Treachery of Men RPG

[Gwathagor]

At the sound of the hoofbeats, Jord had fled the bloody meadow on pale shadow-wings, leaving no trace of her presence save the slaughtered corpse of Lachrandir. High she flew now, high above the clouds and human sight, as silent as death, back to the village. It was well begun now, well set in motion. As far as she knew, Lachrandir's had been the sole remaining voice which could turn Uldor's ear from her own counsel. With he and Khandr dead, the path to Uldor seemed clear. With a few deft twists and squeezes, she would soon have him doing her will - it did not matter whether he knew it or not.

The murders would serve a double purpose. Not only had they eliminated the chief obstacles to her goal, but they could now be used to foster further contention, distrust, and infighting among these dirty humans.

Jord dropped straight down out of the sky with the speed of a thunderbolt, and landed with perfect grace on the high roof of the Great Hall - all without making a sound. It was the work of a moment for her to slip over the edge of the roof and through the window into her chamber. Almost immediately, sharp pains began to wrack her body as her god-like bat-form diminished and dwindled, losing its claws and wings and fear-inspiring presence. She cringed, and not just from the pain; she had remembered how much she enjoyed being a vampire.

As soon as she had crossed back over into that wretched human-form, she would put on a new dress.

The one she was wearing was dirty.

[Lalaith]

Embla’s natural impulse was to succumb to hysterical panic – to sink to her knees and bury her face in the ground to get away from all the horror. But as she fell, there was something that forced her to stay in focus. It came – a vision, a fissure of clarity - trying to fight its way to the surface of her consciousness. “Fastarr...” at first she was whispering his name, then it turned into a hoarse, desperate scream, and she clutched feverishly at his tunic. “Khandr is dead. I can see him. They have killed him too. Oh Fastarr, please, let us run....” She kept talking, babbling insanely, hoping that somehow, the words would build a wall between them and the deadly threat hovering over them.
Fastarr looked at her blindly, as if he did not understand. He simply pulled her to her feet, stared at her, and because of the growing bond between them she instantly understood that it was time for action not words. Together, hand in hand, they ran frantically deeper into the forest. The horses they so desperately sought were gone - driven by their natural beast-like instincts to flee from the terror of Morgoth. Now the couple were alone amid the darkness of the trees, and danger was close behind them.

[Mithalwen]

It seemed to Tathren that his heart rose in his chest stopping his throat from uttering more even if he could: he could hear its pounding as the beat of mighty wings. His dark hair fell about his face as he knelt over his lord's body but it could not conceal that he was weeping; the sobs that broke from him convulsed his slight frame. Though his voice had been quenched by tears, words coursed through his mind, words that every Noldo knew even if they had not been alive to hear them, even if they defied them:

Tears unnumbered ye shall shed;.. not even the echo of your lamentation shall pass over the mountains. On the House of Feanor the wrath of the Valar lieth from the West unto the uttermost East, and upon all that will follow them it shall be laid also. Their Oath shall drive them, and yet betray them, To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well; and by treason of kin unto kin, and the fear of treason, shall this come to pass.

Betrayal, Treason. He thought of Lachrandir's desperate last message as his tears mingled with the blood that had stained the star of Feanor on the elf-lord's breast.

Ye have spilled .. blood .., unrighteously ... For blood ye shall render blood,

He gazed at the vicious wounds on Lachrandir's neck .... what instrument could have done this? The man and woman who had led him away seemed unarmed but perhaps they had concealed some dreadful weapon. Lachrandir's own blade was half drawn but unstained, and so keen-edged were the knives of the Noldor that one stroke would have sufficed. His master's neck had been pierced in many places, yet he with his elven swiftness had been unable to make even a single strike in defence.

He touched the wounds horrified yet fascinated, so much blood ... how could he have relished the prospect of the hunt? Now he knew what death really looked like. Though his father and blood-uncle had been slain at the Dagor Bragollach, their was a remoteness about their deaths that his child's mind had filled with glorious notions of heroism and valour. Never had he imagined that the death of a great warrior, a Companion of Caranthir no less, could be as mundane as slaughtering a beast.

.. ye shall dwell in Death's shadow... slain ye may be, and slain ye shall be: by weapon and by torment and by grief; and your houseless spirits shall come then to Mandos. There long shall ye abide and yearn for your bodies, and find little pity

He wept not only for the lord he had called Uncle and loved more than the one who had held more right to the title - whose conviction that his brother's lad was a milksop would not have been dimmed had he been able to observe him now - but the father he had lost before he really had the chance to know him. A craftsman by choice and a warrior by force he had become an exile through a loyalty to his own brother that the kinslaying had strained but not quite broken, and though guiltless shared his doom. He had passed to his son a greater reverence for the Valar than was held by most of his kindred in Middle Earth. So though he had no expectation that he might be heard on the edges of the world by the one who might offer pity, in his heart he invoked the vala Nienna and made her an offering of his grief, in the hope she would show her compassion to those he loved who were now in Mandos' keeping.

Whether by the intercession of the Lady of Mourning or no, his own tears subsided and he looked up to see the other hunters regarding him with ..... what? He had not yet learnt to read these mortals; but he guessed that they wished to be away from this place of death.

"I'm not leaving him, I did not stay with him and he died" he said at last. "I will not leave him now." . Then, on this occasion able to comprehend the bafflement in their faces he repeated it in a language they understood.

[Folwren]

The boy-elf wept bitterly. Uldor had carried no conception of the relative youth of Tathren until this moment, as he knelt above his fallen master. He understood his strange emotions even less than he understood the language in which Tathren addressed him by eventually.

“I am not leaving him,” he finally told the men standing around. “I did not stay with him and he died. I will not leave him now.”

