The King's Players RPG

[Boromir88]

Branor agreed with Brinn's plan for the day to start dress rehearsal today, but was glad she was giving the troupe some free time. "Good plan, Brinn. I was thinking of saying the same thing myself. I had hoped for a chance to see the city some more, but we must not forget we are here to do a play. Well then, since you do not require my presense at the moment, I will take this time now to explore the city. And if I get the chance, I will try to find out how much interest and excitement there is for the show. Do not miss me too much, I'll be back before rehearsals"

He started to leave the rest of the players, but then he stopped to remind everyone not to start rehearsals without him. He could have sworn he heard more than a few grumbles, and sighs, of "We know."

Now Branor was about to leave, for real this time, when a friendly face approached. "Now here is a familiar face! It's good to see you again, Amdil!" Branor ignored the man's correction, for the man's name was Amdir, not Amdil. "You know the city well. I am going out as I desire to see what is new in Minas Anor. This glowing jewel of a city is always changing, is it not? What do you say about showing me around some? I would appreciate having a guide. I will even be able to get you a prime seat to our performance, The War of the Ring! Who can turn down that offer!?"

But again, before Amdir had any time to answer, Branor led him back to the troupe. "You all remember Amdir? He's going to guide me around Minas Anor. Does anyone want to come along?"

[Dimturiel]

Harrenon was relieved when they finally reached the inn. Maybe they would even have the chance to rest before starting rehearsals. That seemed likely at the moment, since Branor had expressed a desire to go for a walk through the city – which was even more relieving since Branor seemed in one of his pompous moods that made Harrenon feel quite put off most of the time. He shook his head with an exasperated sigh when he heard the man demand them not to start rehearsing without him.

“I wonder why we do not do that once,” he muttered to his fellow Players. “Just to see what he says afterwards.”

Yet when Branor told them that Amdir would be leading him through the city, Harrenon forgot his desire for some quiet time to himself. He had already had that in the wagon on the way to the city. Now he was in Minas Anor. He should take advantage of the opportunity to see as much of the city as possible. A walk would do him good. It would clear his head and help him get rid of the nervousness he sometimes felt when a performance was near. Yes, a walk would do him good, even if he was taking it with Branor – as a matter of fact, Harrenon did not dislike Branor; yes, he did find his manner exasperating, but usually endearingly so. He took a step forward.

“Well,” he began. “If you’re going, I think I will be joining you. If you have nothing against it, that is, and if I am not needed here, after all.”

[Mnemosyne]

Brinn sorted through the papers one last time, holding her back where it had gotten stiff from all the moving and shifting. Now that the carts were no longer being used to move things, it was better to organize things so that they were easier to hand--and less likely for her to trip over. She'd stopped by the main prop cart to talk to Asta and make sure that all the mechanicals were in working order, and that turned into a process of pulling out all the things they would need for the Grand Tale of the War of the Ring. Now it was just a matter of making sure everything was perfect, and--

She heard a creak on the footboard behind her. "Are you planning on eating anytime soon?"

Brinn turned around. It was her husband. "Not at the moment. Why, what time is it?"

"Past noon."

"Already? But there's so much--"

"You need to eat, Brinn, and relax. Plenty of work to do in the coming week."

"Yes, but our first rehearsal's tonight--"

"And we'll have more to polish things nice and good. Come and eat, the common room's not too far off."

"I'll be fine, if you'll just give me--"

"What about Sereth?"

Yes, Sereth--she was young, and growing. It would not do to give her a poor example. "Very well," she said. "Let's eat."

[Pitchwife]

The Lord Samwise, Coldan pondered while he went to check that the mules where well stabled and fed. Now who's he? Some lord of the halflings, apparently. Well, even quasi-mythical creatures had to have some sort of aristocracy, Coldan presumed; but he had always been under the impression that the ruler of the periannath was Prince Peregrin, the warlord who had led the halfling host to the Pelennor. Could it be that Peregrin had died, and his successor had come to Minas Anor to swear allegiance to the King? That would explain why the guard at the gate had made such a fuss about Samwise's presence.

