The King's Players RPG

[Mnemosyne]

Yavannie 24, F.A. 21

A sudden gust of wind brought the sound of two faint bell-strokes to Brinn's ears, as she walked alongside the painted waggon. That was good, then--she was a terrible judge of distance when it came to big cities nestled in the mountains, but surely they were close if they could hear the bells of Minas Anor. The lands of the Pelennor smelled ripe with harvest--fruit from the orchards, bleached barleycorn, punctuated with whiffs of the Anduin itself. Behind and before them were the carts of merchants and farmers for the markets in the first few circles of the City, laden with casks of wine and oil from the Emyn Arnen. Every so often they were passed by one of these, for they were in no real hurry, and the mules that pulled their carts were not meant for speed. A few of the folk stared at the lettering on the sides, recently repainted in the style of letters that Gondor seemed to favor--

The King's Players!

Tales of Joy!

Tales of Woe!

Tales of Derring-Do!

feat. the Finest Dwarven-made Mechanicals you ever did see, so true-to-life you'll jump out of your seat

Not that that last bit was entirely true, but Father wasn't there to see it and Asta hadn't complained yet. It drew more people, anyhow.

"Hear that, Rollan?" she called up to the man driving the first cart.

"Loud and clear, my love," Rollan called back. "Maybe we'll actually have time to settle before we rehearse tonight!"

"Ah, wouldn't that be a lovely change of pace?"

"'Course, now that I've said something, and knowing our luck--"

"Don't say anything further, then!" said Brinn, laughing. "I'd like this to be a peaceful run, thanks, maybe pull in enough money that we can take a holiday for a couple of weeks."

"Well, Cormare always brings in plenty, from all over. Don't reckon those merchants that just passed us could make a profit on silk otherwise. Have you got everything ready to get in the city?"

"I think so," said Brinn. She looked down at her dress, which was rather more respectable than most of their costumes--just right to make the first impression. And she had run over in her mind the exact location of the inn-yard where they would be staying, and the innkeeper's name, and the official she always spoke to when they needed that particular market square that was right along one of the main streets, and she had the papers...

The papers.

They were still in the cart. "Half a minute!" she cried, and climbed up the steps in back of the cart to get inside. There, sitting on the trunk where the papers were, squished among racks of costumes and crates of props, was a maiden of about twelve years, reading over a script.

"Seri, dear," said Brinn, "why don't you come outside? The light's much better out there."

It took the child a moment to realize she was being spoken to. She put down the script and looked up. "Do you think I'll make a good Frodo the Warrior Halfling?"

"Well, the audience loved you last year--I don't see why not."

"I'm taller this year."

"The better to charge the gates of the Dark Tower with, then. Do stand up; I need to get our papers out of that chest."

Sereth complied, and Brinn opened the chest. On top were the papers they had procured last year, authorizing and easing their return to the White City to perform for the Ring-Day festival. "Thank you," said Brinn. "Now, come outside and take the air with me."

Sereth did so, leaving the script behind, and immediately began launching into a dramatic recitation of her cues and lines. So passed the next half-hour, until they reached the great and majestic mithril gates of Minas Anor.

Brinn made a full courtesy to the guard on duty and presented her papers. "I am Mistress Celebrindal," she said, "of the King's Players, requesting admittance to the City to prepare and perform our annual play for the Cormare celebration."

The guard looked through the papers, and nodded. "You may enter," he said.

"Thank you." Brinn nodded and waved at Rollan, who started the line of carts on their way into the city.

"You should have a fine attendance this year," said the guard, as the waggons passed through. "The preparations for Cormare this year have been twice as splendid as any year I can recall, on account of the King's special guests."

"I am sorry," said Brinn, "but we are a travelling group and were not aware of any special guests. Who might these be?"

