The White Horse Inn, Act III

[Nurumaiel]

"I made a dreadful mistake in telling my service to the King as Bard," said Liornung with a playful little smile. "Now you compliment me more than I am worthy of. I thank you." He bowed low to Osric, and the latter spoke again, "Sing for us first, Master Liornung, as Bard of days gone by."

"But, uncle, I beg you tell me this first," Maercwen broke in before Liornung could go to fetch his fiddle. "Why is it that you were Bard of the King and no one ever knew this? Would not Eorcyn know, and perhaps Osric as well, and others who were older than children before the War?"

"It was not a grand affair," Liornung replied, "as this one is. Times were growing troubled then, and such festivities were not held. There was no Contest; I sang in the Hall once as I passed through Edoras and the King bid me stay awhile and be Bard. The honor of Eorcyn and Hearpwine is much greater; they have earned through hard toil their right to the title while my little song merely caught the King Theoden's fancy." He moved off to find his fiddle and Maercwen went to her sisters, drawing them to her and kissing their golden heads. She sat beside Gomen and a silence fell upon the room when Liornung returned. His eyes had become soft and dreamy and he struck up a slow, haunting melody that rose and fell as waves of music, bringing the incense of sound to the room and delighting the ears of those that heard.

"Oh, fare thee well sweet Hall of Gold,
I leave thee for awhile.
The days are short, the year is old,
the road is many miles.
I hoped to stay but a little more
and linger for some days
but my presence here is o'er;
I can no longer stay.

Oh, when I was but a little boy
I heard of your renown
and such tales filled my heart with joy,
you, Edoras' crown.
I dreamt on thee by dewy grass
when time was sunrise
and hoped that one day at last
you would be my prize.

And Edoras is sweet and fair,
Rohan's gleaming star;
the Golden Hall a jewel rare;
I saw it from afar.
I travelled to that fairest place
to come before the King.
I saw the Hall's golden grace
my heart did sing.

And then before the King a melody
presented soft and low;
I sang a song most readily
of heroes long ago.
His eye was kind, his voice was soft,
no evil his words marred,
he wished me in the Hall to sing oft;
he named me as King's bard.

Joy complete, oh Hall of delight,
I sang within your walls,
my heart with peace was ever bright
and ever was enthralled.
But now alas I see darkness afar
and see a sorrow fall.
The darkness brings a weary war
so farewell, Golden Hall!

Oh, fare thee well sweet Hall of Gold,
I leave thee for awhile.
The days are short, the year is old,
the road is many miles.
I will not return again, I fear
to sing before your King
but all memories I will hold dear,
and the joy my music brings.

His voice broke and his hands trembled as he set the fiddle down. He shook his head and spoke, saying, "My friends, there is more to the song but I cannot sing. My heart was near broke when I left the Golden Hall and ceased to be Bard of the King. I dreamed of it long, ever since I was a boy, and it was bitter. I recall those days now when I gaze upon the youthful face of Hearpwine, and the memories are sweet and sorrowful. Yet I do not sorrow that the young has had his dream fulfilled and will someday be Bard. I weep that my days as Bard were too soon over, and the days of King Theoden. Perhaps I will sing to you the rest of the song when the memories have fled my heart and no longer pain me as they do now."

[Kransha]

Osric listened, focused and soothed by the calm verses, to the song of Liornung the former bard. His gaze became weary, serene, like a wistfully gentle sea in the wake of any storm; the like had been seen in the bustling streets of Edoras. He nodded in reverential agreement as the voice of Liornung withered and died in his throat, the sweet sound disappearing gradually as the silence that had completely overtaken the room became evident. No one clapped, or showed the merest hint that the song had ended, even after Liornung had finished speaking. Osric looked up, as he’d been looking down, pondering the shadows on the floor beneath, and managed to get out the first words, as he so often did in the tune’s solemn wake.

“My friend, Liornung,” he said, quietly at first, but then with more resoluteness, “you need not conclude that song just yet. When your verve is rekindled, do so, but I pray you, rest and be merry. Though you have left the Golden Hall, we can all see that the hall has not left you, more in soul than heart. You carry the flawless beauty of Meduseld with you, the fluttering grandeur of the Rohirrim banners held aloft, the beauteous things of Edoras and all of Rohan, and beyond, if I may say so. I too know some of the wonder that lies in that place, and perhaps the residue that cling to those who leave it." At last, the subdued nature settled on the innards of the White Horse dissapated, "Be at peace for this moment, and we shall elicit a song from master Hearpwine or master Eorcyn, so that you may collect the verses which have entertained us.”

