[piosenniel]

Nogrod’s Character

NAME: Sythric

AGE: 41

RACE: Men

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: Good,basic Rohirrim sword, gotten as a honorary gift from the riders’ guild at Croacht after ten years of service: good weapon, but not a masterpiece or anything of worth in gold in the wide world. Brand new horserider’s longspear, iron tipped, gotten from the March-warden. Longbow, made of fir, basic model, not more than ten years’ old, bought from an armourer in Bregoware + 18 arrows in his own soft leather quiver + 20 arrows tied with a string, from the March-warden. Small round shield of wood (swordmans’ shield), gotten as a part of a “starters’ kit” at Croacht, and has hanged along ever since: badly bruised and damaged, the paintings in the leather topping almost all gone. Mediumsized knife, iron blade, not sot much a weapon, as an all around tool: present from his much admired great-uncle (starring: the family-logo, a silver wolf’s head at the back of the handle – makes it propably the second or third most valuable item he has with him). Toughened leather breast-armour and greaves (on arms & legs), another gift from his great-uncle, a worthy gift indeed. No helmet: Sythric never liked them.

APPEARANCE: Normal height, clearly under six feet. Has gained a little surplus weight as compared to his youth, but not a fat man at any standard. In a good shape to his age, strongly built. Hairline at the forehead has escaped a bit higher, so he combs his hair backwards and ties it to two ponytails at the back. Hair colour: yellowish-light brown. No whiskers over the upper lip, but strong sidewhiskers + plaited beard (pigtail!). Blue-grey eyes that can be quite flashing and intense, but have also a “switched-off” -position. Mellow-orange cotton shirt (under the leather armour) and light brown leather trousers.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Sythric is not the ice-breaker at the parties! From the early childhood onwards, he has had the feeling, that he is being walked through his life without anyone bothering to ask, what he himself would like to do or decide. After his assignment with the riders, he has tried to wrestle himself free from this, but due to his tough, conservative upbringing, he hasn’t quite gone over that yet. All this has made him quite a cynical, almost nihilistic – and at lately, quite straight-forward speaking man. Still, there is a romantic inside of him. Secretly he believes in justice and freedom for the days to come. That is well revealed in his almost altruistic love of young people, male or female: in the drive, which he gets into, when he is going riding on with the youngsters, or teaching them to shoot arrows etc. He truly believes, that the new generation can make the difference.

Over that, it should be mentioned, that he is quite moody and unpredictable: at a moment, tender and caring, at another, sarcastic and dooming.

HISTORY: Born to Skara, a farming community, or indeed a manor farm of some esteem, Sythric had a twofold inheritance: either to be a landlord or a soldier. As he was the second child (his big brother Swithulf is 2-years older), the latter choice seemed to be calling him. As he won all the childrens’ fights with his brother and cousins, his father laid great expectations on him. He was to be a rider, and he was trained to that from the beginning. If everything would have gone according to his fathers’ wishes, he would have become a heroic rider of Rohan. That never happened: he served at the riders of Croacht (the same place were Raedwald was serving – they both knew each other and even shared some battles together) and returned “fully served” at the age of 30, as a mere sergeant (that was his dad’s point of view).

His great idol had been his great-uncle, Limferth, who had, in his time, served at the “rohirrim proper”, the king’s hird. The tokens his great-uncle ordered to be given to him at his deathbed (the breast-armour & greaves and the knife), were great marks of honour for him. And they still are. The only cause of envy was, that his great-uncle’s sword and shield went to his cousin, Aethelbane, and not to him.

As Sythric returned, he was an oldtimer to marry, but there was a younger half-kinswoman, Ceolflaed, who had been recently been widowed with no children. All the families thought, that this would be a good marriage, and so the wedding was held. They had a rush of love: Sythric trying it seriously the first time, Ceolflaed trying to make it reality a second time. It passed away quite quickly. They couldn’t divorce, because of the conservative values of the time, but also, and more importantly, because of the strong social and economic ties that had been settled between the families under the umbrella of being “kinsfolk”. The “old couple” had their first child, Hunlaf, the very same year Sytheric came back from the riders’. Their daughter Cwen was born about three years later. That was the time-span of their love. After that it waned.

Sythric got to doing anything else than being with his wife. He started mentoring bregowarian youngsters and teens in riding, sword handling, archery etc. Many wealthy families were ready to pay for this teaching for their young hopefuls. Added to his savings from the military, he didn’t have to make any other living for their family. They lived at Skara, at the old farmhouse, the one that was built there first, by the first settlers of Woldland. It was an old and not so comfortable logging, but it was ok. for Sythric. It had tradition. His brother Swithulf lived at the magnificient main-building of Skara: it had 7 rooms and the longhall (not to mention all the workingrooms of the three household servants – the stableboy and field-assistants had their own little dwelling near the longhouse). In Sythric’s house there was just the one main area, and the dormitory corners with curtains. But he was happy with it.

