[Kransha]

Sigurd looked around, blinking incessantly, trying to figure out exactly why he’d been singled out. He kept feeling a tug on his elbow, but ignored it, even after he realized that the stray hand was Osric’s. He began to piece together the situation, and it all became clear. He’d been clearly prepared for this by old Osric days ago, how he was to beseech a job from Bethberry of Aylwen in the White Horse, or on its grounds. He considered, looking contemplative as Osric continued looking anxious (and continually massaging his sore throat as if it would actualy do some good, though it almost certainly wouldn't), Bethberry smiled politely, and Hearpwine and Hanasian exchanged emotionless glances and inaudible mutterings.

At first young Sigurd had been harshly opposed to the idea of being thrust into employment by his uncle, but this had been in the more tender years of his youth, and he had had other, more brash commitments. As he’d left Aldburg with his uncle, he’d been only slightly against the proposal Osric had lain so carefully before him. Now, he was unsure of where he stood on the matter, but realized that the whole idea seemed far more desirable, but for only a few reasons, which had been presented to him but recently. First, the atmosphere that his uncle had spoken of was legitimate and fair, a grand establishment compared to the stable jobs in Aldburg and the other small towns in the Wold. Secondly, the people were indeed, as he’d been told, good and true folk, as far as Sigurd could deduce. Lastly, with some relevance to the last point, being commissioned at the White Horse would allow Sigurd to receive some education in the ways of song from Hearpwine, in the ways of life from Bethberry or Aylwen, and, of course, in anything else that was required, from Maercwen.

“Yes, Bethberry,” he said at last, “I know of the request he has made, and it is a much mine as it is his.”

Osric seemed as if he’d readied himself for some horror, but now only stared at the empty space between Sigurd and Bethberry, utterly confused. Sigurd had never showed an affinity for being concise, or being helpful in any matter, as was his common attitude. It was not like him to just give in, which is what he seemed to be doing. He gawked, stupefied as he stood and heard Sigurd continue.

“I seek employment here, as my uncle has no doubt explained to you in great detail.” he began, his expression of bewilderment metamorphosing into a bizarre and reasonless glee as he recited, word for word, the speech given him by his overly oratory uncle on the eve of their departure from Aldburg. “As said, his sentiments are my own, voiced well by him, no doubt. If you could supply me with that labor that I, in my youth, so readily require, I, my uncle, and all those living who hold some bond of blood with me will be grateful. I know that here I could find an experience unlike many others, and under the tutelage of you and your most esteemed ‘colleagues,’ I would profit greatly. And, I assure you, my services would be as great as I can make them, and I would not shirk whatever duties you assign me. What say you?”

Bethberry did not respond immediately, as Sigurd knew she wouldn’t. It wasn’t a simple question, or so he thought. He now took the time to glance at his uncle, only to see his colorless face and limp lower jaw, seemingly misplaced. He stifled a laugh, knowing exactly how this sudden lack of discontentment on his part had probably affected Osric. “Uncle, is something wrong?” He murmured quietly, but just loudly and forcefully enough to stir the Rohirrim from his befuddled stupor.

Osric managed to re-adjust his hanging jaw, scratching at his neck nervously to alleviate the sudden pang that had arisen more prominently there. “No…not at all.” He murmured, still dazed, his eyes not meeting those of his nephew, who was not even trying to hide a very smug grin as he awaited Bethberry’s response hopefully, expecting a favorable response as Osric began the same.