The King's Players RPG

[Dimturiel]

After Coldan’s outburst, it seemed that things were going to turn ugly. The old veteran looked none to pleased for being insulted – although Harrenon admitted that he had been the one who started with the insults since no one liked being called an orc-friend. He got up and headed towards Coldan, taking an aggressive stance, his intentions quite clear. Harrenon tried to consider their solutions. They could have run, but that would have made things much worse. Therian and Branor had already caused some trouble in the city. If things continued like that, the Players might soon be forced to leave Minas Tirith for being a nuisance. Therefore Harrenon did the only thing he could think of, and stepped in front of Coldan to face the old veteran, his mind all the while telling him that he was a fool and that if the veteran decided he did not want to resolve the conflict peacefully, he would be the one to suffer first.

“I think you should wait,” Harrenon began, secretly congratulating himself on his acting abilities, because he managed to appear confident and firm while in reality he was ready to bolt. “See, I apologise for my friend here, but you must admit that being called an orc-friend and an Easterling out of the blue is not a very pleasant experience. I am sure you would not be too pleased yourself, Sir, if someone did that to you.”

“Why the blazes would someone say that to me?” the veteran retorted. “I’m a Gondorian, just like you, by the looks of it, although judging from the company you keep, I wouldn’t have said it.”

Harrenon felt Coldan stir impatiently behind him and muttered a desperate “Wait” under his breath. He turned again to the old soldier.

“He has explained to you that he is not what you think he is,” he pointed out.

“Aye, but he also called me a brutish oaf!” the soldier replied. “I who have been fighting to defend this city before you were even born. I’m not the one to suffer insults quietly.”

“No, I can see that,” Harrenon admitted. “But what if he were to apologise to you? Would that be enough?”

Harrenon knew Coldan would be far from happy with him after that, but it was the only thing he could think of. The soldier did not answer and then another voice sounded in the smithy.

“I think we should deal with this fairly,” spoke the young man who had been until then surveying the scene without saying anything. “Since you were both wrong, I think you should both apologise to each other. Yes, you too, soldier.”

“But…but, master Bergil, Sir…” the veteran spluttered indignantly.

“I said you too,” Bergil repeated more firmly. “And you first, since you started it.”

Under Bergil’s watchful eyes, the old soldier muttered a reluctant “I’m sorry.” Bergil now turned to Coldan looking at him expectantly. Harrenon cast his now surly companion an apologetic look, trying to get him to understand that there had been no other choice.

[Boromir88]

"Quiet Therian." snapped Branor. "He called me Rick. He might know something from last night." Branor had all but forgotten the spy business with Rick Cottontree, but it was slowly coming back to him.

"Old man, my friend and I are trying to find out what happened to us last night. There are a lot of parts missing, but you do remember seeing me, yes? We do not know where your wife is, but if you can help us with our memory, we might be able to help you find your wife."

"Yes. Yes." said the old man who was sounding more lucid. "You were the one asking about hobbits last night and Rick's friend there was fancying the barmaid."

"That's right!" Branor's hopes were raising that they may figure out this talk of murderers, killers, and brigands. "Can you remember how we got these bruises?"

"Bruises. I know nothing about how you got those bruises." Branor sighed and was about to tell Therian that he was right, this man was going to be of no use, but then...

"I can tell you about the hobbits you seek." said the old man.

Branor perked up and rushed to take a seat next to the man. "You can!? You mean the four hobbits on the quest of Mount Doom!?"

"Those would be the ones: Frodo Baggins, Samwise Gamgee, Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took."

Therian and Branor were still unsure how much they could rely on this man's sanity, or lack there of, so Branor decided to first ask about Peregrin Took. He was well known in Minas Anor, and so far they had not encountered any disastrous inaccuracies in Peregrin's history. At least, not anything like the Samwise debacle.

"Peregrin Took, or Pippin as his friends called him." remembered the old man. "He was well loved in these parts, and deserved every bit of it. A courageous lad, in going against his Lord's orders to save Lord Faramir's life. And he was quite a champion to boot too, uncomparable to the devilish creature Master Merry slew, but Lord Peregrin had the same heroic spirit when he killed the mighty war troll."

The mention of troll prompted Therian to make another snarky comment about how can the lumbering, ugly troll Olog ever catch the fancy of a delicate woman, and mumbled something about wondering if Miss Fea would fancy Olog. Branor didn't catch it all, but the old man did.

"Olog and a misses? hehehe, that Olog was going to make mincemeat out of you boys, hehe."

