Corsairs and Corsets RPG

[piosenniel]

Dryea Betrayed

Ecthelion’s words rang in his mind as he paused in the archway that led into the ballroom. The steward had been most generous, he thought, upon consideration. He would have the chance to redeem himself, and to keep his family from any shame.

Athadan’s gaze slid around the room, looking at the guards positioned discretely here and there. They gave no indication that they noted his entrance. But he knew that somewhere there were those whose eyes watched his every move.

He could feel his heart thump faster and his mouth go dry as he stepped just beyond the entrance and scanned the room for her. Like a venomous viper weaving back and forth before her prey, he was both drawn to her and loathed her. No, loathed himself, he thought, for being so foolish. A few more assignations and he knew now he would have outlived his usefulness to her, become dangerous to her and her cause. He would be dead at her hands, discarded once he had served her purposes.

There she was! In a small group of ladies and their gentlemen on the right hand side of the ballroom. He paused for a moment to take in her presence. She was holding court, all eyes were on her – the men in admiration, the ladies half in admiration and half in jealousy. And what a mockery her dress was, he thought, noting the dark color suggesting mourning, and the cut and decoration of it suggesting she was still very much in the game. Athadan shook himself mentally, seeing her clearly for the first time, without longing. What a fool he had been!

She glanced up at him, and he caught her eye. His hand moved to the breast of his tunic, where the message lay hidden beneath, and he nodded imperceptibly at her. Her eyes followed him, he knew, as he went upstairs, and into one of the alcoves on the far end of the balustrade that rimmed the upper walk about the ballroom.

She took her time coming to him. Making her excuses, he was sure, to all those who stopped her and offered their sympathies. Her perfume drifted into the alcove before her. What once had smelled so enticing now reeked in his nostrils with the smell of deceit.

Dryea stood before him, her hard glittering eyes fixing him like a bug on a collector’s wall. ‘Well . . . ,’ she said softly, holding out her hand to him, her foot tapping impatiently on the parquet floor.

‘A message from Ecthelion to Thorongil, m’Lady,’ he said reaching for the slender, rolled vellum beneath his tunic. ‘He has agreed to Thorongil’s request to send ships and troops south to quell any chance of problems spreading north toward Gondor.’

Dryea’s eyes went wide at his summary of the message. She took it quickly from his outstretched hand, removing the dark blue ribbon that bound it, her eyes scanning quickly to the bottom for the Steward’s seal. Satisfied it was real enough, she dismissed him with a wave of her hand, reminding him to come back shortly to retrieve it once she’d read and memorized the contents. Without a word of thanks, she turned back to the letter, greedily reviewing the details of dates, and numbers, and strategies.

Athadan bowed slightly to her as she waved him off. ‘My pleasure to have served you once again,’ he said in parting. He exited the alcove drawing the curtains to it closed to give her privacy. He stood for a moment outside the alcove, and drew a great breath, letting it out slowly.

‘It is done,’ he said, a grim look of relief showing on his face. He strode quickly from the house, heading for his quarters. He would need to pack and see to his weapons . . . he would be leaving soon . . .

[ October 07, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[Child of the 7th Age]

Maikafanawen's post

Dryea raised a thin eyebrow as Athadan handed her the vellum. His hands shook only slightly but such was the reaction of some to Dryea's majestic presence.

"A message from Ecthelion to Thorongil, m’Lady. He has agreed to Thorongil’s request to send ships and troops south to quell any chance of problems spreading north toward Gondor." Glancing to the bottom of the sheet, Dryea approved its authenticity.

"Fine Athadan, I'll be hoping to hear from you soon with more information. We've something big on our hands." She dismissed him then with a flick of her wrist and he bowed deeply before leaving her to the alcove. She sat down on the cushioned window-seat and reviewed the contents.

It took her by surprise. What with the marriage between Denethor and Finduilas, she didn't expect Ecthelion to agree so quickly with sending troops. Perhaps things were leaking out of Umbar worse than she thought.

Rolling the vellum up and securing it again with the ribbon, she folded it into the confines of her bodice and left the alcove. Pulling a black handkerchief from her drawstring purse, she dabbed at her eyes in case anyone was watching her emerge.

