Scarburg Meadhall

[Gwathagor]

Crabannan was seriously considering the notion of picking Javan up and shaking him as a lesson in respect when a voice from down the road called: "Hey Hi! What have we got here!"

He turned to see who was addressing them - and his jaw nearly dropped. Sitting on a pony in the middle of the road was one of the shortest people he had ever seen. His first thought was: that is a VERY fat little boy. In his second thought, he realized that it was none other than a halfling, of whom he had heard much (as had all who lived through the War of the Ring), but never actually seen. The sight of the short, stout fellow on the pony accosting them in such a manner was so comical that all thoughts of throttling Javan disappeared and instead he burst into hysterical, uproarious laughter.

Gasping for breath, he collapsed in the road as great heaves of laughter racked his body. He tried to turn and apologize to the halfling, but the sight of the fat little fellow on the fat little horse, who was by now looking quite cross, simply threw him back into heaving, convulsive laughter. The others looked on astonished as the grim and dark Crabannan rolled about in the road, undignified and nearly suffocated, trying desperately speak, but without luck.

The absurdity of the situation struck him as he lay there: he panting for breath, the halfling looking almost as astonished as he did appalled, the one boy holding his bleeding nose, and the other two staring in bewilderment at the grown-up who had only moments before been telling them off.

With a sigh, Crabannan lifted himself to his feet, still breathing heavily and chuckling quietly to himself. He quickly regained his composure, however. The customary grim look returned to his face as he bowed low.

"Your pardon, sirs. We seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot. I am Crabannan - and I am still hungry," he said, with an almost imperceptible twinkle in his eye as he looked up at Javan from under his dark brows.

[littlemanpoet]

"More likely, you're Big Trouble," Falco retorted. "Leastways, you're no ruffian as you've got a sense of humor even if it is at my expense. I am Falco Boffin, hobbit of the Shire to you, and these boys are Javan, Garmund, and Cnebba, and their fathers and mothers will be wondering why they're out here in the road instead of at the tents where they ought to be!"

Falco eyed the boys, two of whom looked properly ashamed, but Javan's natural ire only seemed to rise.

"Mr. Falco sir, Mr. Garstan sent me out here to fetch these two but they hid on me and started a fight! It's not my fault! And then this man came and broke up the fight and then he threatened us if we didn't give him food!"

Falco judged quickly that Javan probably was not telling the entire story, but was trying to be honest in general though maybe exaggerating. Which meant the man probably had broken up the fight and mentioned food, as he just had again.

"Well, Master Crabapple, sir, you won't be finding no food on these boys, but if you go into Scarburg here and introduce yourself properly to Lord Eodwine, who will be over by the animals, and if you can hold yourself off from laughing in his face about whatever strikes your funnybone, you might get some vittles. And as to wrong feet, if you think the sight of me and my pony is enough to laugh at, maybe I ought to get off of my pony and teach you a lesson, unless you care to apologize for your disrespect. What say you to that?"

Far from running back to the tents, the three boys got up and moved to one side of the road, eyes wide and eager to watch what happened next. Falco gave them no mind but eyed this Master Crabapple or whatever his name was, with a meaningful glare.

[shaggydog]

Having wound a tortuous trail through the heart of the marsh, Oeric gained the far side and considered his options. The shortest route to the tumble-down byre and his meager possessions would expose him to far too great a risk of being spotted again. Instead, he chose a more circuitous route which would bring him up the far side of the ridge behind the remains of Sorn’s hall. There was one thing which he agonizing over in particular and it would be necessary to remain close to the ruins. He couldn’t bear the thought of the strangers digging about and finding . . . them. Oeric cursed his own ambivalence about taking any sort of action to remove the evidence of the crime. But any time he had tried to persuade himself that it would be for the best, his heart had quailed at confronting the mute accusation of white bone and grey ash. Now, his opportunity to take care of things in his own way was surely gone. Still, he had determined that he would keep watch as closely as he could and if the time came . . . well, he would decide what to do then.