[Pitchwife]

Coldan stood with his fist clenched, unwilling to apologize to anybody for defending his honour and his country's. He realized Harrenon and the young stranger had spared him a nasty brawl in which he would probably have got worsted, but it still irked his pride to give in and humble himself. It was the liveried man's eyes, fixed on him unwaveringly, that made him yield at last.

He drew a deep breath and turned to the veteran. "Let it not be said zat ve of Dorvinion hev no courtesy. I accept your apology for vat you said in error and beg your pardon for zose words I spoke in anger."

The whiteclad man nodded his approval. "Well said! You really must forgive my countryman's rudeness. We Men of Gondor, who long thought of ourselves as the last and only bulwark standing against the Shadow, should have learned by now that many other people fought their own fight against it no less valiantly, but some of our older folk still see an enemy in every man born east of Emyn Muil." He offered his hand to be shook. "I am Bergil son of Beregond, of Prince Faramir's White Company, and if I can do anything to make you feel more welcome in the City, I will do it gladly."

Coldan took his hand. "Zank you, sir, you're too kind. You hev done enough already." He felt Harrenon nudge him in the ribs none too gently and turned to his companion with a frown, but Harrenon was already addressing Bergil himself.

"Truly you have, sir, but if you're of the Steward's Guard, there's indeed a favour you could do us for which we would be very grateful, if you're willing. You see, my short-tempered friend Coldan here and I, Harrenon of Lossarnach, are members of The King's Players, and our troupe is putting up a play about the War of the Ring for the Cormare revels. Now it has come to our knowledge that some of our sources may have not been entirely reliable, and we don't want to offend any exalted persons that might be attending. If you could spare maybe half an hour, sir, and tell us what you know about the War and the lords and ladies involved in it?" Coldan had never heard such a long and eloquent speech off stage from him before.

Bergil smiled at them. "That I can, and will. I was too young then to fight myself, being but a boy of ten, but I was in the City during the Siege and afterwards, running errands for the healers up in the Houses when my Lord Faramir and my Lady Éowyn were treated there, and that perian, Meriadoc, who stood by my Lady in her fight against the Witch-King; I also got to know the other perian, Peregrin, quite well, and much that I did not witness myself I have since been told by my father, who heard it from the Steward. Let me just finish my dealings with the armourer first."

He collected the knife he had inspected earlier from its shelf. "This is an excellent hunting-knife, Master Angbor; it will make a lovely gift for my youngest nephew. What do you ask for it?"

"Castar and a tharni for you, sir", said the smith, obviously proud of his handiwork but also embarrassed by the scene his friend's rude behaviour had caused. Bergil handed him some coins, tucked the knife into his belt and turned back to the two actors.

"You are lucky - I am on leave, and they will not expect me at Uncle Iorlas's before nine bells. I know a decent tavern not far from here where we can sit down and discuss all you wish to know at leisure over some bread and cheese and a mug of ale or two - or a cup of wine for you, my good Dorwinian. Come!"

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

"Olog and a misses? Hehehe, that Olog was going to make mincemeat out of you boys, hehe." The ancient man was back to his laughter. "Mincemeat meat pies, filled with fruit and eagle eyes!"

Therian sucked a deep breath in and wondered if they should perhaps just slip away unnoticed. Bran seemed to have the same idea. Just as they began to back away, the old man spoke again. "Mighty dry in these parts, is it not? Of course the rain is north on the plains, and west with the horse folk, and of course up north in the Shire, but still, the city seems a bit too dry..."

"Uh," Therian began.

The old man cut him off and lay on the cobblestones to look up at the sky even as he pressed his ear to the ground. "The rain should come, and come much quicker, before the land gets any sicker."

"Bran, we should... maybe... fetch that Captain Formy fellow?"

The pile of rags twitched and sat upright again. "The hobbits are nice boys. Young, of course, but you're all young, you are. That Merry is especially clever, and Frodo seemed a little rash, but then it all worked out in the way that it does."

"It?"

"Of course it. It does. It always is."

"Beg pardon, but what is... it?"

"Life! Or Death, or baby's breath. All the same, ever onward. Old Man's speaking in cruel whispers again, I can hear him even from here, talking of evil things crawling in the dirt. Even with the King, there are still dark places where the sun will never shine, where hands will crawl, where halflings feel swords across their necks. Best keep the halflings out of the holes."

"Sir... Might we... might we help you in some way?"

"Therian, shut it. What did you mean about the halflings and the swords? And don't they live in holes?"