As the old Rohirrim came to a serious, if not tedious conclusion, he reflected. He had been moved especially by what the bard and fiddler had said. The man of Aldburg had come on numerous occasions to the city of Edoras, and from the rolling, dipping hills of high-hanging grass, rippling across the plains of amber green as water would, the eyes of Osric, whether as old and nestled between wizened flaps of wrinkled skin as they were now or shing out and glinting with a fiendish light as they had in youth, would always fall upon the hall, its roof thatched with shimmering patches of sunlit gold. He had looked, in past days, upon the beauty of the hall and dreamt of entering. Dreamt, with his boyish fancies, until one day. Dreams fulfilled, so he had thought, were to be beauteous, but his had been only grand until the dream ended. The Golden Hall, from without and from within, was a wondrous weight, which gnawed at Osric murderously when it had been lifted years ago, leaving an unexpected emptiness behind it to haunt the man.

“Eorcyn,” said Osric, feigning harsh sternness as he turned to this unknown man, scratching his dappled beard in contemplation, “milord Bard, perhaps, since you have not before graced this horse with a fairer saddle, you would be willing to show us what made you so favorable ‘neath the roof of the Golden Hall. If Hearpwine’s humble words ring true, than you are a marvel to the world of music indeed. So, let me not speak of you more, since you are surely capable of doing so yourself. Give us a round, and a merry one at that, else we shall have to find another bard who can do the job justice, but I have no fear of that.”

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Eorcyn bowed to Osric and smiled gravely. “You doubt that the King as his nobles have made the right decision,” he began. “I am afraid, for my sake, that there are many who will think so too. Perhaps you have not heard the whole story of the Contest however? I offered the place of victory to Hearpwine but was denied by the King.”

“I have heard the story,” Osric replied, “and I am glad to know that it is true. But by what I’ve heard, you denied the decision of the King in that you felt a younger man who could serve him longer would serve him better. I did not hear that you relinquished the title of the better singer.”

“And that I do not,” Eorcyn said, his voice taking on an edge of iron that it had seemed incapable of earlier. “Master Hearpwine is talented and passionate, but he is young and untutored – he will benefit from a few years’ seasoning.”

Oscric made to reply to this, but Hearpwine stepped forward with his arms raised between them. He had not noticed the slight altercation at first, for his eyes had been taken by Mae where she stood (quite prettily) contemplating what must have been for her a miraculous sight: not one, but three Bards to the King! Hearpwine tore his attention from her and spoke to the two older men. “Please my friends, do not quarrel upon such a happy day: do not mar my victory with disagreement. For a great victory I deem it – have I not won both the favour of the Lady and the right to learn from the King’s Bard himself? Come Eorcyn,” he added quickly to forestall and more harsh words between the two old men, “give us the happy song that my friend Osric asks. And if I might be allowed, I will accompany you on my harp.”

Eorcyn looked at Osric once more but did not say what he was thinking. Instead, he seized the middle of the room and began to hum a familiar tune. Hearpwine knew it well, and soon the melody flooded from his harp to all corners of the room.

There was an old fiddler who had a cow
The cow wore striped pants
And when the old fiddler would play a tune
The cow would love to dance
Dance, dance, dance, the cow would love to dance
Dance, dance, dance, the cow would love to dance

The fiddler played and the cow she danced
Beneath the light of the moon
The fiddler got tired, but the cow did not
She said: "Play another tune."
Tune, tune, tune, Play another tune
Tune, tune, tune, play another tune.

The cow kept dancing and danced all night
And most of the following day
And all of the animals joined right in
And danced their shoes away
Away way way, they danced their shoes away
Away way way, they danced their shoes away

There was an old fiddler who had a cow
The cow wore striped pants
And when the old fiddler would play a tune
The cow would love to dance

Eorcyn finished to a round of applause and raucous laughter, bowing and smiling to those around him (but not, Hearpwine noticed, to Osric), saying “‘Tis a piece of lovely nonsense I learned of the Halfing Meriadoc,” he explained. “I met him when he and his companions returned here with our King, and though he was saddened by the loss of him he loved, he did teach me the words to this song. ‘It’s a silly song,’ he told me, ‘such as my people sing, and not at all fit for high company. But I sang it for Theoden before he rode away from Dunharrow and he said he liked it. I sing it now in memory of him’.”