"Why, the pheriannath, of course! I am certain you'll see them some time while you are here, for the people love to see them--the lord Samwise, and his wife, and his daughter, who is a lady in waiting to our beloved Queen. And since it has been many years since we have had those people to whom we owe so much in our midst, everyone wants to make the celebration this year especially grand. Your show, no doubt, will be a boon to our City."

Brinn thanked him for his kind words--he was a younger sort and not half as dour as so many of Gondor's men were--but she could not help but feel a little troubled. Halflings belonged in the Breelands, or beyond, in the Shire, not in Gondor! What in heaven's name could they be doing here?

[Boromir88]

When Branor heard the familiar, and welcoming, ringing of the Minas Anor bell-strokes he jumped out of the cart. This was the fifth year he would visit Minas Anor, and he has yet to get tired of the place. This was the premier stage and there was always something new to do in the growing and lively city. He was hoping he would have time to explore the city more than in years past. Branor did not mind promoting the play or searching for patrons (since it gave him a chance to showcase to people his talents), but he wanted time to experience the city. After all, this performance was going to be about him, about Minas Anor. King Elessar is the star of the story, the Return of the King, and it was up to Branor to get the character right.

There already seems to be a buzz around Minas Anor about the King's Players performance, which brightened Branor up even more. Now he wouldn't have to spend too much time selling seats, if this was true. Also, he over-heard the guard telling Brinn the Lord Samwise would be attending the show. Samwise? This name sounded familiar. Samwise? It couldn't be Frodo's hobbit servant, Sam, could it? Sam died, and was unbelievably daft. No way could a servant become a Lord. This had to be a different Samwise, or Aldarion was going to need to re-write the script.

Branor had had his disputes with Aldarion in the past, however he had to admit Aldarion's talents as a writer. Aldarion knew how to appeal to a crowd by knowing when the script needed tension, drama, action, or romance. Branor was just of the opinion Aldarion could take a few pointers from him when it came to acting. He appreciated Aldarion leaving the Dol Amroth troupe to join theirs, but Aldarion needed to just focus on the writing.

Then around the same time Aldarion joined the King's Players, Branor had an opportunity to defect to the Swan Players. Once Branor realized he loved to (and could) act, it had been his dream to get on the big stage. Branor judged he would not come across another troupe as prestigious as the Swan Players. However, he could not abandon Brinn (and indeed he never told her he could have left), as surely joining the King's Players biggest rivals would leave behind bitter dregs. Branor could not do that, and in truth, he realized the King's Players were rising in fame. In what other troupe could you witness mechanical monsters and an actor of Branor's caliber?

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Therian could - and would - become anything. He was an actor, a master of fakery, of shams and chicanery. And today he was pretending he was entering Minas Anor with a different agenda.

How long had he been with the troupe? It didn't matter. Brinn would replace him as soon as she found someone who could act better than him, and he could not let that happen. When the time came, he would be the best confounded Eowyn the Shieldmaiden that had ever existed. These southerners... no matter how often he came to Minas Anor he could not get over their dour, self-righteous expressions, and there was something wilder and more concerning about the straw heads. He'd heard they sold their horses to the Black Riders during the War, and then holed up in some mountain to wait for the slaughter to end. Some bravery, that. And he was supposed to believe some lady princess of them had the brass to withstand the onslaught of the leader of the enemy? When the king and the prince and all were the type to hide away in a cave, Therian was supposed to believe that some thin pretty thing put away her apron and did what the men could not? Women could do many things, certainly, and far better than Therian could, but he would defy any man to show him a woman that could take him in a fight. Not that he would ever fight a woman, because that would be entirely inappropriate.

Warrior maidens. Therian shook his head.

No. He would enter the city with a showman's smile on his lips, because today he would be playing King Elessar! Of course, not really. In truth he would be playing Aldarion's completely unbelievable version of the yellow haired one. Dernhelm. Who would even call themselves that? Undoubtedly the story was at least partly fabricated. After all, what else would there be to keep the young women interested, if there were no strong female leads? Even if the Shieldmaiden was on the Pelennor, and even if she did kill the Witchking, it was probably by slitting his throat while he was busy attacking someone else. No doubt it was anticlimactic, if it even happened, and all that weaponry and banter and Black Breath was added later, to make it sound more dramatic. But still, on the stage, he would cry, "No man am I!"