Lately Sythric had managed to persuade his brother Swithulf to let his youngest sons ride with him – and after a much longer conversation, his eldest daughter too. And as his own son Hunlaf was also coming to an age, they started having their own riding parties every now and then. The youngsters had a chance to learn skills they admired, and Sythric a chance to be away from home a few days in a row.

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Nogrod’s post ------- Place after Undómë's Rædwald post

Sythric was tending a dying fire in the middle of the northern wilderness, when he heard the distant horns in the still air. The three young lads and the girl were sleeping a good nights’ sleep, and the horses were taking their well earned rest just a few feet away. He knew immediately, what the horns meant. All the things he had seen and recollected from other ranging peoples’ depictions during the last year, or year and a half, pointed to one direction only: a large scale orc raiding party would be up on their village one day or another, this autumn or winter, pillaging and plundering. Now it seemed to have come to happen.

He got so excited, that he almost bruised the lads, kicking and shaking them out of their happy dreamworld. One of them was his own son, Hunlaf, 12-year old kid, who still sucked his thumb while asleep. The other two lads were the youngest sons of his brother, Swithulf: Waermund and Waerferth (16 & 15 respectively), and the girl, indeed a handsome young lady, was his brothers’ still unmarried daughter Winflaed (17). He urged them to get up and on the road. There was alarm at Bregoware, an alarm that hadn’t sounded during the decades the Bregowarians remembered. It was time to ride, and ride fast. They rode south, towards the town, and Sythric pressed them forwards as if all the hounds of Mordor would have been on their heels. The youngsters started to sharpen, got alarmed, all senses open. It was a ride in a deep night and darkness the young had never encountered – or were never taught how to cope with. They would remember it for the rest of their lives.

Some time after the daybreak they reached the outskirts of Bregoware. They had not been as fast as Sythric would have hoped for, but they hadn’t been as slow as he had feared. The young had been quite good indeed. He should have to praise them to his brother someday. At the small hill, north of the town centre, he told his young companions to reach homewards, and bid them tell his wife and brother, that he would be accompanying them soon enough. Then he rode down to the Town Hall.

The March-warden was having a council with the city elders, when Sythric entered the Hall. They all fell silent at his arrival. Before they had time to open their mouths in a greeting, Sythric got straight into the business – as was to be expected from him: “So, an orc party, much larger than a normal one, now coming to pillage for real, not just probing, isn’t it? Today or tomorrow?”

“That’s correct, and sadly, at the same time incorrect, master Sythric,” said the March-warden slowly. Sythric had never quite catched the idea, why March-warden preferred to call him ‘master’. There was something playful or humorous in that honorific, but was it all? “It’s just much worse. A greater party, yes. Orcs, yes. But also easterlings. And not a raiding party... but a full army. We have already called for evacuation at noon.” The March-warden made a rhetorical pause to let his word sink in, deep down to the bottom of it all. Sythric felt his blood thrusting with such velocity through his rusting veins that he thought he could not cope with it for long. In the following silence he almost heard his own heart thumping, with ever increasing speed. So, it did come to this, he thought to himself, my skills were never needed here when I had them, and now, when they would be needed, I don’t have them anymore. I’ve defended many villages and run against many enemies, but never have I defended my own town, my own people. Now I am not able, not more than the other old battle-rags around here: some council, the last defense perhaps... His solitary thoughts were distracted by ever more urgent whispering by the council members. They were talking about him. He knew it.

“Master Sythric”, began the March-warden, as their discussion had settled. “Would you serve your town in a time of distress, in an errand both urgent and most crucial to our destiny?” Hearing the unexpected pledge in the middle of his self-depressing thoughts, Sythric only nodded slightly, and kind of wondered, whether this man was really asking, would he do something for the town, or was it again some rhetorical nicety. The March-warden started explaining the events of the night, but when he got into the riding party and those involved in it, old counselor Hugebryth cut in, a very cynical tone in his soft voice: “It probably was pure madness to send just four riders for an errand of that importance at times like these. But what should we say about the wisdom of choosing two boys and two girls whose experience can be compared to that of the kids? Would you send your son Sythric, or would you go yourself? What should we have decided last night? Let me say, reason can not be seen dwelling here, under the roof of this very hall. They sure can ride, and some of them probably can hunt or fend off foxes from their goat herds. But have they ever even seen an orc, or an easterling warrior in full armour, not to talk of confronting one, or ten? And even if they would make it to the Golden Hall, could they get an audience, or would anyone believe them, or even take them seriously? Just asking, old and tired man as I am...”