Hearpwine applauded with the rest of the crowd, and soon the cry came for him to sing a tune but he shook his head quietly saying, “I am sorry, my friends, but I have done so much singing since I arrived that I must give my voice a rest. Why, all last night I sang, and then this morning I had to give a performance fit for a King. And then, I’m afraid, I much abused my throat in the celebrations after. Please,” he added wearily, “allow me to have a bite to eat and some drink and then I shall sing for you when my strength is gathered once more. In the meantime, I daresay my master will be willing to share his song-hoard with you all.” Eorcyn smiled and bowed once more to the Inn, saying that he would be happy to entertain any requests for music.

Hearpwine took the opportunity to move away from the centre of the room. The tables were all filling up, and he went over to a small one by the window where sat a Man dressed in the habiliments of a Dúnedain Ranger. “May I sit,” Hearpwine asked.

[Kransha]

Osric, with his withering gaze, smiled as best he could, though the smile’s luster was removed. He looked at Eorcyn, the two clouded orbs nestled into his wizened face unblinking as the bard’s eyes met his. They exchanged only a swift glance, the glance of brethren, though they shared no such bond. Both men broke the locking of their stares instantly, so as to keep up their combined appearances. Eorcyn turned to entertain the berating of numerous questions. Osric, muttering indignantly to himself, turned, reflecting back to the words Liornung had said, talking of the Golden Hall of Meduseld and his subsequent melancholia. This drove Osric’s mind from quiet contemplation to deep, unsettled thought as the candle flame of a darker memory, though thatched with glistening gold, flickered in his mind, sparkling seductively to entice the thinker back to it.

It had been years ago, the number of which had been lost to Osric’s inferior memorial records, that the man, now old and having lost his prime years to war, had been called to that place where men and women, poets and fiddlers, and all their jolly kin had flocked on this fine day. He had felt himself a lad, though he’d seen so much of war’s ineptitude, its uselessness, the squandering of fair youth and the stealing of the beauty in the world. After that day he was old, and, strangely, he had not been so before. Before he entered the Golden Hall, he had been a warrior of Rohan, with the white steed on grassy green behind him. When he left, his strides no longer filled with exaggerated vigor, he had been an ancient dotard of a Rohirrim, unfit to hold his station, or the gaudy titles pinned upon his breast unjustly. He was saddened that day, profusely, and his luster abandoned him, spurning him cruelly and striking him from his high perch, no longer the noble falcon but the cantankerous old crow, reclusive in his stories of war, death, and illusions of merriness.

For his deeds and for his presence in the War of the Ring as a man who stood on the field for principle and for honor, Osric of Aldburg had been allowed to enter that hall, alongside the few brothers of his who had not fallen, and be looked upon by the noble Eomer and fair Eowyn, Lord and Lady of the kingdom. He had been humbled, not by them, but by the place, by some strange futility that accosted him to no end. He could not shake as he looked upon the marble pillars, gleaming in sunlight manufactured perfectly by the sensational golden hue of the rafters above, on the dazzling tapestries of past conquests ceremoniously decorating Brego’s hall. It was something that lingered in Osric now. But, the Rohirrim tried not to consider it an ill thing. He had seen Meduseld, and was honored to have even the syllables of his name spoken by the brave and regal Eomer upon his gilt throne. Now, as Osric so warily assured all others, was a time for celebration.

“So,” queried the man, more as thundering statement than question in reality, clapping his suddenly clenched fist upon a table and rattling its foundations, “who now is left that has not placed his voice upon our heart strings and plaid, like master Liornung on the fiddle? I know but one who has yet to awe us with his words and song!” The crowd seemed to unanimously agree with the anonymous voice, since none knew its owner, and began to shout and hoot and holler, though they soon realized that they did not know which bard they ought to center their attentions on. They all looked around, bewildered, which allowed Osric a choked-back chuckle, which soon stopped as his own attention was swiftly diverted to another, more important matter.