But today, entering Minas Anor, he would act his best part, to keep himself from regretting his decision to join this troupe where he was so hated that he was required, through his natural lack of facial hair, to play a girl. He would tell himself all day that he was to be the King.

I am the King! he shouted in his mind, in the direction of the bells. And I have returned!

[Nerwen]

"Will this accursed crowd never be quiet?" Asta muttered, not quite under her breath. She had been working since dawn repairing and oiling Smaug's jaw-joints, which had a tendency to seize up at the worst possible moments. Now she had quite the worst headache anyone had ever had, she was sure of that. She wondered how long it was until those frightful bells sounded the next hour, and how she would stand hearing them at close quarters.

Still, the Great Gate of Minas Anor was always something to see, and so she clambered over the gear to the front of the second waggon– a slow and careful procedure, as so much space in this waggon was devoted to her various puppets and mechanical props. Some could be packed away in boxes, but others were too large and complex of shape and had to be stacked on the floor and seats, cushioned as well as she could manage against the jolting of the cart. Smaug, of course, had pride of place, taking up most of the front half of the waggon, even with his wings of metal rods and silk tightly folded. Asta patted his muzzle affectionately, noting that the gold-painted scales were flaking a little around his nostrils.

She climbed onto the driver's seat beside the stocky, dark-haired young man who held the reins, bidding him a curt "good morning". She was in no mood for either the prompter's awkward courtship or for hearing the latest version of that play he was always scribbling at.

Coldan blushed, as usual, and greeted her eagerly, but as the vast gates of steel and mithril swung slowly open to reveal the marble streets of the white city gleaming in the morning sun, he fell silent in wonder. Asta too watched with an odd tightness in her throat, and for a moment her aching head was forgotten.

[Formendacil]

Amdír son of Amrod looked out from the walls of Minas Anor, hoping to catch a glimpse of the King's Players returning. For the last few years, their visits to the Gondorian royal city had been the highlight of his days, now that his wife had passed on and his children grown and starting families of their own. Ever since Lord Hallas, who had been his master privately until he had been taken into his service as the Master of Revels, had taken an interest in the performing arts, and in the King's Players in particular, Amdír had been involved with the Players when they were in town. As a master carpenter, he had constructed their stage and sets, and done and number of simple, but important handy tasks necessary for their performances in the city.

With Cormarë looming near, Amdír had already begun thinking about this year's stage, and had inspected the pieces that remained in storage on Lord Hallas's estate to see what he already had to work with, though he would make no decisions until Brinn--Amdír never called her Celebrindal--came and told him what she wanted. The Players did not tend to need an elaborate set, apart from a way to decently disguise the mechanical nature of Smaug and its operators, because of the nomadic nature of their shows, but the audience for drama was simple enough in Minas Anor (unlike the more discerning nobles of Dol Amroth) that a grander stage helped command more attention from the public, and so more revenues, and Amdír felt that the Players enjoyed having their illusions aided by a backdrop and stage. Well, some of them, anyway...

Whatever the Players normally wanted, Amdír had the feeling that this year they would build grander than ever. Lord Cirdacil, who had only recently been appointed the new Master of Revels, on the single occasion he had had words with Amdír, had intimated that he intended to invite King Elessar himself and his guests of honour, the pheriannath, to attend the play at opening night. Whether Lord Cirdacil had issued such an invitation yet, or even intended to, was unknown to his household carpenter, and thus any answer back from the Citadel could naturally not be guessed at.