Then she heard the footsteps. She knew right away that they were not just guests seeking the nearest exit for fresh air or servants on their way to the kitchens. These were the solid steps of guards; and they came from both directions. Dryea was feeling a bit nervous as she began to walk back down the stairs towards the ballroom. She looked up just in time to see the first two guards mount the stairs. They looked up and their expressions held that look of detection that identified her as whom they'd been searching for.

Without thinking she spun quickly and flew back up the stairs, fumbling for her dagger as she went. She had just closed her hands around the hilt as she ran into someone at the top of the stairs. He grabbed her wrist and applied pressure that caused to her to slacken her grip. The dagger fell to the marble floor with a hollow clatter.

"Lady Morthaniawen," said a somber voice. Dryea looked up, a strand of amber curls falling from underneath her hat. Her gaze met with Ecthelion's. His eyes were cold and full of disappointment. The regret written on his façade was so powerful that Dryea even felt a little shameful for her actions. Then her soul hardened against him and she stood ready to lie.

"My Lord!" she curtsied quickly and pried herself from the guard's grasp. "These men attacked me! I was defending myself!"

"Guards of Minas Tirith attacking you?" Ecthelion bellowed. Dryea's expression faltered and her tongue froze.

"I-I, well, yes-no! m-my Lord." Tears of frustration began to well up in her eyes.

"Yes? No? What is it!?" The Steward stepped forward and gestured for the guards to get her back on her feet and standing level with him. At her full height she was almost as tall as he was. But she felt so much smaller. "Search her," he commanded.

The guards did so indifferently until they'd recovered the message. Confused, Dryea searched the Steward's eyes for an answer. "Athadan!" she choked. Ecthelion's expression remained placid as he weighed the vellum in his hand.

"Take her away."

"NO!" Dryea began to kick and squirm, doing her best to free herself from the guards' hold. "You can't! I-I..." She was gagged then and chains were locked on her wrists. But the struggle continued as she was taken down the back stairs to the iron carriage that awaited her.

About halfway to the door leading outside her gag ripped and she screamed once good and loud before they silenced her again. Hopefully an ally would have heard!

********************************************

Orofaniel's post

Betuli was going towards the ballroom. She though she heard the sound of music while she walked. She imagined how it would be, the lovely outfits, the handsome lads and of course the music. Betuli had always wanted to attend such a nice event, but she had never really been invited, she was after all just a maid. But even though she only was a maid, it had never stopped her from peeking, and sometimes even stand in the entry. But then again, there had not been many balls and similar events yet. She hoped that her Lady's marriage would bring more of these things in the future. Maybe she one day would be invited, but that was still just a silly dream.

A horrible thought suddenly struck the maid as she walked. What if Finduilas didn't want to keep her old maids when she married Denenthor? What if she wouldn't be able to serve her after Finduilas' marriage? Betuli gave a short sigh. Then she gave another sigh, and noticed that she had stopped walking. Time will show , Betuli though and her feet started to walk again, and she passed one of the kitchens.

Suddenly she heard footsteps. They were going fast and stern over the floor. The steps were walking towards the ballroom, as was she. Betuli couldn't help herself; she was very curious, but a bit anxious at the same time. What could this be? She hurried around the corner, and to her big surprise she saw guards! Guards? Betuli though as she walked slowly towards one of them. They were all in a rush and didn't seem to notice her before she was asking one of them a question.

"What..?" The guard answered, he didn't seem to understand Betuli's question. Or perhaps he hadn't heard her.

"Why are there so many guards here?" She asked again, in a slow and suspicious voice.

"We are going to arrest...." He didn't complete his own sentence. He gave a short nod another guard, probably his head. He to a step away from Betuli and continued: "I'm sorry, but I cannot give you further information, we must move quickly. So if you'll excuse me...." After he had finished he walked over to the other guards, and soon all of them were gone. Betuli heard them going up the stairs, hurried but stern steps.

Betuli was left alone, with an empty feeling. Well, perhaps not empty. She was still very curious about the arrest. Who had done a deed of such an ill matter that there would have to be guards to capture him? The thought of it was not comforting. A person who had committed such things, were to Betuli's disgust.

The curiosity had finally slipped her mind and body when she continued down towards the ball some minutes later.

