The King's Players RPG

[Pitchwife]

"If I am speaking too much of our admittedly overwhelming history, which truly does drench everything in Gondor with its taste, perhaps we should speak of something else. Did you find that Rollan gave you the advice you sought yesterday?"

Coldan winced; he would have preferred to avoid that topic a little longer. He wondered whether any of the other players had talked to Amdír about what had transpired at the common room the night before, but concluded it was unlikely - he hadn't seen the carpenter around after nuncheon yesterday, and nobody else from the troupe had been up and stirring before they had left this morning.

"You're a shrewd man, Amdír", he said, looking at his companion curiously. "If we hedn't set out so early, you vould probably hev been told a few stories about my deeds or misdeeds yesterday afternoon and evening, and none of zem too complimentary, I suppose." He sighed. "I don't know, Rollan's advice may hev been sound enough, but I'm afraid I hev made a rather poor job of putting it to practice. At least his vords gave me ze courage to speak my mind to Asta, vich in itself is a big step forward; unfortunately, my mind happened not to hev ze most appropriate zoughts in it at ze time."

He gave another, deeper sigh and decided he might as well have it all out and ease his heart without further circumlocutions.

"To give you ze long and short of it, ve hed a nasty quarrel. I complained about her flirting viz Aldarion, and she got all upset and called me an Easterling. Vat you may not know is zat vere I come from, zat is about ze vorst zing you can call a man, and it's not unusual for it to lead to a knife in ze insulter's entrails. Vich is, I guess, hard to understand for you, seeing zat many of us, like myself, do indeed hev Easterling blood somevere in our ancestry; but ve don't mention it, pretending to be pure Men of ze Vest - much like you Gondorians, in a vay; for ze peoples of Rhûn hev been our deadliest enemies for more zan a zousand years, and even now ze Dark Lord is gone and zey no longer vorship him, zere is still unrest and ever so often skirmishing and plundering along our eastern borders.

Anyvay", he resumed, "Asta knew exactly vat she vas saying; and I got into a cold rage and told her I vould none of her no more. I don't remember ever feeling so miserable in my whole life as in zat moment." He paused and shook his head about himself. "So I did ze logical zing and vent straight to ze common room and did my darnedest to get plastered senseless. Cue for Aldarion to turn up and complain to Branor and zat lordling, Sador, about how I hed unjustly blamed him for our trouble viz ze play; vereupon I took my anger and frustration out on him and challenged him on how he vas dealing viz Asta." He paused again, trying to make sense of the story he had just told. "Zis may sound crazy to you, but even zough I was mad at her, I still vanted to make sure zat if she preferred him to me, he vould treat her fairly.

Ze argument got heated, and ze only reason it didn't come to blows vas Asta herself showed up and stopped us. And zen ze strangest zing ever happened - she apologized to me for vat she hed said earlier; and I sort of did ze same, or at least I hope I did - my memory is a bit hazy zere. And - " He stopped himself just in time; he was not going to be so indiscreet as to mention her dried tears to anybody. "Vell, never mind. Anyvay, I hev no idea how she feels about me now, and about ze whole affair. I hardly know any longer how I feel myself."

He turned his head to look at Amdír. "I don't really know vy I'm telling you all zis, Amdír, except zat you'd hear most of it from others soon enough. Ve heven't talked zat much in ze past, alzough ve've known each other for zree years now, and I know much less about your own life beyond your dealings viz our company zan I'm beginning to zink I should like to. But zere is somezing in your face and talk zat inspires trust and confidence. Lord Cirdacil has lost a better man zan he vill ever know."

[Nerwen]

It took a moment for Asta to register what the "child" was saying.

"Oh! Then you're– Forgive me, I– I thought..." she stammered. The woman smiled, as if to say: it happens. Asta recovered her dignity as best she could. "I'm Asta of the King's Players."

Asta had never seen a real, in-the-flesh halfling before. She could not help darting a glance at Elanor's feet, which sure enough were bare of shoes but thickly covered with fur. So that part was true. She was a great deal smaller than Sereth, however, and though her complexion was much the same delicate brown, her curling hair was a deep golden colour. Either she was an exception then, or somebody back in the dim mists of the company's beginnings had been very wrong about what halflings were supposed to look like.

The tiny hand still clasped her own. Asta wondered what she was supposed to do with it.

[Anguirel]

"I know not which grandsire you mean, my lord. My mother's father is Ardamir, a fisherman. Of my father's sire, I knew him not at all, only that his name was Beren."

