[Kransha]

Osric still sat, sagging forward and occasionally yanking his beleaguered form up. His eyelids tried to droop, but his strong will flexed them mercilessly, keeping his glazing over orbs from even the satisfaction of a weary blink. Though the inn’s volume level had increased of late, Osric’s quavering ears did not hear the rumbling din within or outside. He merely heard the steady beat he kept, a calming hum that escaped him as he sat, drumming his rough, wrinkled digits upon the tabletop and systematically keeping up with the enervated monotone all around him. At last, recognizable silhouettes bounded across the threshold of the White Horse, for which Osric thanked whatever masters of the relieving of tedium existed amongst Valar or Maiar.

It was Maercwen and Liornung who entered, with oddly subdued looks upon their faces. Osric immediately missed Mearcwen’s youthful vivacity, and Liornung’s jocund gait, for they seemed to be missing from the two figures who strode inside. Osric’s bushy eyebrow of ivory gray perked up as he shot a quizzical glance at the two. He beckoned for Liornung, who caught sight of him in the inn’s more shaded corners and forded the growing waters of folk who were beginning to crowd within. He pulled the sturdy seat across from Osric at the table, placing his limp arms and hands upon the smoothly furnished wooden slate. Osric could see the meager creases upon the fingers of his left hand, signifying his playing of the melodious fiddle. The Rohirrim wasn’t sure if these marks of dedication to the instrument were recent, or a permanent gathering that had followed Liornung over time. His eyes upturned from the man to see Mae nearing them, probably to bid her uncle a good day before she pranced off to see to Miss Alywen’s assignments.

Partially out of the gnawing boredom that had set in upon the attentive old fellow, and partially out of sincere concern for the expressions of seriousness swimming in the eyes of Maercwen, though more tempered in Liornung’s, Osric spoke, his voice raspy at first having not even opened his mouth in a good many hours of the day. His gravelly tone soon smoothed out as his dry lips parted. “Liornung, good sir, I trust you’re adventure in Edoras this day was met well? Oh, what am I saying? Of course it was met well! I do not doubt that the throngs of Rohan have chaired you throughout all the city and chorused your name throughout the hallowed halls of Meduseld and beyond!” Osric’s apparent belatedness managed to snatch a fleeting smile from Liornung, but Maercwen still seemed uncharacteristically humorless, still ready to hurry off to whatever duties she was required to do, much to Osric’s dismay. But, the old Rohirrim stayed her from her mission, pausing only briefly and with a curt breath, considering as he blinked several times, rubbing at the crimson rings that encircled his eyes, and spoke again with more of a reserved pitch. “Forgive me for prying, but is there anything troubling either of you? I would think that any such festive event, won or lost, would bring flavorful winds, rather than what I see on you. Was there a mishap at the Great Hall, perhaps?”