Returning to the yard, he found that the other Players had been joined by Amdir, and Branor was talking the carpenter into showing him around the city and asking people to come along. Coldan wasn't averse to some sightseeing himself - this was his third visit to the capital of Gondor, but the beauty of the White City never failed to impress his poetic soul, even when it no longer filled him with that wide-eyed, speechless admiration he had felt on seeing it for the first time. And then, of course, the city's taverns were calling to him; according to his father, the wine merchant, it had been the Dúnedain of Gondor who had first introduced viticulture to Coldan's native country, and although Dorwinion had since perfected the art to produce the finest vintage in Middle-earth, the sweeter wines of Lebennin and Ithilien were not to be despised. Not too much, of course, as he needed a clear head for the rehearsal, but a beaker or two couldn't hurt, could they?

Nevertheless, he held back and waited whether Asta would decide to come along. Her company during their approach to the city gates had just been enjoyable enough to leave him craving for more. Not that she was likely to take much notice of him with Branor around, but he couldn't just let the two of them roam the city without him. If she chose to stay at the inn, on the other hand, he might have the luck to get a few undisturbed minutes alone with her - maybe even long enough to work up the courage and explain himself to her this time.

[Formendacil]

“Well,” said Harrenon. “If you’re going, I think I will be joining you. If you have nothing against it, that is, and if I am not needed here, after all.”

Amdír was not opposed to accompanying Branor and Harrenon about the city, since it seemed that Brinn did not intend to start discussing the construction of the set until rehearsal that evening. This was normal enough, though Amdír was guessing that it meant she did not foresee a larger than usual production. Well, he would see that evening one way or another. It was always exciting to watch the first rehearsal, when the play was fresh to his eyes and ears, and Amdír didn't mind waiting through it until they were ready to talk setpieces near the end.

Meanwhile, although Branor had essentially asked Amdír to show them around, the thespian from Dale had been to Minas Anor enough times over the past few years that he hardly needed Amdír or anyone else to lead him to his favourite haunts, and Branor's implacable energy drove him ahead of Amdír and Harrenon, as well as Therian, who had tagged along as well, perhaps guessing that Branor would be headed for a tavern. The erstwhile shieldmaiden expressed an interest in a tankard of ale, and as Amdír told him, Branor seemed to be headed in the direction of one of his favourite taverns, the Rohirric Unicorn, a small hole-in-the-wall up Lampwright's Street towards the Second Circle, which had an amazing brew of ale that Amdír agreed was justly renowned (he was the one who had first taken Branor there).

But as they rounded a bend in the Street, following the curve of the city circles, Amdír caught sight of a party sitting in front of the tavern, beneath the sign of the Rohirric Unicorn. Whether that was Branor's destination or not, the carpenter headed straight for it. He was certain that the small figure drinking lustily from a pint of the Unicorn's brew was a halfling, and could be none other than Master Samwise Gamgee.

[the phantom]

Aldarion didn't bother to peek out of his cart as the troop approached the white city. Not only had he traveled to Minas Anor several times in his youth, but he was also quite busy reading The King's Players' production "Dragon Hunter". Somehow this particular work had fallen through the cracks and escaped his attention over the past couple years. Through the first half of the script Aldarion had been unable to determine which supposed historical event it was based upon, but he was slowly piecing together that it was a ridiculous version of the tale of Fram and Scatha. Where did they get this stuff? I mean really- how do you get 'Hadda' for 'Scatha'? And he has a midget-dragon sidekick that tells jokes?

When the cart stopped at the gate Aldarion whipped out ink and a quill and began editing- a task impossible to attempt in a moving cart. Half listening to the exchange between Brinn and the guard, Aldarion stopped writing mid-stroke and called forward to Rollan, "Did that guard say 'Lord Samwise the pheriannath' is visiting?" Rollan turned part way around and nodded.

Lord Samwise? No... it couldn't be the Samwise from the War of the Ring. He was just a stupid servant. Perhaps Sam is just a common name up that way.... Yes, that must be it.

A short time later Aldarion was holed up in his room getting on with his work. He thought for a moment of doing a bit of touch-up on the "Tale of the Ring" script, but gave it up as a bad job. I've already looked at it plenty, and they're unwilling to budge on the remaining changes I would recommend. Why do they insist on playing Saruman and Denethor as comic roles when they provide opportunity for such perfect madness and horror? That Rollan... I'm sure he could play a fine straight role if he'd just try! Or if they'd just let me put Therian in one of those roles. I wonder why Brinn always insists that Therian be a lady? Therian doesn't contradict her, but I can tell he's unhappy about it. Bah! But for the usual farmers we always perform for here in Minas Anor I doubt it makes much of a difference.