********************************************

Child's post

Eckthelion leaned against the balustrade, his eyes cold and hard, intently watching while the guards led the struggling woman out through the archway and down the narrow staircases that led to the lower levels of the building. From here, she would be dragged along the corridor and marched down to the plaza where a larger squadron of soldiers would escort her to a small locked cell in the lowest basement of the guardhouse where she would be held for further questioning and eventual punishment. There would be no honorable bargain or mercy for one such as she.

Eckthelion nodded at the three other guards who now stood at attention in front of him. Their faces looked taut and strained as the Steward turned about, barking out his question, "The Lady Ruiel, where is she? You were to seize her at the party as soon as the trap for Dryea was laid."

"Sire, we beg your pardon but she's not here. We've searched the ballroom from one end to the other, and everyone swears they have not seen her tonight. Believe me, if she had been here, she would not have escaped us." The guard looked up at Eckthelion waiting for him to respond.

"Not seen her?" The searing realization of those words sank into the Steward's mind. The mother must have suspected something. What else would account for her absence from a function such as this? He glanced down at the men standing before him and barked out his orders, "Quick now! To her chambers! Before she gets away. Seize the woman, clap her in chains, and bring her to the guardhouse. Lock her rooms and station a guard for everything must be torn apart and examined."

With that, the men lept to attention and sprinted off on the errand that the Steward had laid out for them.

[ October 09, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[Child of the 7th Age]

Elora's post:

Rannë shot through Ruiel's door without so much as a word. Ruiel's head snapped up at the intrusion, her expression fiercely cool. It made barely a dint in her normally circumspect and level headed maid's demeanour.

"What is this," Ruiel snapped waspishly at Rannë.
"Dryea has been arrested!"

Rannë wasted no breath on curtesty titles nor tactful words. Indeed, she was still puffing from her sprint through the Manor's halls. Ruiel dropped her nib in startled surprise, ink splattering over the paper she had been working on as well as her silk gown. She ignored both stains as the ink spread darkly. Distantly in her mind, a cool voice observed that the ink very much represented the ill fortune that would undo all her work, inexorably spreaking like a cankerous disease... We are not ruined yet, Ruiel snapped back at herself.

Rannë's wide eyed expression of dismay deepened and Ruiel realised that she had spoken aloud. She abruptly stood, the furrows in her brow deepening. Gone was the cultivated air of a delicate Gondorian noblewoman. Ruiel had little use for it now. Rannë saw her mistress transform into the Umbarian Corsair she truly was, desperation and implacable will garbed in a stained silk robe and clutching an ornate golden dagger like to the one her eldest daughter had dropped.

"When did this happen," she snarled.
"Within the hour," Rannë blurted anxiously. "Dryea was taken into custody by the Steward himself."
"And what of Alethea," Ruiel probed. Rannë blinked, surprised by this sudden turn of seemingly maternal concern.

"I have heard nothing of the young Lady Morthaniawen," Rannë replied. She gasped as she watched Ruiel's expression become one of infinite rage. With one hand, Ruiel swept the contents of her desk onto the floor with a shattering crash.

"Treachery!" The accusation hung in the air. Ruiel struggled to breath through her rising violent temper and Rannë took an involuntary step backwards. The Lady Morthaniawen moved behind her chair and gripped the back of it with white knuckled hands. Rannë was certain she'd hear the crack of wood splintering soon. Such rages were rarely witnessed.

Indeed, Rannë had only seen them twice before in her many years of service to Ruiel. One had been the instrument of freeing her from the Captain. The other had lead to Lord Morthaniawen's death. Both had resulted in murder. Ruiel had not risen to her rank in Umbar's array of spies and courtisans with clean hands.

"Dispose of everything in this office."
"Everything?" All the years of work, to be destroyed. In a chill, bleak voice, Ruiel repeated herself.

"Everything." Ruiel released the back of her chair and stalked from the room, her step becoming swifter and swifter still. If Rannë was found destroying documents then so be it. She'd find a new maid sooner or later. She'd find a new household and house if it came to that.

As for her daughters and herself, that was a different matter entirely. Alethea, if she was traitor, would be protected by Eckthelion. Umbar would have to wait for it's vengeance against her treason. Dryea may possibly be saved. Ruiel had no intentions of leaving her eldest daughter, who knew so much, alive and able to speak, waiting at the Steward's leisure. Dryea would either be rescued or given the only honourable way out.