Slowly, but with zealous sureness, Osric edged his rickety wooden chair across the floor, scraping up the polished wood, towards where Eorcyn sat. The bard took notice, but seemed, with his theatrical skill, not to, at first. He shot a sideways look at the once-warrior and turned back to the crowd, but Osric persisted doggedly, swinging his chair up and over beneath him and to the table that Eorcyn stood beside, his arms still half spread as requests seem to rise and fall. Osric gestured to him, somewhat ruefully, and the bard turned to the man, sitting beneath him. Osric, pushing up from the table with wobbling, narrow arms sheathed in cloth, stood hunched before the bard and spoke, though no others heard his voice in the commotion.

“Eorcyn," he said in reservation, being all but concise, "you must forgive my inconsiderate choice of words when we spoke. I was somewhat addled at this whole scenario playing out; my ancient wits were prone to some failing, so I may have seemed ungrateful. I want, now, before the end of this happy day, to extend my hearty thanks for your services to my friends this day, and to the noble men and ladies of the Great Hall. I know I should not speak on their behalf, as I am barely a member of the conglomerate I speak of, but I can still hope that you might accept this poor excuse for penance.”

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Eorcyn considered before replying, for he could sense that Osric meant what he said, but that the old warrior remained, in his heart, loyal to his opinions rather than to the judgement of the King. Eorcyn warmed to him for that. His harsh words of before had come as a surprise to himself, and he was only just now beginning to resolve them in his heart. He had lived a long and successful life as a bard, and his selection this day should serve as the fulfillment of his existence, but over it all there stood yet a dark cloud. When he had heard Hearpwine sing, there had been no doubt in his mind that the young man would carry the day. His voice was untutored and his discretion somewhat lacking in performance, but there could be no denying the raw talent of the lad. Eorcyn’s own performance had been somewhat lacking this day, he thought, and even the youth Asad’s singing had, to Eorcyn’s mind, been deserving of higher praise. He had won the affections and the loyalties of the Golden Hall this day, and for that reason the King had chosen him wisely. But the hearts and souls of those with the ears to hear and the wits to recognise belonged firmly to his student. He was ashamed as he recalled the relief he had felt with Éomer had proclaimed that Hearpwine would not perform in the Golden Hall until his time had come to become master and not apprentice: Eorcyn feared sharing the floor with such talent.

He eyed Osric carefully and sat. Pitching his voice low he said, “I think you for that, friend, but I fear I owe you the apology, for I was rash when I spoke – rash and foolish: two things that are never comely in a man, but that are more than ridiculous when found in a man of my age and supposed wisdom.” Osric raised a questioning eyebrow but did not reply, so Eorcyn continued. “I fear that you touched too close to the mark with your doubts, for I share them myself. You are right when you say that I did not offer to bow to the greater singer, and I truly believe that there is much that young Hearpwine can learn from myself and Liornung. But there is an ugly truth that I will share with you – I believe that in a very short time the young man will have learned all that he can from me, and then I will be nothing more than an old encumbrance between him and the station that will be rightfully his. I am the better singer…for now. But when he reaches the full limit of his strength, when he learns to pace his song and achieve its full gallop where it shall have the most effect…I am afraid that I will sound like that croaking of an old crow beside him!”

They looked across to where Hearpwine sat in conference with the new arrival from the north. Osric said, “Such is the burden of age. We have come through our adventure and offer little to those who follow but the imprint of our feet upon paths that we no longer have the strength to follow. The best we can hope is that those younger feet will not completely obliterate the signs of our passage as they hasten to surpass us. But do not despair, for without the aged, how would youth know the path that they must follow? Hearpwine may surpass you someday, but for now he does not, and he looks to you as his rightful master. If you can find it in your heart to help him along the path you have taken, he will perhaps find the strength to make one of his own – and if that happens, your path will remain your own, and become the starting point of a most miraculous journey! That, I think, is no small accomplishment!”

Eorcyn returned his gaze to the rheumy eyes of his companion, and saw there that Osric was speaking as much to comfort his own age. He smiled at the man in what he hoped was a friendly manner, for his mind was still oppressed. “You speak wise counsel, friend. Come, let us order some drink so that I might loosen my throat somewhat, and then I shall constrain my apprentice to accompany me a song!” He turned and waved at the Innkeeper to get her attention.

