[Kransha]

“Though I fear my tale would bore you, it is a night for such things. I will get this started if I can.”

Osric, seeing that no one else had picked up Hearpwine’s challenge to relate a tale, pulled himself forward and reared up nobly to begin a usual oration. It had less of a literary flourish, since the events he spoke of were as real as the ground he walked upon and those he saw before him, but his gentle drone gained new energy as the almost autobiographical words began spilling out frothily.

“I, like many of my kin, was a simple man of the Folde. As many of my Rohirrim brethren will agree, life was most peaceful back then, except, perhaps, for occasional incursions by some manner of foe, which always seemed to be dispatched in a blaze of glory. Seeking this same glory, I sought out the Rider’s of Rohan, those of the Eastfold, and joined their ranks. They pronounced me their tale-teller and song-singer, even though I rarely sang, and I was thankful I could do but a little to boost their morale as the war loomed. At long last, it had begun. The world flew, as is my memory of it, and we riders under Erkenbrand and his valiant nephew, my own commander, Dunhere, rode to and fro, receiving all kinds of news that we could not make heads or tails of.

“It was at the second battle fought on the Fords of Isen where our confidence first broke. For the first time, I saw many good, brave men fall, those who I’d told stories to and talked with late into the starry nights. That, dear friends, is where I got this unfortunate degeneration from my once youthful step.”

Grinning to himself, Osric indicated his stiffened left leg, still straight as a log and immobile as it leaned on the chair he’d placed in front of him, “Many said I was a brave and courageous rider myself for fighting the battle and carrying a war wound away from it, but it is not true. Like all others, I was forced to flee from the might of wretched Saruman, limping like a cowardly elder in my way. It saddened me to look back and see the bodies of those slain, and saddened me more to see those who were lost, but still alive and clashing steel with Rohan’s foes until the moment they fell. I would’ve gone to them, but alas I had not the strength of will.”

“The battle of Isen was lost, but the war raged ever on. While the battle at Helm’s Deep raged in the west, Dunhere rallied the Rohirrim, I among their number, at Harrowdale. Those days I saw a grandness I feared lost, a vast and stretching wave of horses’ untamed manes and Rohirrim spears that glistened like sunlight itself. We rode thence to a battle grander and more terrible than what I thought I’d seen, on the fields of Pelennor with Rammas Echor’s walls. There, under the white shadow of Gondor’s city and Mount Mindolluin, its pallid shadow cast over us, we fought as if the night would bring no morn.”

His calm air, tempered with new verve, suddenly swelled as he could see it all again. The monsters and the madness, sky and earth, light and dark playing out on Pelennor Fields, all could be seen beneath the palette of his widening eyes and raised lids. His story grew and surged as his voice’s volume overwhelmed the room as much as the old and weakened drawl could.

“I fought as I could, but as far as I know all I did was witness the battle. Yes, I slew many a foul creature and wicked man, but who did not who was there? In fact, I watched more than I fought, forced to battle on foot as well as I could when my steed was shot from under me by the venomous shafts of orcs. The limp gained from Isen was still upon me, but I fought with all the others, since no man would’ve done such a shameful thing as shirking the duty to Rohan and Middle-Earth. I saw those huge, incredible things that the Little Folk call Oliphaunts, those massive, tusked creatures. At first they seemed like heartless monsters purely in the thrall of the Haradrim puppets, but I could see there was more in them, a power and nobility in their eyes as they trampled over the fields. Of course, I could not gawk for long. The black serpent that you spoke of, Hearpwine, and his shadowy master fell upon us.”

Osric halted, catching his lost breath and sucking in much needed air. He took a swift look around and noticed the faces that were protruding forward, looking at him with fixed gazes and wide eyes as they waited with something that might be called eagerness. Fair memories coming to him, the aged man of Aldburg smiled a warmer smile and leaned back, shifting his limp and useless leg to the side.

“Perhaps I should leave it at that.” He chuckled, eliciting immediate protest.