Ruiel would certainly not sit like a duck upon a glassy millpond whilst the ocean tossed and the wind howled. Too long and too much she had laboured for this. She tore the silk robe from her as she entered her room and riffled through her wardrobe. Tucked away in a dark corner was exactly what she was looking for.

When Ruiel slipped out of her room and crept her way through her house, it was as though she were a common assassin once more. Garbed in common streetwear, her hair tucked up and away in a man's hat, Ruiel melted into the steady traffic of people with only two things in her possession. One was her golden dagger. The other was her right of safe passage across Umbar's borders. No need for frippery now, and let the Steward's men find the matron of Minas Tirith's society shuffling along like a common innkeeper.

Two things were also upon her mind: Death and Freedom.

*********************************************

Child's post:

The party continued on, the music playing and dancers swirling about the floor, most of the participants wholly unaware of what had just transpired. Unable to wait any longer, the Steward had excused himself from the festivities and headed towards the exit of the building intending to go on in the direction of the guardhouse.

Too much time had passed and there had been no report back from either group of soldiers, those who were escorting Dryea or the others who'd gone searching for Reuil. Before the Steward had even managed to leave the building, a guard came running up to him, with panic written on his face. "Sire, the Lady Reuil, she is gone. Her chambers are empty. We have searched, but can not find her."

"We saw only one lone servant in the apartments burning papers in the grate. Of course, we took her into custody. Unfortunately, little was left in the chambers besides a heap of mouldering vellum sheets, charred and stained beyond recognition, or already turned to piles of ash."

Eckthelion turned away and scowled. This was not what he had planned. Shadowy images and warnings played inside his mind as he struggled to make sense out of what had happened, "Go now. Find the Lady Dryea and the soldiers escorting her. I have not yet hard any report and do not know if they have reached the guardhouse, or something has happened along the way. I tell you that this is where the Lady Reuil will be....there beside her daughter."

This time, when they took off in the direction of the guardhouse, the Steward trailed close behind them, trying to find out what had happened.

[ October 08, 2003: Message edited by: Child of the 7th Age ]

[Child of the 7th Age]

Maikafanawen's post

Mari shook nervously as she watched from the shadows of the alcove. A pack of clothes and other few necessities for herself was slung over her shoulder. The maid was unrecognizable in her loose-fitting black clothes with a sword strapped to her belt. Mari instead looked the part of a regular citizen tonight!

No more than ten minutes after Mari had overheard Ränne tell Ruiel of Dryea's arrest, the soldiers were swarming all over the Morthaniawen Estate like maggots attacking a host. Inconceivable fury overwhelmed her and she discarded her cloak of hesitance to do what was needed of her. The maid was two flights of stairs and three hallways away from Dryea's bedchambers and it was hence she ran. Ducking under tapestries and pulling down priceless vases to stop the soldiers who pursued, Mari made it twenty paces before they did and locked the door behind her.

Immediately they began to hack at the mahogany with swords. It took a few minutes for Mari to rip down the cover and loose the chain from behind the tapestry that let fall the iron-gate. It gave a tremendous crash and chips of mortar fell from the ceiling.

"HA!" the maid cried triumphantly. Curses were barely audible from behind the barricade as the soldiers stood dumbfounded, unsure of what to do.

Mari wasted no time. She ran to the closet and tore aside the assortment of gorgeous dresses to the safe in the back. Pulling her own dagger from her frock she picked at the lock until it clicked open. Inside she found the documents Dryea would need to return safely to Umbar. She kissed the envelope thankfully and stuffed it into the leather bag hanging from the peg just inside the compartment.

Next to go inside the bag was a change of clothes for Dryea. She would not get very far in that dress she had left the house in, so Mari included a pair of snug-fitting pants, a black swordsman's shirt, and leather jerkin. "Shoes!" she reminded herself and also added a pair of sturdy black leather boots. She left the closet then, bumping her head on the lowly hung frame. Shaking off the slight dizziness she rummaged through the desk and found a pair of slender long-knives.

Finally she stuffed a handful of jewels into one of the inner pockets in case other things must be purchased. The last thing she grabbed was Dryea's own sword, a gift from her and her mother's employer.

These things tied securely to her belt, or in the case of the bag draped over her shoulder, Mari opened the passageway inside the fireplace and let herself down carefully to the dark hallway below. She walked ten paces before coming across a lever. She tugged on it twice and a door opened into the kitchens. Mari looked around to make sure no one was there and then ran across the scullery to the door at the far side, her boots making no noise as she ran.

