcs. These are difficult times, and no one can be allowed the luxury of infighting. As I speak older and worse quarrels than yours with the Ulfings are being dealt with; the Sons of Feanor have even sent a messenger to Doriath. Men must likewise muster and fight together."

The Elf shrugged. "If you would still rather hurry North, I am sure it can be arranged. But truth be told, I think you Borrim would be of great help here. I have seen the rifts between the sons of Ulfang, and the muster may be slow work; I would be gratified, as would my lord, if you stayed to help arrange it."

[Durelin]

Retreating from the walls of her thankfully temporary chambers, Jord walked quickly without seeming as if she were hurrying, the slight train her midnight blue dress following her steps, and she held her head high without looking at anyone she passed. And no one dared look at her. Even the people in the streets knew she was their better, though they did not know how far beyond their imagination her powers extended. So utterly clueless.

Not one of them realized how useless their deeds were, and few of them how useless their very existence was. Those that forfeited their lives for some ideal or ruler did not count among the observant, though Jord had to admit they were welcome losses. She enjoyed the little wars the creatures, especially the mortal ones, put on, but too often they got in the way of her plans and, more importantly, her Master's plans.

Currently, though, mortals and immortals alike were playing into her hand quite well. Hopefully the swarthy little man she had given more coins to than likely he had ever had at one time in his life would come through with something. If he did he would prove more useful than that dolt servant of Uldor’s. Well, she could not expect the thing that served such a small mind to have much to him at all.

Jord had to keep him close, though – almost as close as Uldor. And as long as she held on to him, he would prove a useful tool for disposing of the Ulfings once her Master was through with them. The starkly dressed woman heard the crunching of footsteps on the dry dirt road too near her for comfort. Her skin tingled slightly with disgust and annoyance. Stopping suddenly and turning in one graceful movement, Jord’s eyes fell on a woman whose appearance was slightly out of place, almost in the same way as Jord’s body was, with her pale skin.

The young woman was dressed almost as crudely as any of the Ulfings in the pathetic excuse for a city, but she wore a number of jewelry items, and so it was clear she was not actually a native. The only significant visitors other than the Elves were Borrim, and Jord doubted any insignificant ones would be able to walk around with even extremely simple jewelry, much less risk it. But then, the young woman did not look like the Borrim, either.

Transforming her piercing glare to a soft smile, Jord eyed the girl. Yes, she had seen her before…several times. Was she often there on purpose?

“Are you looking for something, my dear…and I could perhaps help you?” There was no reason for Jord to scare this little thing off yet. Besides, she always had better luck with the females having useful minds.

[Mithalwen]

Tathren's humour had been improved by having been fed - while the fare might have been a little rustic by the standards of an elven lord, the bread and cheese were wholesome and unexpectedly very palatable. To a boy with the perpetual hunger of younglings of all races, it was as welcome as any ornate feast and perhaps more so, for after a long journey or a wearisome day there is no desire to savour intricate dainties and simple food offers the greater comfort.

The rich red wine was potent enough to relax his body if not his tongue and each sip eased the tension of his hours still and silent attendance on his lord in the Ulfing Hall. He spoke little other than to accept food and acknowledge those who filled his cup, partly from awkwardness at his previous outburst but mainly because Lachrandir and Khandr spoke of high matters about which he had no further insight to offer, other than perhaps to observe that his master who had been so lordly in the Ulfing hall now was almost genial amoung the Borrim.

The suggested hunt caught his imagination and he longed to ask more about what was proposed. He knew little of the ways of men and wondered in what manner they hunted - on foot or on horseback, with hawk or hound. The latter was most likely if they hoped to fill the larders of their folk and gazehound likelier still. However he felt his curiosity was frivolous in the light of the more serious matters and without an easy cue he did not trust his limited skill in the mannish tongue to reopen the subject without seeming too crass. He would wait and maybe when they eventually took their leave of their hosts, a polite enquiry might heal any bad feeling Khandr might bear him from his close encounter with the boy's knife.

[CaptainofDespair]

Brodda had, after some searching, found the Borrim hovel where the Elves were spending their time. Although he was eager to get the ordeal over, as he discovered rather recently within himself an increasingly spiteful view of the Ulfing overlords, he was also quite hesitant. If he fouled up the invitation, the Elves might reject the feast. Or at the very least the Elves would not be the gracious guests they were busy trying to project. Either way, that would bring Uldor’s wrath down on his head.

He continued to pace outside frantically. The sort of emotions that were welling up within him were not exactly ones he was accustomed to. And anyone who might have seen him might have assumed he was stricken by the thoughts of a lover and was desperately awaiting her. That assumption might not have been far from what poor Brodda was feeling. His impatience was at least partly tied to a longing to see Jord again. He wasn’t sure why he desired that, though.

At last the Ulfing man made up his mind about what to do. Since he would be entering a Borrim abode he could simply hand off the message to one of them, and as the hosts they would relay it to the Elven party. And, Brodda thought, he would be able to project his hateful position towards those hosts without repercussions from Uldor. “Yes,” he hissed under his breath, as he knocked on the door.