Exercising extreme caution, Oeric managed to gain the ridge as planned, undetected. He could hear the sounds of the newly erected camp and knew it was highly likely the settlers would be investigating their surroundings. There was a declivity he knew of, however, which would allow him , at need, to virtually disappear. A stone’s throw away ran a convenient access to a small rise upon which he could lay on his stomach and spy to his heart’s content. Creeping along the last twenty paces as silently as he could, Oeric was dismayed but not completely surprised to find someone else already had the same idea, and same spot, in mind.

“Still here, I see.” The one who had not offered his name on their prior encounter spoke softly, yet his voice was grim, stony.

Oeric had been far too distracted by his own misery to care overly much about who the stranger was and why he was there, at Sorn’s family homestead. It had been a cold, wet night amongst several days of rain, and the stranger had sought the shelter of the byre as Oeric had. As the figure had appeared, a pale oval of face floating above a dark form, for one wild moment of fancy, Oeric had imagined it was Swain come back. But the stranger had quickly stepped in to the circle of light cast by Oeric’s small fire and dispelled the phantasm. Holding his hands out to the warmth, the stranger had nodded and asked only, “Mind? I haven’t found a dry spot all day.” Oeric in turn had nodded his acceptance of an unlooked for companion, his own thoughts turning back to their own moebic trail. The stranger too had held his own counsel and the two had not passed more than twenty words between them by the time Oeric had wrapped his byrchan around his shoulders and lay down to close his eyes and feign sleep. Whether this one had somehow been sent by providence to dispatch him in the night and thus end the conflict of his heart had seemed to matter very little. But the dawn had brought a cessation to the rain and the stranger was gone when Oeric awoke.

“You too.” Oeric replied. He glanced up in the direction of the ridge. “And now we have visitors as well.”

“Looks as if they are here for more than a visit.” The man replied. He looked directly at Oeric as he asked, “You’re not in a rush to go introduce yourself and bid them welcome?”

Oeric returned the look and replied evenly enough, “No, I’m not. And I take it you’re not either.”

The two eyed each other, each taking the measure of the other in light of their shared desire to remain unknown to the newcomers. Oeric’s interest in why this man had showed up several weeks ago, who he was, and what his business there could possibly be was now piqued. However, it was clear the fellow wasn’t going to be forthcoming of his own volition, and questions posed would only result in questions being asked of himself.

[Gwathagor]

"Maybe you ought to, Master Halfling," said Crabannan, in a half-mocking tone of voice. He hadn't the ability to be angry at this funny little fellow, but he was curious to see if the halfling really would try to "teach him a lesson." He crouched into a fighter's stance and raised his fists. "Come down off your high horse, sir, and make me apologize."

Javan, Garmund, and Cnebba looked dumb-founded from Falco on his pony to Crabannan. They had never seen anything like this strange, dark man, who laughed and fought in the same breath, conducting both activities with equal seriousness.

Crabannan was gambling, of course, that Falco would not suit action to the word and follow through on his threat. If he did, Crabannan knew that he would find himself in a bad situation. He would be forced either to back down and apologize, or to fight the halfling. The latter was out of the question. He knew that he could not possibly justify fighting the halfling - not, at least, if he wanted to be accepted in the settlement, for however short a time. On the other hand, retracting his challenge did not sound very attractive to him either.

It was clear to him that he had acted rashly, and he cursed bitterly under his breath. He had a knack for making himself unwelcome wherever he went, and he knew it. Either people didn't share his curious, wry sense of humor, or they found his brooding, stern personality uninviting.

Too late now, he thought.

He took another step forward towards Falco as he clenched his fists tighter and put on his best dastardly ruffian grin. He had had lots of practice.

"Avast...halfling! I'm waiting for you!" he cried.

Avast?! Crabannan groaned inwardly. This couldn't end well.