The old lord listened soberly to Vëandur's faltering, puzzled answer. At the last word, that short, evocative, high name, he made a firm, rapid, nod; but in words he did not reply for some further moments, as he turned away from the younger man, and began to look out upon the morning skyline. He stared into that part of the distance where the shine of the Anduin river was flowing, and seemed to murmur words addressed only to himself, or perhaps to an entity that heard with ears other than material ones. Almost, Vëandur and the guard would suspect in that moment, he was praying; not for something, surely, but for someone. But at last he turned again back to the sailor.

"I knew your grandsire - Beren - well enough," he said. "He was lost at sea, though I never heard any more exactly of the manner of his death. I hope he went peacefully to Osse's locker, and not by the harsher steel of some craven and misbegotten pirate."

He gave another of his brusque, business-like nods, this time to the guard, and abruptly remounted the mule. It seemed for far longer than an instant as if both were going to ride off (for the guard mounted his sturdy gelding too, now) and leave the seaman to wonder alone. But then the lord held up his wrinkled and slightly palsied, shaking hand in a halting gesture.

"Stay, my man. I must impart another word, after all, to the mariner."

It was with shining tears that threatened the timbre of his voice - that voice, too, on a sudden regaining the singsong Pelargir resonance - that he admitted to Vëandur, as if it cost him much, "He was my brother."

And he alighted to his feet again, and held out quivering arms in the most awkward looking of proffered embraces.

[Inziladun]

Vëandur had stood listening to the man named "Cirdacil" with increasing astonishment.
The name itself had stirred something within him when he had first heard it from the guard, but why that should be he did not know. He could not remember ever seeing this old man before, even in passing during previous excursions to the City.

At the words "He was my brother," it became clear. Vëandur had heard the name before, from his father long years ago, when Vëandur was only a small boy of five summers or so.

His father and he had been at the shore sitting upon the quay. Both had been in a fine mood, smelling the salt in the air and hearing the musical cries of the gulls. Falastur had been telling him a tale of his first time at sea with his own father.

"When can I go?" Vëandur had asked.

"Soon I shall take you with me, but your mother thinks your years are yet too few. Fear not, if the Sea runs in your blood you shall not be kept from it."

"I'll bet the Sea runs in the blood of all our family!" Vëandur had said, looking at his father with admiration.

"Not all," said Falastur. "My uncle Cirdacil felt not the call. He turned away from the Sea and went north long ago. It is many years since I have seen him."

"I don't understand why he would turn away from the Sea," said Vëandur.

"Neither do I, my son. You must remember though that it needs many men to serve the needs of Gondor, not sailors only. Judge him not."

The memory passed through Vëandur's mind in seconds. Now, seeing the name made into a living man in Minas Anor far from the Sea, Vëandur could tell the resemblance to his father in the old man's face, especially in the nose and mouth.

"It is joyous to find kin, especially where one does not look for it," said Vëandur.

He struggled for other words, but instead grasped the old man's arms and accepted his embrace.

After several moments, they parted, looking at one another.

"Alas, I can tell you little of Beren that you do not know," said Vëandur. "My father said that he set out on a voyage to the Anfalas one Spring day and never returned. It happened ere I was born."

[Anguirel]

"Vëandur, son of Falastur, of the Fleets," Cirdacil repeated now, in simple wonderment. "My old cheeks blush to admit it, but I had forgotten even the sound of my little nephew's name, till I saw those eyes of yours...and now I see I have a grand-nephew, and grown a brave pilot for his country! Well..."

He shook his head in simple disbelief. Even now, he did not look like a kindly old man, more like a difficult curmudgeon who had been hit on the head with a mattock and was just coming round.

"Well," he said again, "I intend to make it as glad a discovery as I can arrange, though my time is always short, and I'm sure in your active path of life, yours is, well, as much so. But I shall tell you now that you have four fine young cousins, and that we are a family of no small importance, by the grace of the late lamented Steward, and the favours, too, of the King now ruling. Yonder," he pointed further down the fine, broad street, to a long mansion of yellowish limestone, "stands the house of my elder son, Ecsichil, to where I was on my way...and I am sure he would be delighted..."

But Cirdacil cut himself off half way through his sentence, still gazing penetratingly at his new nephew; his eyes might be smaller and browner, but they had, after all, a similar force of will.

