The King's Players RPG

[Mnemosyne]

"Seri," said Brinn, "I said until the show is over, not just 'the show is over.' Why, if it were over now, we should be packing up and going, shouldn't we? Everything's still going as according to plan as could be expected"--given our tendency to bungle even the simplest plans--"and, if anything, Miss Elanor Gamgee has been an unexpected boon to us in all of this as now we have received a visit from one of the people we need most to reach. She has proven most willing to help out with the play, as can be seen from this." She held up a few scattered pages of notes. "Not only does she know what happened, she knows the people who did these very things, how they would act, and the like. In fact, Seri, she's quite interested in speaking with you about the Ring-bearer; she's quite... taken with him.

"Asta, please desist from wringing anyone's neck, here or elsewhere. I assure you that I sensed no evil intentions from Elanor, and even if she is scheming and conniving, we already have enough schemers to deal with who are a little more open with their intentions. I suggest we focus on them first." She blinked. Maybe that was not such a good thing to tell Asta.

"Who, Sador?" said Asta. "I found this most fascinating note last night--"

Unsure whether it was worse to have Asta give them all away to Sador, whatever he was up to (if anything!), or to have her in a dreadful state of paranoia all the way up to the show, Brinn decided on the response that would allow herself temporary safety."Anyone. I'd appreciate whatever information you could give me, in fact."

Rollan, from behind, nervously jerked his hand underneath his neck, in the traditional cutoff from their days in Dale when that particular year's Bard the Bowman had thought it a good idea to drink a yard of ale before coming on stage. Brinn gave him an exasperated shrug.

"But, just so everyone is utterly clear, the show is not cancelled, and we have not been run out of town, and Elanor has not, as of yet, proved herself to be evil. Any questions?"

[Galadriel55]

Thiliel almost jumped with joy when Celebrindal clarified that the play is still going on. She was also glad to hear that Elanor was helping; she was a very nice and polite maiden, - woman, Thiliel corrected herself, - and it would be a hard blow to Thiliel if she found out that she befriended and helped someone who caused so much damage.

The girl was very confused, but at least one thing was clear: the play is still happening. Unable to contain her emotions, she clapped her hands and jumpedon the spot. Thiliel noticed that the quite crowded adults did not appreciate this behaviour, and stopped.

"Hurray! The play is not cancelled!" She said in explanation to the questioning looks the actors gave her.

[Nerwen]

"But, just so everyone is utterly clear, the show is not cancelled, and we have not been run out of town, and Elanor has not, as of yet, proved herself to be evil. Any questions?"

"Yes! What do you think of this?" Asta was not about to lose this second chance at revealing the note, not when the first time had been so anticlimatic. She would have liked to be able to move around a bit more, and make some appropriate dramatic gestures, but the near-miss she had just received from Coldan (which she would not let him forget in a hurry) was a reminder of how close the quarters were.

"I found this outside Lord Sador's door– if he really is a lord– yesterday. It's mostly indecipherable– you'd think a real lord would write a fairer hand, wouldn't you?– but it most definitely says "Aldarion", "third" and "tomorrow"– which is to say, today. And you remember that business with the letters? There's something going on, that's for sure– in fact," she added, as a startling new thought occurred to her, "if you ask me they've kidnapped him!"

It all made sense now. She could not imagine why it had taken her so long to work it out.

[Anguirel]

None other than the fraudulent kidnapper of Asta's speculation, dapper little Sador of Burlach, was in fact by this time comfortably settled lengthways on a chaise-longue in the fine and fashionable mansion of his elder brother. A wide pair of Fornost windows had been cast open to let the breeze ventilate properly, which was quite necessary as both brothers, contrary to their father's habits and, had he been there, to his certain disapproval, were smoking pipes full of the herb of Eriador. They were not exactly each other's preferred company, and the presence of the three women was in truth a great relief; the silent Lady Ecsichil in her peculiar sectary full body gauze veil, lolling like her husband and brother-in-law but partaking neither of smoke nor speech; golden Circilie roaming about the room, making emendations and conversation; Gloredhel sitting straight and supple in a chair more aesthetic than comfortable, by her own preference.

"You sent Aerwen to go and catch this new player acquaintance of yours?" Ecsichil was asking, not for the first time. Unlike his wife, he did possess the apparent faculty of speech, though he avoided any topics of dangerous freshness. Sador sometimes, at moments such as this, found his brother surprisingly restful to be around after all. Ecsichil was an unsympathetic boor, and his existence, combined with his wife's predictable efficiency at producing straight, soldierly young sons, ensured that Sador would never inherit a scrap of land or a substantive rank; but, on the other hand, the elder son of Burlach did tend to emphasise by his style of 'thought' and behaviour the unusual wit and aptitude of the younger one.

"I didn't send her," Sador answered languidly, "father wouldn't like me arbitrarily to interrupt my elder sister's education on a whim about the theatre, would he now? But I told her my friend would be waiting, asked her if she was interested, and she expressed herself positively."

"Alright," Ecsichil said boredly, still following the old furrow for lack of anything else to say to Sador. "But is it all quite decent? This player, is he of at least presentable rank? Is there a chaperone?"

"A coachman, I think, Aerwen's usual one, but I mean, come on, brother dear. Aldarion is perfectly respectable, an old friend of Gloredhel's, no less." Sador looked automatically towards the object of his esteem and fear, but could not long maintain the gaze. "Anyway, we're talking about Aerwen here, one of the most famous scholars in the City and one of the shyest. I don't think she's going to conclude the ride pregnant with twins."