[Anguirel]

Unknown to any of the gallant troupe, their presence in the White City, and on this particular occasion of honour, too, had been long ordained at the very highest circles of the Court.

Some months earlier, it had all begun - as have begun other stories, both direr wars and higher romances than our own - with a jest, a coincidence, and a letter.

***

"Excellent news at last," the Lord Warden of the Exchequer, Cirdacil the Venerable, Lord of Burlach, expatiated to his close family as he mouthed his way through a prongful of excellent emulsified goldspinach.

For he was a man of precise, albeit frugal, taste.

Around his table sat a surprisingly young-looking and colourful company, when one considered the almost ostentatiously plain appearance of their host. Ecsichil, heir to the sloping city fief of Burlach, was a stolid gentleman with an evident weakness for scarlet drapery, in which he had enswathed his wife to the point of near total invisibility. On this taciturn lady's other side sat the second son, a bachelor, who always went by the by-name of Sador because of his unfortunate leg, born wizened; yet he was a handsome, dapper little man who seemed unable to restrain the gleam of manic intelligence in his every movement and word.

In between the two men in age were their sisters, graceful, tolerant and by some peculiarity, taller than their brothers; Aerwen, the elder, a diligent seeker after knowledge, was unmarried and likely to remain so, but Circilie, the whole family's favourite for the obviousness of her physical attractions and the calming nature of her conversation, was yet a new bride. This made her visit a rare occasion of family satisfaction, especially as she brought her new lord. Their union was already a success, as Circilie's figure was beginning to intimate; the man under question was the noblest and fairest in the room, Lord Amlach of Dol Amroth, an unlooked for catch for the new noble house of Burlach.

They were all delighted to see him; and he, though bored, was even more polite.

"What news, father?" Sador shot back. "The strife in Harondor?" Between them, the patriarch and his second son had done most of the talking so far.

"Closer, and more to my satisfaction, boy. I list little for your foreign adventures. No, it is this; the Master of the Revels, that wastrel Hallas, has resigned his responsibilities to spend more time hunting on his estate..."

Amlach, unnoticed, looked a little more interested. It always astonished him how little curiosity his father-in-law displayed about the humane arts; perhaps this new fascination was the signal of a sudden character change?

"...and I think I have persuaded our royal lord not to replace him. We are living in uncertain times," Cirdacil plodded on, oblivious to his son-in-law wincing at the sentiment and the cliche alike, "and, if the Reunited Kingdom is to be more than, let us say, a dream upon parchment, then, as I have always said, retrenchment must be the order of the day..."

Amlach watched the family's reaction, suppressing his disgust by running a hand through his wife's bright ringlets. Ecsichil was trying to catch a horsefly with his mouth, apparently. Amlach had never heard Lady Ecsichil express a view on anything. Sador was clever enough to be sychophantically attentive, Aerwen was above it all, and Circilie was playing with his own feet, in an admittedly rather adorable way. What a bunch of cultural Khandings he had on his hands here...

"If you reduce Gondor to a silent banking-house," he found himself shouting, "what remains to retrench?"

Before Circilie had laid down her palliative, soft hand on his arm, the old vulture had replied.

"Why, dividends, my boy."

***

"The man is a warrior, a prince and statesman! He should know better, much better, than a joke in such poor taste! If, indeed..."

Fragments of the Lord Cirdacil's white beard, efficiently if wildly rent, were filtering across his study. One got up Sador's sensitive nostrils, but he kept his cough quiet.

"I am certain His Majesty means no action not commensurate with the dignity and respect in which he holds you, honoured father..."

"...which is nothing! It can be none, no dignity, if he acts thus..."

The piece of paper uppermost on the desk looked surpassingly innocent. A centralised secretary hand and written with the utmost neatness,

To the Lord of Burlach,

The King Elessar, long esteeming your trusty and well beloved care of His Majesty's Exchequer, would like to confer upon you additional, signal and delightful favour.

Mindful of your lordship's long and proven role as an arbiter of taste, and of your late counsel given upon the setting forth from Court of the Lord Hallas, the King Elessar hereby raises you to the office of Master of the Revels with instant effect.