When the door opened a crack after a moment or two of silence, Brodda could see a Borrim man standing in the sliver of light that escape the house. “Yes? Who is there,” was the questioning response to his knocking. “Brodda. I’ve come from Lord Uldor with a message for your guests.” The Ulfing let his distaste for the Borrim slip out subtly. Handing over the invitation letter, he added, “Be sure to take it to them quickly. If I find out that you have delayed at all in doing so, I will be sure to inform my master that it was you uncultured Borrim that caused it.” Turning on his heel, without waiting for a reply, he left the threshold of the home to venture off to find Jord, who he was sure was more important to Uldor and himself than the Elves.

[Anguirel]

"Another banquet?" Lachrandir asked dryly as he perused the note Khandr's doorkeeper had passed on to him.

"We are evidently in demand, Tathren. Uldor has summoned us to attend his table. A strange phrase, that; a little premature. Still, we had better be off."

Lachrandir rose from his seat with remarkable lightness, and inclined his head slightly towards Khandr. "We shall see you at this hunt, then, no doubt, especially as the boy seems so eager..." His jocular reference to Tathren was evidently a sign of some softening towards his host.

His impression of the Borrim bore some resemblance to a lump of honeycomb with a fly stuck in it, he meditated. Much of what he approved of in Men could be found in them; but on the other hand, this constant bickering about tribal affairs...

And for that matter, he continued to be stymied by the idea that a man as apparently genial and proper as Khandr could...love? or just lie with?...two women at once. Lachrandir realised he had heard nothing from the quiet, junior wife all evening. Where was she now; attending to some task? He was irritated by her absence, for he would have liked to balance his earlier courtesy to the first wife by bidding her some kind of farewell. No matter.

While he had been lost in his reflections Tathren had been bandying a few words about the expected hunt. He smiled; the lad now seemed content and in fine fettle, probably due to the food inside him.

"Come, Tathren," he said, mirth at the sides of his mouth, feeling as if he was hailing a hound. "And good-bye, Khandr, good-bye to all this household. We will return soon enough..."

All but yanking Tathren by the arm, Lachrandir took his leave by the darkened entrance that had caused so much trouble, and recalled the Ulfing's earlier directions, which, reversed, should lead them back to the Hall.

[Lalaith]

“Are you looking for something, my dear…and I could perhaps help you?”
Embla was startled that this exquisite creature had addressed her so courteously. It was, she realised, a very long time since anyone had spoken to her in such a way. “I do not know,” she stammered. “I am Embla, of the Bairka....of the Borrim, I should say. Wife of the lord Khandr.” She wished to make a good impression on the mysterious woman before her. She was painfully aware that her own shabby apparel and appearance cut a sorry figure, next to the elegant poise of the other woman, enveloped in delicate gauze.

Embla had been staring at the ground, but now she looked up, and found the dark woman held her glance. Somehow, she felt compelled to stop the dissemblance. “Second wife,” she said. “It is not honourable. Not among my people. Nor among the tall people, the elf-folk, neither. Their lord would not speak to me, he does not find the marriage ways of the Borrim to his liking. No more do I. I am shamed. So shamed that I want to remain in shadow. I find it hard to walk under the sun.”

Embla, so accustomed to keeping her own counsel, did not understand why she was suddenly blurting out the dark things in her heart. Perhaps she hoped this woman would be a sympathetic ear, someone whose situation was akin to her own.

[Mithalwen]

The invitation to "another banquet" dismayed Tathren, for his hunger had been not so great as he had imagined. This realisation arrived with the missive, when he already eaten more than his need and drunk to often from a cup that never seemed less full. He was aware that he rose to his feet less gracefully than his lord and this was not entirely due to the need to raise the heavy, and nearly forgotten bag of treasure to his shoulder.

Lachrandir's tug on his arm was as sobering as the cool breath of the evening air. Tathren struggled a little to match his master's longer stride and watched his face for signs that his conduct had fallen below that required of a page. He detected only a trace of amusement and no ire on Lachrandir's face and deemed that nothing he had done, or said in the unfamiliar tongue had been beyond the pale. That knowledge eased his heart but each step carried him nearer to another feast and did nothing to ease the sensation within as too much cheese mingled uneasily with too much rich wine. He wondered how little he could consume of the Ulfing's vittles without giving grave offence and disliked the conclusion he inevitably reached. His only hope, and it was slight, was that Ulfing custom might regard him as a servant, required only to attend his master not to eat at the same table.

He stifled a sigh and resigned to an uncofortable fate, voiced a line of thought that had just occured to him:

"Uncle, is it not strange that the Borrim Lord has not been invited also to the Ulfing's table. For is he not an emissary of his people as we... I mean you are? Surely the office demands the courtesy even if he be representative of a lesser kindred? Of course the Borrim kept their gathering private... perhaps thus is the way of mortals" he mused.