Circilie, a few months with child herself, and Ecsichil laughed at their brother's quip. No one saw Gloredhel's faintly narrowing glance except Lady Ecsichil through her veil, and she did not note it as any sign of emotion, a capacity, rather like speech, she had long since dropped, out of pure torpidity.

"Now then," Circilie remarked, bustling herself into the middle of the little party on a comfy chair by the Fornost window, "tell us about this play then, little Sador."

"That shambles? Why?"

"Oh, don't be so modest, kidling brother, I don't mean that funny affair being scraped out at the inn. I mean the play you want Master Aldarion and darling Gloredhel to help you read out after supper. And yes, I definitely want a part this time. Give me something funny."

Circilie's dimpled dollish looks were very good for moulding, and she made one of her famous silly faces, faces that had briefly amused even her husband, Amlach. Even Gloredhel laughed a little at this one, though it might have been, for all any of the rest of the family knew or cared, only the mirth of courtesy.

[the phantom]

"If you wish," said Aerwen to Aldarion, "I shall try to show you a better playwright even than your old master."

Not entirely certain how to respond, Aldarion shrugged and nodded. He was anxious to get to the party, but did not wish to be discourteous and rush Aerwen. He doubted very much that she would show him anything new anyway.

What's it going to be? A collection of those ridiculous Gondolin works? No action or intrigue whatsoever- just philosophy and praising the Valar. Or perhaps some obscure Numenorean playwright? Ha- I seriously doubt there is a single play ever written in Numenor that I have not come across in my studies. I've covered all the writers of Gondor and Arnor as well, and even the few Harad turned out. But I suppose I should humor her.

[Anguirel]

In which the star-cross'd passion of Rumillo and Írildë is first laid before a discerning, and limited, public (Aldarion by name)

"I have to move fast and visit regularly to catch the newest scripts here," Aerwen explained to her new acquaintance, as they passed through the threshold of the establishment, under a hanging sign depicting an ibis.

"If they fall to obscurity, a few copies are bought up by collectors - among whom I have sometimes myself bidded - and the rest tend to be burnt. But if they catch any attention - either noble patronage, or the esteem of some city scholar or poet, or even become performed by some touring company - they are in danger of suppression by the Revels office if they get too successful; and in any case, Lindir of the Ibis doesn't like books that get too popular; he thinks it prejudices the tone of his merchandise..."

The shop was a great deal more extensive, and less comfortable, than it had looked from the Course outside. It was impossible to get a straight or diagonal view in any direction, so contorted were the L-shapes of its dustily clustered shelves; Aerwen looked tentatively in one direction in particular whence they saw a cold, absorbed man with a shaven pate, presumably the Lindir Aerwen had mentioned. But she took Aldarion off down another path, wriggling through the impromptu corridors with all a bookworm's hunger and facility.

"Of course, many of the best scripts - the back catalogue of the Swan Players, for example - have been performed already, and this presents a lesser problem; they already have a reputation, and a market, and sponsors to back them; you find them handsomely bound in folios with gilded edges. What I'm going to show you is a bit odder; a playwright whom, ah, rumour has it has been performed somewhere; but no one knows under quite what circumstances; ah, yes..."

They were immediately under a silver plaque that informed them Theatricals, L. Aerwen impatiently shifted the initial volume, the anonymous and long Lamentable Trago-History of the Laiquendi, obviously looking for something not far off from the start, and last settled on a small, dark quarto, neatly but unspectacularly bound in a blue that was almost but not quite black. Silver impressions on the spine read Lameleg, Beren, Arvedui part 1.

"Right author," Aerwen was muttering, half to herself, "wrong plays; rough prentice pieces only..." Her long white hand with its bitten nails whipped out a volume only a little bit further along, identical in appearance except that it read Lameleg, Beren, The Tragedy of Romillo and Írildë. She passed it to Aldarion with a gentle smile, open at this Prologue:

Two shipholds, alike in antiquity,
In Vinyalondë, where we lay our scene
From ancient to first mate in mutiny
Have risen, spilling blood and rum unclean:
From forth the bilges, midst these fatal crews
A pair of star-cross'd lovers take their chance:
Whose misadventures and untimely news
Be interspersed with duelling and with dance.
The fearful passage of grim Anfalas
And the continuance of the boatswain's rage
Whom, but the vinous leaf, naught may relax,
Is now the bare hour's traffic in our page:
The which, if you (when wearied) yet forebear
To slumber on't, we'll venture good repair.

"Romance, pirates, and a fairly harmonious measure of versification," Aerwen murmured with an intonation between scepticism and admiration, "but my, the poetry has barely warmed up here...do flick on..."

[Nerwen]

"Kidnapped? For pity's sake, Asta, now you're just being absurd," Brinn told her with uncharacteristic sharpness, though she was still absently stroking Sereth's dark hair.

"Your zister zpeaks zense, Asta," said Coldan reluctantly. "I hardly zink Aldarion could be overpowered by Lord Zador, of all men."

"As if I hadn't thought of that! He'd have a gang, wouldn't he?" Ideas were springing up like weeds in the fertile soil of Asta's imagination. "These so-called guardsmen are probably in it, and that dreadful old man, and of course those two "ladies" who invaded the Common Room this morning.

'Besides, Sador can't be his real name– now that would be absurd." She had remembered, now, where it was that she had first encountered the name: attached to the maimed servant character in that deplorable, but supposedly factual, historical play Aldarion had tried to foist on them. "In fact, I'll tell you what, I don't believe there's anything the matter with his leg at all. I'm sure he's just pretending to be lame, to put us all off our guard– and– and make it easier for him to vanish once his schemes are complete. Why it's just's the sort of thing a master criminal would do."