So, this is it, no use in real war, but ready to be sacrificed with a quest, that only a fool would hope to have an effect on anything, thought Sythric by himself. Aloud he said: “If it is the wish of the council, that I should trace and join them on this errand, so be it. You don’t have to ask, whether I’m willing to help my town. You know the answer. And if this is the way you see fit, then this is the road I will take. But first I must see to my family and my brother to arrange evacuation affairs. And because I have practically been riding since yesterday morning, both I and my horse need some rest. I could be off late afternoon and if I ride without pause, I should reach them early tomorrow morning. Is that all right with the council, or should I try to hasten?”.

“We are most grateful to you, master Sythric. Is there anything you would need on your quest, any gear you would like to upgrade? You are welcome to claim them from my armoury, ... or kitchen”, said the March-warden. “My spear is not in shape it used to be, and one could always do with some extra arrows. Otherwise, I do prefer my own equipment. Some dried meat would be useful, my share of our own would then go to my children and my brothers’ children. It may be a tuff journey for you all too.” Sythric answered. The March-warden called for the armourer to see these items to Sythric’s old farmhouse before noon.

As Sythric was taking his leave, the old counselor Hugebryth rose up from his chair and called him to wait. He took a couple of short steps towards Sythric and addressed him, looking straight into his eyes, kind of evaluating him as he spoke: “We all know you are a good man, and we also know that as a mentor for many of our young riders, you love and care for them deeply. Just remember, that this message to the King, no matter how slim are the chances that it will affect anything in the end, is the single most important thing on your journey. It’s more important than the lives of any one of those youngsters, and remember also this: your being alive is the best insurance we have for the message reaching its destination. Don’t try to be a hero of your conscience, be the hero of your people.” He took a step backwards and mumbled quietly, as to himself, even the words were at least half directed to Sythric: “If this would be done my way, you would have ten spearman riding with you – maybe we wouldn’t even need you then, other than just taking the youngsters safely back.”

Sythric bowed and exited the hall. He rode to his old farmhouse and ordered the farmhand to see to his horse. Then he negotiated evacuation-matters with his brother. His wife and children would of course go with his brother’s family, and with all the rest from Skara. It was just a question of some special items he would like to be taken with for him, if possible, and such matters. As he then told her wife about this new twist of his fate, they suddenly embraced, even hesitantly kissed each other. That hadn’t happen in years. There was a little shining tear in his eye, when he hugged his children, and demanded Hunlaf to defend his little sister, Cwen (9) in all circumstances, and her mom too. It was his duty as the oldest man in his family.

Then he started to gather his war gear in silence. No one said a word. The children were watching their father collecting and packing items slowly, but with precision of a life long experience. Hunlaf took Cwen by the hand, and they wept quietly together, without tears, just moist eyes gleaming ever brighter. Neither dared to look at each other. Ceolflaed turned her back to the room and just stared out of the window. Her shoulders were trembling weakly. Sythric tried to force a smile to his children when he was finished, but couldn’t. Slowly he bent himself down to meet his childrens’ eyelevel, looked them both in the eyes, took a strong grasp from both of their shoulders, and pressed them softly but firmly. “There will be a better world, one day there will be. You shall see it”, he almost whispered. He rose up and got out of the hall to the barnhouse to get some sleep.

In the dim light of the barn attic, laying on the hays, his tears flew openly. He was tired, frustrated, kind of offended, angry, and most of all, afraid of the fate of his children, his brother and his children, even of his wife. When he fell asleep at last, he was seeing images of burnt houses, screaming children and marauding orcs, fire and blood. And riding, all the riding... Things that had really happened, and things he hoped, never would.

As Sythric woke up, it was late afternoon. His horse was brushed and fed and looked quite lively again. March-wardens’ promised gear had been delivered to the door of the old farmhouse. Everything was quiet and empty. There was no one at sight: just birds singing their songs and the sound of the grasshoppers filling the air. Suddenly he saw a glimmer at the doorsteps of the old farmhouse. He took a closer look and found out, that it was a small wristband, made out of little pieces of glass. It was the band of Cwen, made by Sythric himself, when Cwen had her fifth birthday. He held it in his hand for a while, just staring at it and then slipped it carefully into his beltsack. He packed the rest of his gear, saddled his horse and rode out, into the empty fields.