"Actually, a better plan has occurred to me. I must tell you, then, though as my near blood you need observe no more courtesies than you think fit, that I am more widely known as Cirdacil, Lord of Burlach, Lord Warden of the Exchequer, and...unfortunately...Master of the Revels, too, at the moment. My younger daughter is married to a lord from Dol Amroth, but I know she is visiting her brother at this house, this evening, for a party of which they think I know nothing. More fool them!

"All my children, your cousins, two boys and two girls," the old man's pride here seemed at the point of overweening, "will be gathered at once. Now, I shall be free from the toils of the Exchequer at midnight; if you too are at liberty then, shall we meet here shortly after that, and surprise the rest of the family together? Then I can introduce you properly."

Cirdacil waited for Vëandur's answer, simultaneously looking him up and down with such exactitude that the mariner might wonder if his distinguished uncle had genuinely proposed his scheme out of affection, if he wished to see this country cousin brought before his noble children only when he was in finer array, or if another reason altogether worked somehow upon the old man...

[Inziladun]

A party? With family he had never before seen, who did not know him? The thought made Vëandur smile nervously. Intruding on parties was something he had done a time or two before (mostly with friends from his ship, all drunk), but this was different. Yet, he did not see how he could refuse Cirdacil's offer. Anyway, the old man knew his own family better than Vëandur did, at any rate. And there was really no reason he could not go. As long as he left word with someone in the Second Circle quarters his crew had been allotted saying where he was going, it should be no problem.

Thinking of the crew brought crashing back the trouble with the captain, temporarily banished by the unexpected meeting.

Perhaps Cirdacil might have some influence that would help, he thought. And acceding to the old man's desire in what looked to be a minor matter surely would not hurt that chance. Also, Vëandur was curious about the unseen relatives, and wanted to meet them. He made up his mind.

"Lord Warden of the Exchequer and Master of Revels? How pressing your duties must be, my uncle. I would hear more of them, and of your life here when you have time. I am here in the City while my captain takes counsel, and know not when I shall have to leave." He paused, and bowed.

"Very well, Lord of Burlach (for so it seems fitting to call you in the public ear), I shall meet you in this place at midnight. I would have the chance to speak more with you, and meet those kin long sundered. May this be the beginning of new bonds between us!"

[Dimturiel]

“You're great. The people love you, and so will we...just the way you are."

Well, that was a relief, Harrenon thought. It could, of course, have been told only out of politeness, but right now Harrenon did not care whether Sador’s words were really honest or not. Any validation was good enough, at the moment. And, he had to admit that Sador had style and a way of making what he said seem very believable. No doubt a very useful talent.

Harrenon looked at his new acquaintance thoughtfully. There was something else Sador had said, something about the Master of the Revels not exactly having good intentions concerning them. Of course, he had heard those rumours many times, and the fact that Sador had now mentioned them to him confirmed in a way that there could be some truth there. How much, Harrenon still did not know, but he could of course try finding out.

“You know,” he said musingly, “I kind of think that even though your father might want to stew us in boiling oil as you so vividly put it – well, I believe that you would not exactly agree with him, would you?”

Now that’s dangerous ground you’re treading, Harry my lad, Harrenon told himself warningly. But he could not exactly take it back. And maybe, if he watched Sador carefully, he might learn from his reaction what exactly he had been put to do there. Then he would maybe find out whether he was really up to no good or not and perhaps he would no longer need to make a fool of himself by tailing Sador all over the place just to pacify Coldan.

[Formendacil]

"Lord Cirdacil has lost a better man zan he vill ever know."

Amdír wasn't sure what to say. He was a humble enough man in stature that he was rarely flattered, and he tended to see his better qualities as simply doing what needed or ought to be done, rather than anything praiseworthy in itself. And then there was the troubling fact that, begrudgingly, Amdír privately agreed with Coldan about Cirdacil not being likely to ever know what a fool he was.

"You are kind to say so," he managed to say after a pause. Then, so as not to dwell on that thought so much, Amdír pointed ahead a low hedge running through the fields.

"That's the edge of Lord Hallas' lands. We're no more than half an hour from the loading up. I should thank you again for coming. It's difficult handling some of the pieces alone, and I don't have the same strength in my left arm as most men, thanks to the Easterlings."

[Dimturiel]

Harrenon had by now deduced that Sador was quite fond of talking – or, maybe, of hearing himself speak, Harrenon was not quite sure which. Nothing or relevance was said, however, at least not in Harrenon’s opinion. As a matter of fact, all that enthusiastic babble was giving him a headache.