[Thinlómien]

There was a throbbing pain in Cnebba's nose. He held the rag the stranger had given him to it and saw it turn redder. It was actually quite interesting. Maybe they'd take him to see the healer, like a proper wounded warrior. Although, he admitted, Master Falco had not treated him and Garmund like proper heroes - not like heroes at all. At least he had been just as unfair to the vile Orc who had beaten them in a fight. That was shameful, indeed. They would have won, easily, Cnebba knew, if he had not been so grievously wounded. But still, the Orc had had to use some treacherous trick to beat Garmund...

"Maybe you ought to, Master Halfling, teach him a lesson. Come down off your high horse, sir, and make me apologize", the stranger said and fully grasped Cnebba's attention. What was this weird, rude stranger doing? Was he a highwayman? Was he gong to attack Master Falco?

"Avast...halfling! I'm waiting for you!" the stranger cried. Were they going to fight? It was too exciting.

Before Falco could reply, Cnebba stepped forward. He held the rag carefully to his nose, and said: "If you're going to fight, you must take us with you too. We want to fight too. Garmund and I will defend Master Falco against you Master Highwayman. " He nodded, smiling smugly. For some reason, everybody was satring at him in silence. "Well, if it's unfair, you can have Javan on your side, Master Highwayman", Cnebba amended.

[Eönwë]

"Erbrand may of course show you. As for plans, I have not made any yet, for I do not know who the man is nor what if anything he has done, except to hide from us. When you find him and if he comes to us willingly, then we will make his acquaintance. If he is unwilling to come, I must know why, for it is my duty to protect my folk." Eodwine had replied.

Erbrand fiddled with his pouch. It will be time soon, he said to himself.

He gave a quick nod to Eodwine, and with that Dan went to Erbrand, to whom he explained his mission. Erbrand led him into the marsh, to where he had seen the intruder. He could still see the footprints in thhe boggy mud.

“Which way did he go?” Dan had asked.

“Straight towards the other end of the marsh,” Erbrand said, pointing. “I’m sure your search will not be in vain, Dan. That man looked awfully curious about our camp, and I don’t think he’s cured of it just yet. My guess is that he’s hiding somewhere amongst the brambles and bushes on the other side.”

Dan had looked around at his surroundings, seeing in what sort of terrain he was and judging what he would have to do to find this intruder who had been spying on the camp.

“Do you think that you will need further assistance in this matter Dan?" asked Erbrand. "I’ll be happy to travel with you until we catch this man, but if you have no need of me I'll not bother you and I’ll go assign myself to joining the hunting party.”

Dan had politely refused, as first of all he didn't want to waste Erbrand, who had now become the closest thing he had to a friend here, and secondly, he would just interfere with the scent, which would reduce his chances of finding the man.

So Erbrand went off, back towards the camp, lookng slightly upset at missing an opportunity to find the intruder, Dan thought, but maybe he was just tired. After all, it seemed to Dan that Erbrand had done a lot this day so far.

So Dan started his search. He got to the clearing where Erbrand had seen the man, and had run off. It was all there in the footprints. They each had a story to tell. A man had come here from one direction, and then later on he could see that two more men had come, by the look of it Lord Eodwine and Erbrand, who had come to look for the first man. They had messed up the first man's prints a bit, but Dan could still discern them among the mud.

He followed them through the marshland, over scrub and through mud, ambling precariously over high crags and steep ditches. At last he came to large pool, if it called be called that. It could barely be called a pond. It was like an overgrown puddle, muddy and wet. "The Drûg can track anything, except through running water," he had heard someone say once, and it was true. But thankfully, this was not running water, and the scent of the intruder was still there. And besides, he could see the footprints where he had clambered out. He waded through the oversized puddle, which went up to his waist and at length, carefully avoiding any hidden rocks or sharp stones hidden beneath the water which was not so much cloudy as mud with extra water. As he climbed out, careful to avoid the rocky outcrop which took up most of the bank, he realised just what he had gotten himself into.

But he continued knowing that this was his duty, and that, as a Drûg, he would be letting down Lord Eodwine by not using his full capabilities.