A gust of cold wind met Mari as she ran across the back lawn to the alley exit. There were no soldiers waiting for her.

"Mari!" a young masculine voice called. The maid turned to see her brother Drian give her a wink and wave a bloody dagger. "S'all taken care of Sis! Good luck!" Mari nodded and was off to the Citadel . . .

[ October 09, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[Child of the 7th Age]

Pio's post - Dryea escapes

The two guards who had charge of Dryea were hard put to control her. She was still fighting them as they dragged her down the steps to the locks and threw her into one of the tiny single cells. The door slammed shut as they exited, the only light left to her a small slit in the rock wall a good foot above her head. The door had a small barred window in it, but the thick wooden covering had been slid over it and secured in place. They were tired of her screams; the thick oak door would muffle them.

‘You keep an eye on that one,’ the taller of the two said to Gaeran, who had drawn the duty of warden for the black this day. ‘She’s a tricky one, she is. Don’t let her wheedle you into anything!’

Gaeran nodded, his face a mask of businesslike impassivity. He had nearly gasped when he saw her dragged in through the door, but schooled his breathing quickly to some semblance of normalcy.

He had been one of her earliest contacts in the citadel, useful until he had been transferred to duty in the Locks. Still, he was not resentful. Pro-Umbar, he had served his purpose while he could, then stepped aside when she said she would no longer need him.

He opened the book on his desk and wrote her name and cell number in it. ‘Has she any effects I shall need to see to,’ he asked them. They laughed, saying that they had snatched her from a party, and any “effects” she had had been left behind. Gaeran smiled a half smile at their joke, then bent his head to his papers and busied himself with them until the two left.

It grew quiet once again as their footsteps faded on the stairwell. Their were only two on duty in the watch room that day – him, and Old Forlong who sat on a stone seat near the far pillar, propped against it, snoring loudly. From his place at the watch desk, Gaeran glanced toward the cell that held her. Tapping the end of his pen against his teeth, he sat there, thinking hard, perhaps there was one last thing he could do.

His thoughts were interrupted by voices on the landing just outside the door. Another guard stepped in. ‘Someone bringing some necessaries for the lady just brought in, Sir.’

Gaeran dismissed the young guard, back to his post at the foot of the stairs, and beckoned the young woman over. ‘Sir,’ she began, holding up the small basket she had brought – she had hidden the clothes and weapons in some bushes nearby before entering the citadel. He cut off the rest of her words, and leaned in close to her speaking softly.

‘I know you, Mari,’ he said taking his helmet off and setting it on the table. ‘We have met before.’

There followed a hurried conversation between them as Gaeran led her to the cell that held her mistress. He unlocked it, and they both entered, he following her in . . .

[ October 10, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[Child of the 7th Age]

Maikafanawen's post

Dryea's kicks and clawing weren't as futile as the guards would have liked them to be. She left a very nice gash on the shorter one's jaw and the stocky one limped from a good kick to the knee.
"You can't do this to me!" Dryea screamed at the oak door after it had been locked. "I was framed! I-I," she paused to catch her breath, "I'm in mourning!"

"You keep an eye on that one," she heard one of them say to the warden. "She’s a tricky one, she is. Don’t let her wheedle you into anything!"

She screamed again good and loud and the stones overhead seemed to shake with the resonating cry. Then the wooden covering was slid over the square barred window in the door and their voices were cut off. Unwilling to give up hope just yet she began to search around the floor of her cell for any sort of hint that could get her out. Her hands still bound, Dryea dug at the mortar between the stones on the wall and stood up on the bench chained to the wall to see out the slit of a window in the back wall.

There was no way out. She jumped down off the bench and stamped her feet in incorrigible fury. Her fists pounded the door and as she yelled and pleaded for mercy, anything to get out and have a go at escape.

When that failed she backed up to the bench and sat down with a force that shook the chains and flakes of mortar fell into her hair.

"Errr—Damn it!" she said slamming the palm of her hands down on the seat. Breathing deeply she pressed her head against the stone. "Oh man, think, think.... Curse you mother! Leaving me to perish for your errs! You should have seen this coming! I knew we'd be betrayed!" Tears of aggravation slid down her cheeks and she stood again, searching fruitlessly for a way out.