Of course, that point about the Witchking’s history was quite interesting, or it would have been, had he not heard it already the day before from Bergil, who had also told him that the Witchking had not in fact killed Boromir, contrary to what the Players had believed – but then again, the Players had believed so many erroneous things, one more hardly mattered. Which of course meant that Harrenon’s time on stage as the Witchking – a favourite of his, which he most certainly did not portray as only a “bogey-man to scare the infants." as Sador thought he did. He actually preferred the role of the Witchking more than that of Legolas. Not because he was one that secretly had evil aspirations. It was only the fact that he had little to do as Legolas, only throw arrows at random and make silly noises for effect. He had actually tried once to talk to Aldarion and get him to give up the sound effects but, predictably, Aldarion would hear nothing of it, claiming that Harrenon had surely made a fool of himself while on stage in worse ways than that.

The rest of Sador’s speech, however, did not do anything but to amuse Harrenon. Well, well, who would have believed the son of none other than the Master of the Revels had such idealistic notions and such dreams! Still, Harrenon decided that it would do no harm to flatter his acquaintance a bit, now that he had the chance.

“Oh, I am sure you will do splendid in the Royal Court,” he said when Sador finally ended his speech. “You seem to have the making for things like that, or so I think. As for your questions – well, I regret to say I haven’t met too many Evles to be a good judge of them.” (As a matter of fact, Harrenon had never seen an Elf in his entire life, but he was not going to let Sador know that). “See,” he added, “There really was a performance in Thranduil’s halls, but you will have to ask Brinn – I mean, Mistress Celebrindal – for more details, since it was long before my time. Regarding that tale that bard of yours told about Legolas and his supposed beloved – well, yes, that would be fit for a play. But I am sure we could leave others to write it.”

At least Harrenon hoped that would be the case. The last thing he wanted to do was to portray a character that was mooning over some obscure Elven-maiden. Knightly-love, indeed! he thought disdainfully. Nothing made one act more absurdly than that and Harrenon wanted nothing to do with it. If he was to have romance in a play, why could it not for once be straight-forward and natural, without all the drama that made one forget about the real story?

Seeing Sador’s rather mortified look, Harrenon realised that he had inadvertently spoken the last words aloud. He smiled apologetically.

“I hold more with tales of adventure, you see,” he hastened to explain. “Nor do I find the type of relationships tuppenny bards usually love to sing of the most moving things that can be put in a tale. Why, what about friendship, then? I have found tales of friendship much more touching than all the love-stories put together. But that, of course, is just a quirky opinion of mine.”

He waved his hand carelessly, as if showing Sador that he should not pay much attention to his ramblings.

[Pitchwife]

"That's the edge of Lord Hallas' lands. We're no more than half an hour from the loading up. I should thank you again for coming. It's difficult handling some of the pieces alone, and I don't have the same strength in my left arm as most men, thanks to the Easterlings."

That last remark made Coldan raised an eyebrow. He had noticed occasionally that the carpenter moved somewhat stiffly at times, but to the extent that he had given thought to the matter at all, he had assumed it might be due to an accident at work. Stupid, he scolded himself. Of course Amdír would have been in the War, like any able-bodied man his age.

"So you were vounded in ze Var? And by Easterlings? And yet you spoke of ze fact that I hev zeir blood in my veins like it doesn't matter to you?"

Amdír shrugged. "Why should it? You're not the man who gave me that wound. And even if you have a tiny drop of the blood of his people in you, why should I blame you for what is beyond your power to change? A man should be judged by who he is and what he does, not by who his fathers were; or so I hold."

These words provided ample food for Coldan's mind to chew on for a while. "You're right, Amdír", he said at last. "I guess I might as vell stop being so touchy about it." Too bad he hadn't come to this insight about a day earlier, or he might just have laughed Asta's insult off, and everything that had happened afterwards might have gone a lot differently.

"But", he continued, eager to change the subject, "now you mention it, I vonder vy none of us seems to hev zought of asking you about your memories of ze Var! Vere you on ze Pelennor?"

"So I was", Amdír nodded, "and a gruesome thing to remember that is. I do not speak of it often, but if you feel my memories could help you people with the play, we can talk about it at more leisure over lunch, when our work is done."

They had now reached a junction where a smaller road forked off from the highway leading down to the Harlond and turned sharp west. Following it, they climbed up a spacious valley that nestled between two spreading roots of the Mindolluin massif, its floor a patchwork of green meadows, orchards with their trees laden with fruit, and corn-fields where farmhands were busy bringing in the last crops while they passed them by; on the upper slopes cattle were grazing. Near the head of the valley, where its rocky walls closed in, stood a stately manor built of the same white stone that Coldan had seen everywhere in the City, surrounded by a small village of stables, sheds and barns, as well as several houses of more modest size, less splendid but still neat and well-built; these, he surmised, would be the dwellings of the numerous servants and workers in Lord Hallas' employ.