Looking out from the walls of the City, Amdír hoped the invitation had been made, and accepted. Twenty years before, he had fought in the Battle of the Pelennor, and though over two decades of peace had passed since then, he could not forget his first sight of the City, surrounded by enemies. Minas Tirith, it had been called then, the Tower of the Guard, and Amdír still thought of it thus at times, a bulwark against the evil mountains that could still be discerned in the distant east, even if the mountains were only evil in memory now. Amdír could also remember clearly the despair that troubled his first stay in Minas Tirith, at the Houses of Healing, as everyone waited for word of the army that marched on the Black Gate. He had briefly met Master Meriadoc, who was also at the Houses of Healing, together with the now-Prince and Princess of Ithilien, and knew that Master Samwise was one of the three other perians who had saved the day in Mordor.

How they had done that, Amdír was not so clear, despite twenty years of ballads and some discussion the previous season, when the Players had brainstormed ideas for the coming season's plays. Hopefully, the visit of Master Samwise would motivate an accurate retelling of that not-so-distant history, and if Amdír was lucky, he might even get to thank some of those heroes in some small way for what they had done, for the joy they had given him, and all Minas Tirith, when word came back from the Field of Cormallen that Mordor was defeated and Sauron himself destroyed.

Meanwhile, however, Amdír caught sight of the distinctive bright waggons of the Players, and began to make his steady way down from the walls of the Fifth Circle to meet them at their place of lodging.

[Dimturiel]

Harrenon was woken up by the sound of the bells. His eyes sprang open and he cursed himself for falling asleep in the cart exactly when they were approaching the city. He liked to see Minas Anor in the distance and watch as they approached it, until he could finally behold it in all its glory. He had been to Minas Anor quite a few times and he told himself that he should have gotten used to it by now. And yet, that first sight of the mighty city of Gondor was always something Harrenon still looked forward to, like a treat after a hard day’s work.

Harrenon leaped out of the cart. They were near the gate now. The city bells were ringing. They had arrived in time. It was easy to imagine that the bells were in welcome of the King’s Players. At least they should have been, Harrenon told himself grinning. They were the best theatre troupe in Middle-earth, weren’t they? And they were about to give their best performance so far. Surely they were the first ones to try a rendition of what had happened during the War of the Ring. Or, at least the first to give a reliable rendition.

“I wonder if the King himself will come to watch us,” Harrenon muttered, but he discovered that the thought of it did not bring him much joy. Actually, it terrified him. He was sure that if the King was among the spectators watching him, he would freeze on the spot and be unable to perform. Sometimes it happened like that with Harrenon. He was usually comfortable enough on the stage, enjoying the attention, despite his rather shy nature. But there were times during a performance when he suddenly found himself unable to say another word. Fortunately, it happened seldom enough for Harrenon to pretend to the other Players that he had forgotten his line. He still did not know whether they believed him or not.

But now was not the time for gloomy thoughts, Harrenon told himself firmly as the first cart of their group passed through the city gates. He was once more in Minas Anor, his favourite city in the whole wide world and he could not wait for the day of the performance. It was surely going to be a success for the King’s Players.

[Mnemosyne]

The waggons rolled onward, turning down the main thoroughfare in the First Circle to the inn where they would be staying. It had a large yard in its centre, where the Players had put on their first shows in Minas Anor, and it could house their carts comfortably.

Good publicity, too.

They pulled into the yard, and Brinn sought out the innkeeper.

"Good day, Master Ingold," she said. "Have you been holding our rooms for us, or are the crowds too big?"

"We're almost full!" said the innkeeper. "But--I've been holding out for you--you're good for our business, after all."

"That means you won't try to charge higher this year, then, right?"

"Actually..."

Brinn laughed. "The rates we agreed on last year, thank you very much." She waved in front of him the paper that they had signed a year prior.

"Too clever by half, you are."

Brinn handed him a purse. "We'll get the rest to you after the show, as always."

Once the carts had been arranged in a fashion that appealed to Brinn, the mules were taken to their stalls by a few enterprising stable lads eager for tips. She spoke briefly with her husband, and then the two of them passed the same message onto the entire troupe, in the carts or stretching their legs.