"Smials! Naked walk and naked lie, clothesless hobbits under sky. Ah, look!" The old man stood suddenly, quite spry, and pointed upward. Therian and Bran could see dark silver clouds moving fast on the wind. "I have found her."

With that, the old man tottered off down the road and before the boys could gather themselves to follow, he was quite definitely gone.

Therian swore.

[Formendacil]

Since it was clear that Branor and Therian had no intention of returning to the Inn, Amdír bid Captain Formy a good day, and continued on without them. He unhitched the horses from his cart once he reached the inn, and tethered them, before going inside to fetch help in hauling down the first setpieces. As he did so, he could not help but notice six handsome steeds already tethered. From their glossy coats and fine tack, it was clear to Amdír that someone of importance was present, and had a fearful premonition that it might be the new Master of Revels, the Lord Cirdacil.

A bit fearful, for he had not yet determined the measure of the lord, Amdír entered the Inn, hoping he was wrong, and wishing he was still carting his way across the Pelennor.

[the phantom]

Aldarion lowered himself onto the steps and broke the seal on the first of his letters. He looked to be pleasantly surprised as he read, and then his face showed great surprise indeed and morphed into a wide smile. But quite swiftly his grin was replaced by a look of confusion, and upon finishing the letter he quickly folded it and slipped it beneath his shirt into some inner pocket.

His eyes narrowed briefly as he turned his sharp glance to the second letter. With a swift motion he broke the seal and opened it. The suspicion displayed by his countenance was immediately displaced as Aldarion broke into the largest smile any of the players had seen from him since he had joined their group. His smile never completely faded as he continued, but it was tempered by ripples of puzzlement.

After reaching the end Aldarion hastily pocketed the letter and rose to his feet, still smiling just a bit.

[Mnemosyne]

Within the courtyard, Rollan and Amdir--the former explaining to the latter, as briefly and as best he could, what had transpired thus far--had gotten the stage back open, to yield a little more space to the usually cramped waggon. There were now a few chairs, stools, and other props scattered there, and in one of them was seated Brinn, her dress smart and her hair neatly pinned up. There was a very thin smile on her face, which not even the best efforts of her husband had managed to broaden. Asta was there as well, and Sereth, both of whom Brinn had sternly warned not to overreact to anything, and Aldarion as well, who had this peculiar look on his face, as if he were trying and utterly failing to keep a smile from it at all times. She hoped it was for their good, too.

After too long a wait, the Lord Cirdacil rode into the courtyard. "Pardon me for not rising, my lord," said Brinn. "I am unable at this time. Will you please take a seat, and tell us what it is you have come here to say?"

[Anguirel]

Presumably with the help of the inn's long-suffering ostlers and grooms, all six of the guards and nobles who constituted the visitors from the Citadel had got themselves mounted up again as they entered the courtyard. They had broken their fast with expansive satisfaction, and from dawn it had now become almost noon.

From his saddleback, the Lord Cirdacil surveyed the company who had been trooped out to receive him. Clearly, they were still badly under strength; if this Rollan was to be believed, for reasons relating to their "historical research".

Here, at last, was Miz Celebrindal, suppressing her pain with a surprising amount of proud dignity from her chair. Flanking her was Rollan and another female player, whose rudimentimary visual similarity to Celebrindal made it easy enough for Cirdacil to guess she was her sister, even without Sador's perennial helpful whisperings. At either side of this family arrangement stood a child, gripping the sister's hand and looking solemn, and a thin, good looking fellow in respectable clothing. That, Cirdacil thought, will be Amlach's friend. They share the supercilious confidence in their faces, their certainty that they are the best at their frivolous artistry...

Keeping a respectful distance from these five players was the company's carpenter, and Cirdacil's only direct servant here, Amdir.

"Pardon me for not rising, my lord," the mistress of the King's Players began. "I am unable at this time. Will you please take a seat, and tell us what it is you have come here to say?"

"I am seated already," Cirdacil answered briskly, tapping his saddle, "but I shall descend a little if you would rather; since we need to talk about things of importance, no courtesy should be wanting."

Waving one of the subordinate guards to dismount too, the lord got out of his saddle without any great elegance, though he was, after all, a very old man. The chosen soldier supported his arm, and steered him to the most comfortable of the chairs facing the threadbare company. In the background, the young lord and the other three guards, including their leader, still hovered a little awkwardly from their horseback position.