[Bêthberry]

[OCC]

April and May were very busy months in The Shire and saw the completion of several excellent games. Many gamers deservedly earned access to Rohan and three Game Founders earned full status in Rohan.

Gamers with full status as Game Manager and Game Player

alaklondewen
Everdawn
ittlemanpoet

Gamers who have earned access as Game Players

Alatariel Telemnar
ArwenBaggins

Durelin

Eorl of Rohan
Esgallhugwen

Fordim Hedgethistle

Kransha

Lumiel

Memory of Trees
Meneltarmacil

Nuranar

Regin Hardhammar

Witch Queen

A round of applause and a round of ale at the White Horse for these new Gamers and Game Managers in Rohan! Every one of them wrote with accomplishment and creativity and responsibility.

New Writers of the Mark, please take the time, if you have not already, to read through the rules for gaming in Rohan in the thread called The Golden Hall.

Welcome to Rohan. I look forward to gaming with you either in Rohan games (when I can find the time to join games or run my own) or at The White Horse. Please do come to the Horse in character and allow us to raise a pint in honour of your accomplishments.

Bêthberry,
Moderator for Rohan

[Bêthberry]

It had been a long and confusing morning for Bethberry, for she had chosen to avoid the competition at the Golden Hall. She had not felt inclined to remember the events of four years ago amid glittering celebration and regal pomp.

She had struggled with the children's lessons, watching their impatience and eagerness to be off to the excitment of the market and the competition. Rather than a formal lesson, she had encouraged them to draw on their slates images of kings and queens, the Golden Hall itself, the barrow of Theoden and those also of the many who fell that day. The children found an outlet for a time for their imagination and then grew impatient. She gave them leave, as she knew Frodides would have allowed, to run off to stand outside the Golden Hall in hopes of hearing the contest, with a warning to listen to Gomen who could be relied upon to keep a very watchful eye over them. With nary a word, they allowed their slates to clatter upon the old table and were away.

She sat quietly for a time, watching Ælle and Osric share a breakfast ere she rose and sought out Ruthven, the woman whose company always these days soothed her best. Ruthven knew, as did the poor of Edoras, that the last four years were years of struggle and deprivation. The costs of war were great and many went hungry and languished in pain and destitution from want. With the old rag lady only could Bethberry share her feelings of frustration with opulent ceremonies of the nobles when so much still yet remained to be done for the people. Yet, when finally she rose to leave Ruthven, her heart was more at ease.
Thus it was that she was back at The White Horse when Hearpwine and Liornung and Eorcyn bounded into the Mead Hall with their excitement and swelling enthusiasms which overtook the Inn. She had been about to address a new patron, a stranger, a northern Ranger it appeared from his dress, when Hearwpine caught her eye and nodded. She smiled at him, who seemed to have won a different prize that day, once which suprisingly gave him greater happiness than winning would have. Interesting, she thought, how things can be given even in the midst of others being lost or taken away.

Once the excitement and uproar subsided, she rose to speak to all.

"We are honoured here with the presence of three bards, the like of which The Horse has never before seen. In honour of this day and their art, may I offer them a fine meal from our kitchens and to all others, ale or cider as thirst may dictate or desire. And in memory of those who have fallen, the little remembered in song and verse as well as the great, for their sacrifice is no less keen for being less known. "

She bowed before the three, old Eorcyn, secretive Liornung, and the expectant Hearpwine and then sought her way back to the table of the northerner, whose action in pulling out quill and parchment had caught her attention.

~~~

OOC My apologies for my recent absence. My road in real life went ever on and away from the Downs and indeed I crossed the continent and was brought to the Western shore. Yet I have returned to find one of the most splendid sub-plots the White Horse has ever seen. Wonderful work particularly by Aylwen Dreamsong, Nurumaiel and Fordim Hedgethistle and writing equally good by Kransha and Snowdog. May the other gamers return as well now that events have returned to The Horse!

Aylwen and I will be hatching new subplots as this one comes to a completion, so if any Writer of the Mark wishes to suggest further plots, please contact either Aylwen or myself. This is not to call for an end to the current plans, but simply to prepare for future events.