In the middle of the wide courtyard in front of the white mansion Amdír reined in the mules, climbed off the driver's seat and greeted the servants who welcomed them, calling each by his name, with a familiarity that spoke of long acquaintance.

"Please see to it that the beasts are fed and watered, will you? I've brought a friend along today to help me with loading our sets, Coldan of Dorwinion, prompter and occasional actor with the King's Players; I had to bribe him with the promise of a fine lunch when we're done, so I depend on you to help me keep my word."

"Do not worry, Amdír", one of the men replied with a laugh. "Your friend shall have no reason to rue his coming hither. Everything will be ready when you are."

Amdír led the way to a barn that stood hidden behind the backside of the manor and opened the big creaking door. Coldan stepped in and stood, blinking to see in the twilight that filled the barn, between the familiar set pieces he had so often performed among and even more often hidden behind, always alert to provide the needed cue when one of his fellow-players faltered in their texts. The showpiece, the big mountain backdrop which could serve as Erebor as well as Amon Rûdh, Mindolluin, part of the Misty Mountains or Mount Doom - then lit from behind so it seemed to glow inside, and with smoke rising from the summit - was missing, for Amdír had already brought it to the inn the day before; but there was the street corner which nobody really knew what it had originally been supposed to represent but which would do nicely for any scene set within Minas Anor, and there the Mirkwood backdrop which could easily double as Lothlórien with a little change of lighting, and there the Tower of Isengard, shown in dramatic perspective to appear higher than it was and painted on both sides so it could change into Barad-dûr with a simple turnaround.

"All right", he said, rolling up his sleeves. "It's ze vork zat's never begun as takes longest to finish. Let's get started."

[Mnemosyne]

Elanor smiled, squeezed the hand, and let it go. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Asta," she said. She paused--the name sounded peculiar rolling off her tongue. "You're not from around here, are you? The Players, I mean. Oh, but that's terribly rude of me--let me start again. It's a pleasure to meet you, especially because you're with the King's Players. I know we're going to see you on Cormare and all, but I wanted to stop by and see you all in advance. I dearly love history, after all, and especially what folk are doing with it here--it's all so different back home, you see!" She took a sip of tea. "So, if any of you are agreeable, I'd love to hear a little of what you're doing, from the pony's mouth, as it were. What sort of things do you do with the Players?"

[Nerwen]

"In answer to your first question: we're from Dale– at least most of us are."

"I see," said Elanor, "so you're the King of Dale's Players!"

"Er– yes," said Asta, though she was rather hazy on that point. The troupe's name came from some long-ago, half-forgotten jest of Rollan's, which for all she could recall might have been about the King under the Mountain, or the King of the Wood Elves, or even wicked Butterbur's successor, the King of Bree. Brinn had cautioned them against saying too much of this in Minas Anor, where folk seemed to take these matters very seriously, and might ask awkward questions about their supposed royal patron. She moved on quickly, to a subject closer to her heart, "As for what I do– well, it's more a question of what don't I do– why, sometimes I think the whole company would fall to pieces if it weren't for me! Not that Bri– Celebrindal– doesn't work hard... but between acting roles and fixing everything and working the mechanicals– particularly the dragon–"

"The dragon...?" the halfling repeated. "But... isn't the play about the War of the Ring?"

"Yes, of course– so naturally we had to put in the Great Dragon of Mordor!"

"Oh," said Elanor, looking a little blank, "that dragon."

[Mnemosyne]

Rollan and Brinn took their breakfast together in the cart. Amdir had dropped the crutches off earlier, and after Brinn had done some test-stumping, she was reasonably confident that she could get around.

Still, there was something comforting about having breakfast in the comfort of one's own room (well, cart), and more comforting still being alone with her husband a little longer. Still, when Thiliel stopped by, she made sure to let her know that she would be dining in the common room, barring any further mishaps.

Thiliel was brimming with energy when she brought the food in, which was a blessing--Rollan was not much of a morning person, and Brinn's desire to discuss the subject of Coldan (and, when he wasn't proving particularly forthcoming, the mysterious Sador) was not mutual.

"You seem sunny today, miss," said Brinn. "Is there any good news from the inn?"