A key was slipped into the lock on her cell door and opened it. Dryea crouched behind the door as it opened, ready to pounce on whomever it was that entered. A slender figure wrapped in a fine black cloak entered with a basket on her arm. She instinctively backed up towards the vacant side of the door and shut it so that her foot kept it open and she could see who hid behind.

Dryea stood and advanced quickly ready to claw the person's brain out if she had to. Anything to get free.

"Wait!" the person hissed and she pulled back the cowl to reveal herself.

"Mari!" Dryea gasped in shock. The maid's eyes widened as a signal to hush. The warden entered the cell behind her.

"I've brought necessities," she said deliberately. "Gaeran has let me in to give them to you." Dryea's eyes expanded. Mari nodded, an enigmatic twinkle to her eye.

"We haven't much time," Gaeran said taking off his helmet and setting it on the bench. "You'll have to take my clothes to get out of here." Dryea nodded and began to undress hurriedly. The warden turned his back respectfully as Mari helped Dryea don his clothes so that they gave her a manly appearance.

"Were we under different circumstances," Mari said, tying the warden's belt around Dryea's waist, "I might laugh at you." The respectful tone of voice she'd harbored as a maid in the Morthaniawen's house was gone. She spoke as an equal to Dryea: a friend. Dryea rolled her eyes.

"Maybe I should make you wear my dress and stay here in the cells in my place?" she said threateningly. Mari didn't even blink.

"I don’t think so, because then how will you find the weapons and real clothes I've hidden for you just outside?" Mari smiled. "Besides," she said, picking up one of Dryea's silver soled heels. "Gaeran's offered to do that for us." In one fluid movement the maid had hit the warden over the head, drawing blood, and the two women watched emotionlessly as he slid to the floor unconscious.

"How nice of him," Dryea mused. They wrapped him in the black mourning gown and stuffed him into a sleeping position in one of the corners. "Sweet dreams," Dryea whispered.

"We don’t have time for corny jokes," Mari said handing her the helmet. "We've got to go." Dressed as the prison warden and a love interest on her arm, the two women left the prison, dropping the keys beside the sleeping Forlong. Adopting the prideful stride of the prison warden, Dryea successfully 'escorted' Mari from the prison and out of sight.

Once they had reached the place where Mari stashed their things, she discarded the basket and gave Dryea her leather bag. The fugitive looked inside and beamed. "Very nice Mari, well done!" Slipping behind a tree to change into the more suitable clothes, Dryea listened as Mari relayed to her the plan.

"There's a ship docked at Harlond waiting to take us to Umbar. Drian sent a message ahead to Tr Dalon, the captain, and he's waiting for us there. We'll be back in Umbar by the end of the month at latest."

"And what of my mother?" Dryea asked indifferently. Mari shrugged, "I don’t think she knows of Tr Dalon's attendance at the docks. She'll probably miss the boat unless you want to risk your neck looking for her." Dryea scoffed.

"She's a big girl, Ruiel can take care of herself." Dressed now in her native black leather clothes, Dryea emerged tying her sword to her belt. "So where are the horses?" Mari laughed and the two made their way to the stables. Black horses were ideal for night travel and luckily the two women were able to find them and tack them up quickly. Then they were off at a furious gallop towards Harlond and safely out of harm's way.

The women rode their horses right onto the ship where it rocked and strained against the hawsers which held her at the end of stone wharf that jutted out into the choppy water. "Ahoy Dryea!" first mate Dawser acknowledged the first rider.

"Alright Captain Dalon!" Dryea shouted up to where he stood by the helmsman. "We'd do well to be off now!" The man nodded and shouted orders for the men to cut the hawsers and lower the boats to guide them through the harbor.

"Quickly and quietly men!" Dawser relayed Tr Dalon's orders. Dryea and Mari handed the reins over to one of the younger sailors who took the enervated horses to the ship's small stable. Then they mounted the stairs to greet their captain. The wind blew thunderously and the flags whipped and cracked.

"It's good to have you aboard Mistress Dryea," Captain Dalon said bowing respectfully. "And you Mistress Mari. Your company is always a pleasure. Make yourselves comfortable. Your quarters are adjacent from mine just below where I stand here. You should find things appropriate for a woman's stay on a ship. Your request is my command."

