[Gwathagor]

Crabannan waited in the Hall with an enormously heavy trunk, waiting to be told what to do with it. This was his fifth trip from the wagons to the Hall and they were making significant headway. Trying not to think about the weight, he looked around, admiring the rough timbers and clean, gray stone - and suddenly he realized how much of his own sweat he had poured into the construction of the edifice. It took him aback for a moment. He frowned in surprise.

Curses, he thought. I think I enjoyed it. I may have even made a friend or two.

The notion made him uneasy for some reason he could not pinpoint. For weeks on end his sword and bow had lain dormant, his hands more frequently taking up the harp at the end of a long, satisfying day of labor. They would sit around the fire, drink, play music, and sing of actions bold and violent. But their weapons had been the hammer and chisel, the plow and the scythe.

He dropped the trunk.

"Mordor take it," he muttered, "I'm hungry." He stomped off towards the kitchen, reflecting grimly that if these fine new nobles from Edoras continued as they had begun, he might need his sword and bow very soon indeed. There had been two fights already today among the children and he guessed that those same tensions were present in the adults, only held back behind the mask of manners.

Crabannan shook his head. No, if it came to trouble, he'd clear out right away. He had no desire, indeed, no right to get involved.

He strode at a swift pace into the kitchen, buried in his thoughts, and ran smack into a large soldier. He jumped back in surprise, and the soldier stumbled, regained his feet, and turned around looking very irritated. Crabannan winced for a moment, thinking he recognized the soldier, but then realized the fellow was new.

"Pardon," said Crabannan. "Apparently I'm not the only one looking for something to eat." He raised an eyebrow hopefully at Modtryth.