***

Sador had at last formulated the right soothing sentence.

"Father, you are right as always. The great conqueror of the Enemy, the heir of Elendil, would never trouble himself with a jest."

"But what, then, boy? What is the meaning..."

"The king says he is mindful of the counsel you gave him, father. He has appointed you to this post so that you may prove the rectitude of your view of it, once and for all."

Cirdacil was getting very old and he knew his second son was very clever, but he was instantly quick enough in the art of courtly administration to gather his son's meaning.

"You mean, my lad, that I, and not Lord Hallas, am to be the last Master of the Revels in Gondor? Through the...exceptional...quality of my offerings?"

"Precisely, beloved sire."

Cirdacil sat down, at last exhausted with the effort of shouting, at the desk which bore the hated missive, and picked it up.

"The letter avers that the next great Revel is to be a play - the very worst, morally, and the most extravagant kind among these fripperies - at Cormare, and in time for the visit of some obscure municipal dignitary, a halfling, no less, from furthest Eriador. By the Tree, for our state to be yoked to those penniless Arnorian maniacs and pint-size talking Druedain..."

"Father, father, be careful what you say!"

But Cirdacil's outburst was over. He had relaxed back into thought.

"Sador, were you following your brother-in-law's conversation at luncheon, when he began to rail regrettably on the deplorable subject of his provincial theatre?"

"I always follow conversation, father."

"What was the name of that rag-tag crew of mountebanks he mentioned that unfortunate friend has joined?"

"Apparently they have the affrontery to call themselves the King's players, father."

"See to it that they are hired!"

Cirdacil smiled, at last, with fully relished pleasure; but the moment was short, and his wrinkled face was tortured by worry as he glanced back at his departing son.

"...but whatever you do, don't pay the rascals in advance."

[Boromir88]

Branor got ahead of the others, as he fondly began recalling the best places in the city. When he spotted the sign with a white unicorn head, upon a green background and gold trim, he picked up the pace even more. It was one of Branor's favorite places in Minas Anor and he beckoned the others to follow him in.

The small tavern seemed busier, and thus more crowded, than what Branor remembered. When Amdir, Harrenon, and Therian caught up with Branor, Amdir perked up at the sight of someone he must have recognized. "I do believe, my friends, that is Master Samwise Gamgee."

The three players traded perturbed looks with eachother, all realizing there may be a serious issue with the script. "Please tell us that is a different Samwise and not the servant Sam of the War of the Ring?" Branor asked.

It was a brief slience, but an awkward one, as Amdir looked perplexed by the question. "Uh, no...that is Samwise, Frodo's loyal companion in the quest to Mount Doom, the one and only Master Samwise. I hear he is excited to watch your performance, along with his family."

Branor's reaction went from perturbed to near frantic damage control. He pushed through the chairs and crowd as quickly as he could to get to where the hobbit was sitting. The hobbit's clothes were plain, but were certainly not attire a simple servant would be able to afford.

"Pardon me, but are you Samwise Gamgee, former servant to the gallant Frodo Baggins?"

"I am." said the hobbit smiling, mostly due to the awkward phrasing of Branor's question.

"Umm, you should be...dead?" Branor felt a sharp and rather painful jab to his ribs. It was from Therian's elbow who had now been next to him. Normally he would cause a huge fuss over someone hitting him (even if it was just an innocent knock trying to tell him to tone down), but Branor was too focused on Sam to care.

"I am sorry if it disappoints you that I am not." Samwise was still smiling though, probably due to Branor's complete ignorance. However, the hobbit did seem hurt when Branor followed up by saying "It does!" Branor suppressed another pained grunt as he felt a stomp on his foot, this one from Harrenon who was now on his right side.

"Er...I mean, it does, because you see...Master (it was weird for Branor to use that title for someone he thought was just a dumb servant to a great warrior) Samwise, I...and well my friends with me are part of the King's Players."

"You are!?" Samwise was suddenly more interested and invested in wanting to talk with Branor now. "Why this is what Gandalf would have called a chance meeting, I believe. My wife, Rosie and our daughter, Elanor, and I are greatly anticipating your rendition of the War of the Ring at the Cormare!" Branor gulped. "That's all Elanor has been talking about, these past weeks. She keeps telling me she wants to see the tales of Samwise the Brave acted out, instead of just hearing me tell them. I am not the greatest of story tellers, that was always Master Bilbo's specialty."