Dryea nodded her thanks and gazed out over the ship's stern as it sailed out of harbor. The wind caught her auburn hair and blew it magnificently about her as she watched the Morthaniawen's failure in conquering Gondor grow distant. Mari came and stood beside her then, her eyes hard and dark and wishing the same fate for the traitors to Umbar. Soon they'd have their vengeance and Gondor would be theirs at last!

[ October 09, 2003: Message edited by: Child of the 7th Age ]

[piosenniel]

Elora's post

Ruiel swore plainly as she shook her booted foot free of the puddle she had been forced to leap into. The wagon clattered past, laden with vegetables, the driver not so much as glancing at the person he had nearly run down as he flicked the reins over the rumps of his horse team. Her lips twisted in disgust as the filthy water, oily and dirty, was shaken off. She tugged her hood down further and continued on with her head doggedly bowed.

She was late, on account of Dryea being missing from the Tower! Both daughters were traitors. The thought was sour in her stomach, along with the fact that maternal concern had made her a fool in going to fetch Dryea when she should have left her there. It would be the last time Ruiel ever gave any concern to a hide other than her own. The smell of the docks was redolent in the air. She was close now.

The cry of hawkers with all manner of intriguing wares that would be quickly tucked away at the merest sniff of the Steward's Guard or Customs Officers was everywhere. Ruiel ignored them all, her destination clearly in mind. She jostled and shouldered her way through the press, searching for the ship.

She found Captain Trelan in his customary guise as a civilian ship's master in short order. The dock would not be so crowded were he standing there in his true garb. He turned, shouting an order for the loading of cargo and stopped as Ruiel stepped forward. He smiled and nodded lightly to her.

"Something amusing Captain?" Ruiel was not in a humourous fram of mind.
"Only that I'm a good 3 gold wealthier than I was before seeing you."
"Gambling is a vice of these weak Gondorian rabble that will only lead you into disolute ways," Ruiel stated firmly. Trelan paid her no heed, familiar with Ruiel over many years now.

"Likely," he replied before calling for his First Mate. Eric loped down the boarding plank nimbly, noted Ruiel and then threw his arm back up in the direction of the horizon.

"There's people as you're already knowin' aship," he drawled.
"Eric," Captain Dalon mildly said. Eric scowled at the wooden dock planks.
"We're getting read to set to, C'ptan..." Ruiel left the pair to sort out whether Eric was good for the 3 gold he'd wagered on Ruiel emerging and alternative forms of payment.

Ruiel ascended the gangplank and stood in the prow, watching the departing ship. She'd sort out those passengers soon enough. The rattle of the anchor chain being wound chinked and wobbled as men cinched it up. Ruiel turned from her study and made her way through the tangle of ropes and men dashing about to get to their posts. Ruiel was below deck as she heard Eric call, "Slip the moors!"

Within the hour, she sat with her cloak removed in Trelan's quarters. The Corsair sat across from her, war hardened face speculative and his fingers steepled before him.

"Tell me Madame, how are your daughters?" Ruiel twirled the glass of thick Umbarian brandy in her fingers and only smiled.

"They are Morthaniawen, Captian. Therein lies your answer."

Trelan smiled back at the viper across from him and wondered how long it would be before one Morthaniawen asp claimed ascendancy. It would be a good fight, and he fancied Eric might find some more gold to wager. He raised his glass in salute at Umbar's longest serving spy and the woman that had been responsible for Trelan winning a handsom share of wagers and Eric's ongoing penury.

[ October 09, 2003: Message edited by: Child of the 7th Age ]

[Child of the 7th Age]

Several days later...

Two figures strode along the quay beside the Great River just as the first rays of the sun peeped over the horizon. The grey-cloaked, older man towered over his companion, but otherwise seemed of little consequence. Even the younger one looked utterly unprepossessing; he wore simple brown breeches, a shirt of natural homespun, and a pair of scuffed serviceable boots such as sailors use when they work at the docks. The men were deep in conversation. A few workmen glanced up as they walked by, but knew enough to draw away and respectfully avert their eyes, since they'd seen the pair several times before. No one really knew who the old gentleman was, but the identity of the Steward was all too evident, despite his simple garb.

The conversation had stopped and Eckthelion looked out over the water watching the gulls swoop down, as they skimmed just inches above the surface and hunted for their breakfast. The older man’s question abruptly broke through his reflection..."Did the bethrothal party go well?"