"We have a few hours to get ourselves settled. Call for rehearsal is at the ninth hour, in the yard; we want things running as smoothly as possible before the actual performance."

[Galadriel55]

Belegon did not blink when he heard the gong, too loud according to some and ear-splitting to others. It was too much a part of his daily routine for him to react differently. When he hears the gong, he should head to the dining hall, to stand there like a pillar of stone unless his Lord and Lady need him. There he went. On his way, he curtly greeted other servants, whose duty did not involve standing by the doors of the dining hall every evening.

“Good evening, Belegon!”

“Evening it is, Galadelen, good or not.” Down the hall. Up the stairs. To the right. Through a small chamber. Past a marble statue.

“Good evening, Belegon, and well met! Are you to the dining hall?”

“Evening, evening, Earendur. Dining hall, as always.”

“Look out for Lord Sador, he is in a strange mood today.” A quick nod. Straight till the end of the hallway. Then left. Down a short flight of stairs. Through a maze of rooms. Quicken the pace: dinner will start soon.

BOOM! Suddenly the house was filled with noise again, and this time it was not the gong. A few more crashes. Someone in the next room screamed. A young maid almost ran into to Belegon. She looked a mess. Evidently, the noise – whatever it was – frightened her much more than it did him.

“O, Belegon, I’m so glad you’re here! That terrible -… what was it? It did not sound like thunder! You will go and make sure everything is all right, won’t you?”

“My place is at the dining hall. Others can give heed to whatever worries there are.”

“But, Belegon, someone has to go! The Ladies are scared. We all are. And Galadelen said that she saw smoke from the window. What if there’s a fire?”

“I am off to the dining hall. Do not make me late. Lord Ecsichil wants me to be there.”

“Lord Ecsichil wants the Ladies to be safe! He wants his house to be safe!” Curt nod. Ecsichil wants me to check on that noise.

“Where was the sound coming from?” he asked the maiden.

“I think it came from the West Wing. And Galadelen said she saw smoke there too, lots of it. The window was open, and -” Another nod. Turn around. Stride away quickly, but with dignity, to show that silly young girl how to behave in Ecsichil’s house. Back through the labyrinth of little rooms and storages. Turn here, turn there. Finally in the West Wing. Walking down the hall. Some smoke is drifting along. It is coming from the direction of the back door. Find out what was the problem, if there was lightning, if there is a fire, calm everyone down.

It was very queer. At Ecsichil’s house, the most that could happen was an overly-spirited banquet. Or an overly-spirited play. Never crashes, bangs, and booms that scared the ladies as if it was Grond, beating against the gates of Minas Tirith. Even queerer were the voices that came out of the smoke, which was so thick that Belegon could hardly see in front of him. And they were not the voices of children who played a petty jest on the entire household. If it were so, some servant would show them what it means to dare such a thing, especially on a night like that. Nay, they were voices of a man and a woman.

[Pitchwife]

Surprised, Asta ceased for a moment to resist Coldan's pull. "You spoke to him? How - "

She was interrupted by a marked "Harrumph!" In the door-frame stood a liveried figure with a long, stolid face under a mop of white locks. A pair of small, expressionless eyes surveyed them with the detached curiosity of a scientist studying some specimens of exotic beetle.

"Ah. A band of burglars, it would seem, breaking in to steal my lord's silverware." The lustreless eyes wandered over the remains of the door, assessing the damage. A brow rose when they came to rest on the battered lock. "This will cost you dearly. This lock was not cheap." Without changing his tone, the man went on: "Under my powers as a citizen catching a criminal in the act of breaking the law, I hereby arrest you in the name of the King on charges of trespassing, damaging my lord's property and attempted burglary. Follow me to the cellar where you will be detained until you can be handed over to a Guard of the Citadel."