"Eh, erm, the problem we have sir is...our script-writer, Aldarion has you dying when the ghastly Black Lords, and their demonic King, attacked on Weathertop. I myself questioned our writer about the accuracy of the histories he had found, but he insisted you were Frodo's servant, and were trampled by the Black King's tusked and fell steed. That is why you see, Master Samwise, I thought you should be dead!"

[Formendacil]

"Please tell us that is a different Samwise and not the servant Sam of the War of the Ring?" Branor asked.

Amdír paused. The brief silence was awkward, as Amdír tried to discern why the actor would not want to meet the very subject of their play, and then said slowly, "No... that must be Master Samwise, who was Frodo's loyal companion in the quest to Mount Doom. I hear he has been invited to watch your performance, along with his family."

Amdír was about to say something about how King Elessar had also allegedly been invited, but considering Branor's reaction, perhaps it was just as well that he didn't get that far. The actor was distraught, and pushed through the crowd to get at the Hobbit, with Therian and Harrenon following somewhat more timidly.

"Umm, shouldn't you be...dead?" As Therian elbowed Branor, Amdír figured out why the actor was so distraught. Clearly, the Players' script had a somewhat different ending than the veteran remembered. Fortunately, Master Samwise seemed to be taking it well--though Amdír was not listening to everything either he or the actors were saying.

"Eh, erm, the problem we have sir is...our script-writer, Aldarion has you dying when the ghastly Black Lords and their demonic King, attacked on Weathertop. I myself questioned our writer about the accuracy of the histories he had found, but he insisted you were Frodo's servant, and were trampled by the Black King's tusked and fell steed. That is why you see, Master Samwise, I thought you should be dead!"

The Hobbit seemed a little taken aback at Branor's somewhat frantic attempt at damage control, and Amdír decided to say something himself, before the actor decided that the Hobbit's pause was cause for further wild statements.

"I'm sure it will all reflect on you very well, Master Samwise," he said. "I was present in the crowd for King Elessar's return and coronation, and I well remember three other Hobbits standing with Lord Meriadoc. I'm sure it's well-known that you're... er... alive and well. Probably Branor is just misremembering the script--after all, the first rehearsal isn't until tonight."

Then Amdír had a stroke of genius.

"Perhaps you could give us your own account of events--just so that we can make sure there aren't any errors in the script. Little errors, I mean--I'm sure you don't actually die in it." The Players waited with baited breath for the Hobbit to make an answer.

"I reckon you have it right enough," said Master Samwise after a long draw on his pipe. "I was indeed Mr. Frodo's servant by all rights, what with tending his gardens with my gaffer from my tween years. We came to close enough to death in Mordor as it was. If Gandalf hadn't come and saved us on those giant eagles, the Black Rider probably would have had us, if the fires of Mt. Doom didn't get us first."

The hobbit drew on his pipe again.

[Nerwen]

Asta left the Common Room for the yard, a worried frown on her face. Brinn had begun the meal by announcing loudly that everything looked delicious and that she hoped she would not stuff herself, but had soon fallen into an abstracted daze and had barely touched what was on her plate, despite Rollan's coaxing. Asta sighed. That Rollan! He did his best, but he was only a man, and had no idea how much looking after her sister really required.

She heard a familiar step hurrying to join her.

"Asta! I zought– zat is, I vondered if– if you're not too busy–"

She turned. "Oh, thank you, Coldan, but I know my lines pretty well already–" seeing his crestfallen look, she added, "mind you, Aldarion does keep tinkering with the script; perhaps we should go over Mary the Elf's part once or twice before the rehearsal, to make sure there's no nasty surprises."

"Actually, I zought, I zought perhaps..." Coldan took a deep breath, and his cheeks flushed a dusky red, "...zat is... er... zat's exactly vat I vas about to suggest."

They quickly ran through Mary the Elf's lines, the prompter sitting on the back step of the wagon, and Asta pacing up and down in front of him. Acting was not really Asta's strong point, but what talent she had was quite equal to this minor rôle, and indeed she particularly enjoyed enacting the Elf-maid's tragic, self-sacrificial death. Poor Mary, always taken for granted by the rest of the Fellowship...