Eckthelion nodded his head, "Yes, that's behind us….the ridiculous rumors and the upturned noses. Now, they crowd around Finduilas, and vie for her favor. Even Denethor could not ask for more."

He paused for a moment and laughed slightly, “It’s strange, isn’t it? Most of those at the party have no idea what actually happened. They’ve only heard that false rumors were spread by the Lady Ruiel and Dryea, perhaps out of pique or some other personal motive.”

“But the women have disappeared,” Gandalf countered. “Surely someone will ask what’s happened.”

“Finduilas has dropped careful hints that the mother and eldest daughter chose to return home. Most assume that home is Dol Amroth, since they have no idea of the connection with Umbar. I doubt that many will pursue the subject further. And Alethea is helping us. Of all the sad stories in this affair, her’s is one of the saddest. To be so ill used by her family…. I have personally spoken with her, welcoming her to Minas Tirith, and have given her my assurance that we will do anything needed to help.”

Gandalf considered the Steward’s serious face and hesitated a moment before continuing, “But you are not content.” It was a statement rather than a question.

“No, I am not.” Eckthelion’s gaze swept the expanse of the river and would not meet Gandalf’s eyes.

“The womens’ escape?”

The Steward shook his head. “No. We might have expected that. They are devious ones, these agents of Umbar. I was disappointed that they got away but it is of no immediate consequence. More importantly, we dismantled their organization and rooted out the lesser agents. Their conduit for information has dried up, and they can no longer strike at the heart of our court. For that, I am grateful."

"I owe a special debt to the women, both those from Minas Tirith and Finduilas's own companions. It was they who picked up the first hint of this, and helped us to bag our prey.” He smiled thinking of his two lovely daughters and others like Lady Pelien, Adrama, Viena, Emilia, Averyll, and Diorwyn who’d worked so generously on behalf of their city. Then his face dropped again.

“But…..?” queried Gandalf, still probing for the root cause behind Eckthelion’s somber mood.

The Steward grimaced as the words tumbled out, “That was a costly mistake. We focused on chasing down the soldiers who’d escorted Dryea to prison instead of keeping our eyes on Rueil. We might at least have brought her to bay.”

“But there is more than that…”

Eckthelion nodded. “I was so sure,” he whispered under his breath, “so certain that a mother would help her daughter.”

“But she didn’t?” Gandalf queried, scouring the depths of Eckthelion’s eyes.

“No, she didn’t. She ran off without a look back.” The Steward shuddered and stared at the horizon, his voice dropping to a whisper, “How could a mother do that to a child she had born? How can I defeat men and women whom I can not even pretend to understand? They are so under the influence of Mordor that I even find it hard to see what paths they take in life.”

Eckthelion looked over at Gandalf, “Perhaps, that is the only way to win victory. To become like them, to think like them.”

The old man drew himself up to his full height, his eyes flashing with anger, “Do not deceive yourself, Steward. That way leads to doom. And remember this!” He turned around and directly confronted the younger man. “If you find it hard to understand the choices they make, they find it completely impossible to fathom your reason for doing things. What you choose is not what they would choose! Someday, somehow, that will help us. I do not know how or when, and you may already have passed beyond this world, but their lack of vision and imagination will someday prove to be their undoing.”

“Perhaps, you’re right, Gandalf.”

The tall figure nodded back. “In any case, how could the Steward of Gondor change so much that he would forget the ways of his ancestors from Numenor, to turn from his daughters and son and substitute coldness in his heart? I know you well enough, Eckthelion, and that would be truly an impossible task. Keep doing as you have done. You and those at your court, men and women both. You are preparing the soil for another day when the great conflict will come. Thank goodness you have people with good hearts and common sense. These so-called silly women have done Gondor a great honor, a lesson that may never be inscribed in your history book but one that will make a difference when the final day of reckoning comes.”

Eckthelion turned to Gandalf, hastily embraced him, and then stepped away. “Yes, we are fortunate to have citizens such as these. “ Then the two men walked further along the bank talking not of diplomacy or military matters but things like friendship and family that lie underneath it all, hoping for better times and wondering when and if they would possibly come.

[ October 10, 2003: Message edited by: Child of the 7th Age ]

[piosenniel]

~*~ To Elvenhome ~*~