"This isn't what it looks like, sir," Harrenon desparately but valiantly tried to explain. "It was all an unfortunate accident. We intended no harm to your door."

"Give up, Harry," said Asta. "We're caught red-handed, it's futile to deny our guilt." She turned to the servant and put on her meekest expression (a rare sight, even on stage). "We can make this short, sir. I think I saw a Guardsman passing down yonder street just a moment ago. We'll come quietly."

The servant gave her a curt nod. "Excellent. Wait right here and do not budge." Moving as stiffly as if he had swallowed a rod, he strode off towards the street, waving a hand and calling, "Ho there! Guard!"

As soon as his back was turned to them, Asta gestured frantically to Coldan, pointing at the crowbar that had fallen from his waistcoat when they had tumbled down. Acting without thinking, Coldan snatched it up, ran after the servant and hit him over the head with the tool. The man stood still for a moment, then collapsed like a felled oak.

Coldan knelt down to feel his pulse and was immensely relieved to find he had not killed the man; apparently the mass of thick white hair had muffled the blow somewhat. What was strange, though, was that the white locks had come off in the fall, revealing short, dark hair underneath. The malice and treachery of these people must be unfathomable if their very servants were obliged to disguise themselves in their master's own house! A quick examination told Coldan that the skull was undamaged, but the servant would wake up with a huge lump and the mother of all headaches.

Coldan turned to look up at Asta. "Do you realize vat ve hev just done? Ve'll be in deep vater ven zis comes to light. Vill you please be reasonable now and call zis mad enterprise off before ve make zings even vorse?"

[Dimturiel]

“Coldan’s right,” Harrenon put in quickly. “We’ll be in big trouble soon. The most sensible thing we can do now – assuming you know what sensible means, Asta – is to get out of here as soon as possible.”

His tone had come out sharper than he had intended – and indeed than he would have dared to use under normal circumstances. But he could not help it. He was terrified and he was tired of being dragged all over the place following some mad scheme. He was an actor after all. The only adventures he had had so far had been on the stage and he had very much preferred it that way.

“After all,” he went on, “If Coldan says Aldarion can handle Sador – and that he is not even a prisoner there, but a guest – then maybe we should go. We’ll cause trouble if we stay any longer – not that we haven’t already. Now let’s get out of here before the guard wakes up. I don’t know about you two, but I for one have had enough mayhem for one evening.”

[Nerwen]

"Nonsense!" said Asta. "This is the perfect opportunity! Harry, he's nearest in size to you, so you'd better be the one."

"The one to what?" Harrenon had a stunned expression, as if still dazed from the explosion.

"Change clothes with him, of course– don't you pay attention to anything I say? First, we'll need to hide him somewhere–" she took hold of the unconscious man's arms, but he was a dead weight and she could barely drag him. After a moment she looked up, panting. "Well? Coldan, is it the custom of Dorwinion to let the women do all the heavy work? Or of Gondor, Harry?"

[Pitchwife]

That stung Coldan's male pride just a tad too much.

"No, it's not," he replied brusquely, glowering at Asta, "and if you insist on following zrough viz zis foolhardy plan, I'll be viz you, as you might know full vell. But you're ze one who's not paying attention. I told you Aldarion doesn't vant us here, and trust me, Asta, you don't vant to go in zere."

"Nonsense!" snorted Asta. "Why wouldn't I?"

Coldan drew a deep breath. He had meant to spare her this, but if she was going to persist in her obstinacy, he would have to be blunt.

"Because he already has a voman viz him to take care of him, zat's vy. Remember vat Sador said about Aldarion and some lady of Dol Amroth? Vell, it's true. She vas viz him ven I spoke to him. I even zink she may be on our side against Sador, and ze last zing anybody needs is you picking a catfight viz her or telling Aldarion off for double-dealing viz you in front of ze whole nobility of Gondor.

Now step aside and let me move zis hapless fool; ve can't just leave him lying here either vay. Harry, take his feet, please."