Uldor stepped forward, and opened his mouth, about to ask ‘Will your remaining with him change anything now?’, but respect for the dead and the obvious grief for him kept him quiet. Instead, he changed his words to, “Very well. Two of the servants will stay with you. We will return and send a wain to bear him back in.”

Without waiting for any sign or answer, Uldor strode away.

What did this mean? Who killed him? Why was he killed? This could ruin all of his plans. What could he do now? What word could he send back to Lord Caranthir? What to the Great Lord Morgoth?

His fist clenched viciously at his side. This was a nasty turn of events for him and he knew it very well indeed.

“Ulfast, lord Lachrandir has been killed,” Uldor snapped when he reached his horse. He jerked the reins out of his squire’s hands and mounted impatiently. “We must return home at once.”

“How was he killed?” Ulfast questioned.

“How the blazes am I to know?” Uldor snarled. He glared at his brother, before turning his horse about to face his attendants. Two of them he told to go and stay with Tathren and the fallen elf. The rest he informed abruptly that the hunt was over and they were returning to the settlement.

[Mithalwen]

Tathren watched Ulfast for a moment as he went back the way they had come. For a while he would be alone with his master. He surveyed the Lachrandir's body, a distorted tangle of limbs, head cast back at an unnatural angle giving full view of the wounds on his neck. It was unbearable to see him thus. The image would ever after be vivid in his mind but he did not immediately register that the posture was one of someone who had fallen to the ground from a height rather than his own feet. Not yet capable of rational thought, Tathren followed some instinct to restore some of the the elf lord's dignity.

He gently manoeuvred the corpse so it lay straight, folded Lachrandir's long. slender hands on his breast so they rested on the Star of Feanor. He folded his cloak and placed it under Lachrandir's head.

Feeling the warmth fade from the emissary's body caused tears to rise again in the boy's eyes. He wiped his face with his sleeve and then remembered he had a clean kerchief in his pocket, an ignored token of his mother's solicitude. He refolded the dark blue cloth on the diagonal and tucked into the neck of Lachrandir's tunic it served to conceal his wounds.

Tathren stood and was satisfied with the result. He might almost be asleep he thought, save that there is no life in his eyes. It had not occured to the elf to close them.

He heard movement behind him and turned expecting to see the servants Uldor had promised. They were approaching but were preceded by Lachrandir's great grey stallion. Tathren did not know whether he had sought his master or just the company of the colt but neither beast had recoiled or fled and flanked the boy as he stood at the elf lord's feet. The young elf acknowledged the servant's arrival with a nod but did not speak and whether through respect or fear they dared not disturb his silent vigil with question or condolence.

[littlemanpoet]

“Ulfast, lord Lachrandir has been killed,” Uldor snapped as he mounted. “We must return home at once.”

That familiar hardening twinged in his gut in response to Uldor acting as if he had the right to command him. But Ulfast had a question.

"How was he killed?"

"How in blazes am I to know?" Uldor had asnwered hotly, and gave orders here and there as if Ulfast did not exist.

"Uldor, dear brother, you have no right to order my men about in my presence. Tell me what you want to do and I'll order my men."

Uldor favored him with a disgusted look and rode ahead.

Ulfast cursed. This was not going well. With each day it seemed that Uldor took a firmer grip of command, threatening to leave him as an afterthought. Ulfast cursed some more. He would regret it! He thought that he had the right to rule from father Ulfang, but Ulfast knew better. He and Jord had had words, close words, and he had been assured that Lord Morgoth looked upon him as the more favorable next lord of the Ulfings. The Great One had suggested that there would be rich reward in lands much greater and finer than these rough woods where they now lived. And he had hinted that this Jord would be his queen to own and give greater legitimacy to his claim as overlord of all Men in Beleriand. All he had to do was bide his time, and give command to his men in battle to turn against the arrogant Elves, and Morgoth and Jord would see to it that Uldor was taken out of the way and all the reward would go to him.

Where was Jord? Ulfast wanted to see her again. His mouth went dry and he licked his lips. He kicked his mount harder, urging it back to the hall.

[Gwathagor]

Jord stepped out of her room and shut the door behind her quietly. Then, with surprising quickness and lightness of foot, she glided down the flight of stairs leading to the main floor of the hall, and paused briefly at the bottom. She listened for a moment to reassure herself that her return had indeed been unnoticed, and then stalked out into the main hall. There, among the many-shadowed pillars near the great front doors she waited still and silent, unnoticed by the soldiers and villagers who intermittently passed through, going about their daily tasks.

Uldor and Ulfast would soon be back from their little hunt. Boyish games, she thought. Childish shows of power. Power! To kill a dumb animal! Ha! Jord laughed long and low. All their days were spent grappling for power, (like jackdaws after bits of broken glass, she thought) and yet they knew nothing of the thing they sought. Not as she knew it.

She would wait for them there, to speak with them when they returned from their hunt-game. There were new developments; the time was nearing. With her power restored to her, Jord felt that she could hasten the end of her labor in that petty, wretched little sty.

The great doors swung open suddenly with a long drawn out moan of rusty hinges, and Uldor strode in, followed closely by Ulfast and the hunting party. Ulfing guards held the heavy doors until all had entered, then shut them with a boom. Jord noticed that even once they were inside, the guards remained unusually close by the two princes, and whispered among themselves, casting furtive glances into the shadows. Extra torches were lit and placed in wall sockets, and guards were posted near all the doors. Something had them worried, and Jord knew full well that she was responsible. Let them worry! she thought. She had no desire to kill either Uldor or Ulfast. Not yet, anyway.

Jord stepped forward into the torch-light. Ulfast saw her first, and stopped where he stood, staring at her dumbly. She tilted her head and smiled slightly, then beckoned him over.