"Well, first," Cirdacil, putting aside further preamble, started, "you may have heard about the circumstances you are performing in this year; the visit of the Perian consul, and of the Court itself. I must immediately stress that none of this is in the least exaggerated. This year, you are all the King's Players indeed. Forget about Bard the Northerner, or whoever your previous patrons may have been; you're about to have to live up to your name's most high-vaunting expectations."

Cirdacil paused to glare at his escort, apparently to ensure all their expressions were suitably solemn, then went on.

"I am, as you perhaps know, the Lord Warden of the Exchequer as well as, more recently, Master of the Revels, so I know with particular accuracy how much gold we can offer you for a successful performance. I am able to extend forty golden castar to be shared among your company, on top of your usual takings, if your performance is pleasing. Furthermore, you will be ratified as the official theatrical company of this city, licensed to play when the King sends for you, and rewarded on each separate occasion."

He had been speaking in a glum monotone while he announced these arrangements, but as he changed tack, he perked up a bit.

"Of course, you may not be pleasing to his majesty and his majesty's guests. And if you are not, it is otiose to add that your play's run will be over. I myself will almost certainly lose my office and responsibility for the Revels." He spoke here in an impassioned tone, perhaps mistakable for panic, though it was, in fact, anticipation. "If you fail, indeed, there may not be any plays in Minas Anor anymore."

Cirdacil now rose to his feet in a peremptory and powerful motion, leaving the guard who had helped him assume his place lagging paces behind.

"And in this regard, you have made a pretty deplorable start. Hardly had your, ah, rehearsing begun, when rumours from the very most exalted of places reached me that many of you were drinking all over town, dragging the city into disrepute before honoured guests in the name of your supposedly sacred art."

Perhaps surprisingly, at this pitch of anger he laid his eyes on the stalwart, loyally attentive carpenter.

"You, Amdil, no Amdir. I was under the impression you were a sensible fellow. Yet you led three other of these poltroons to a low drinking-hole, where they brought shame upon us all, in front of the Perian consul, no less." He snorted with decision.

"I am disappointed with you, sirrah, and I dispense with your services forthwith. Perhaps this company will still adopt you amongst them, if they don't think you more trouble than gain."

He breathed anew, in a more relaxed rhythm, as if with the sense of a task well done, before turning his head back in the direction of the pocket of riders.

"Now, Sador, come forward!"

The young lord trotted nervously up to a level with where his father and the guard were sitting. Cirdacil continued to speak, at last in a rather satisfied tone of voice.

"I gather you've been having certain difficulties with your script, Mistress Celebrindal, Master...Aldarion? yes, that was it, Aldarion. Anyway, I've decided that while this business arangement is forced to endure between us, I might as well loan you my son, Sador. I can spare him for the next fortnight, if I must; I am not a judge of artistic merit, proud indeed not to be such, but my second son is a noted scholar and thinker, and may be able to assist you if you fall into any egregious lapses of taste or decorum."

Cirdacil got up and now stamped back to his horse (again leaving the guard trailing and gawping at the old man's vigour,) while his son lingered.

"It will be an honour to assist," the young man added to his father's last speech. Then, after setting his mouth in a thin frame that proceeds many an ordeal, he dismounted, and shuffled himself forward on his bad leg towards Brinn, putting out his hand.

"Sador of Burlach, Mistress Celebrindal; I am greatly looking forward to our dramatic partnership. I have some small acquaintance with your playwright, by repute," and here he directed a look at Aldarion that almost had awe in it, such was its shy admiration, "and will be, well, quite thrilled to serve any of you in any capacity."

[the phantom]

How did this man come to be Master of Revels? thought Aldarion. This business of not clearly knowing the name of Amdir- surely if he had done his homework in speaking to the previous Master of Revels he would know Amdir better than that. And so far as being unsure of MY name- well, if he was truly a fan of theater he wouldn't have to cast about for my name. And if he in fact knows my name but simply wished to appear as if he didn't know it- then it was a very low as well as feeble means of promoting his importance while perhaps attempting to impress upon me the low status I possess in his eyes.

Aldarion tried not to roll his eyes. He seems like one of those ambitious political sorts I always hated back in Dol Amroth. But, well, it won't solve anything to treat him poorly or react negatively. The payoff he is offering is considerable, and the patronage of the King himself, well- that is precisely the sort of thing I dreamed of when I joined this group!

Aldarion was pleased when Sador took over the conversation. He was considerably more pleasant than his father. "Thank you for your generous words, sir, and thank you in advance for all the support I am sure you will give us," said Aldarion, and stepped forward and handed Sador a letter.