He had been going on for half an hour now, relying on his sense of smell as much, if not more, than his sight, as the ground was becoming increasingly wetter and wetter as he progressed. He could see that he was getting lower and lower, further into a flood plain, which was the reason for this. And finally, blessedly, he saw that the trail was leading him up and out now, and as he looked to his right, he realised that he had never left the ruins of the old Scarburg hall out of sight. He continued on and up the inceasingly steep slope, somewhat nimbly for someone of his stature. You wouldn't catch a Dwarf being able to do this, he thought to himsellf, absentmindedly.

He thought he saww something flash ahead, not more than two hundred metres away, at most. He had gained on him. He continued on, is pace quickening. He was sure the intruder could not see him behind the yet more rocky outcrops and long grasses that obstructed both of their views. He went faster, and just whwn he was within a stone's throw- "Aah!" he shouted, his foot had gone into something wet and sticky, and quickly, his whole body followed, until he was up to his chest in it. As he looked down, he realised that he had fallen into a very deep, yet not wide, puddle. That was the problem with the marshes. You knever knew. Blast these marshes he thought.
Marshes were the work of Melkor, he thought. Only a person as evil as Morgoth could think of something like this. He had always held that they were some of the worst places to be in. Wet, muddy, and riddled with rocks, hills, and holes, a tracker's worst nightmare. You got something that could otherwise be good- fertile soil, water, and so on, and turned it into probably the most miserable sort of place imaginable. Yes, Melkor's work indeed- not firey hot, nor freezing cold, but somewhere in between, and still horrible to be in. Why had he been cursed with such luck? Why had he even volunteered to do this? He had been stupid to think that he could handle this sort of terrain well. He was up to his shoulders in the puddle now, and the he could smell the fetid odour of the fens.

"Help!" he shouted, hoping someone in the world could hear him.

[littlemanpoet]

"Maybe you ought to, Master Halfling," said Master Crabapple, then crouched and raised his fists, read to fight. "Come down off your high horse, sir, and make me apologize."

Falco raised a brow. Here was a bigger fool than himself.

"Avast...halfling! I'm waiting for you!" Master Crabapple cried.

Before Falco could correct the man as to the fact that his horse was actually a pony and so not that high, or ask him what in Middle Earth 'avast' was suppose to mean, Cnebba stepped forward.

"If you're going to fight, you must take us with you too. We want to fight too. Garmund and I will defend Master Falco against you Master Highwayman. " He nodded, grinning, then continued. "Well, if it's unfair, you can have Javan on your side, Master Highwayman."

Falco rolled his eyes. This would not do.

"Surprising as it is," he began, "it seems I'm to be the responsible one of this lot. I can't have these boys interfering or I'll have to answer for it and never get on with my journey to the Shire. Be that as it may, I think my quickness would be more than a match for you and your game leg, Master Crabapple.

"Cnebba, Garmund, and Javan, get on back to the tents or I'll tell your folks and Eodwine everything! And you, Master Crabapple, if you will just allow me and my pony room to get by, I'll take that as your apology and what's more, I'll be merciful and not beat you in a fair fight."

[Gwathagor]

Crabannan saw his chance to get himself out of a ridiculous situation and took it. He relaxed his guard and shook his head. He was not usually this lucky.

"Ah well, Halfling Falco, perhaps you are right. Perhaps you would be more than a match for me, with your two ferocious warriors, and I with my bad leg. Master Javan and I would have surely been overcome."

He stepped aside and presented a clear road for the halfling and his pony. He hoped that he had not seemed weak in his capitulation moments earlier. He cast a sidelong at Javan and the other boys, but from their expressions he could not tell whether they thought so; he grimaced and put the thought aside. It did not bear dwelling on, and he had managed to avoid beginning his brief stay in the camp with a brawl. That was what mattered.

"A wise decision, Master Crabapple. You have avoided the great indignity of being beaten by someone half your height," said Falco.

"We must put it to the test someday, eh Halfling? But not today, I see."

Falco nodded his assent stiffly.

"Someday, perhaps. When you are better prepared. And now, I must be on my way."

"In that case, I wish you farewell and fair travels, Master Halfling, if Crabapple the Highwayman's goodwill is not repulsive to you."

With that Crabannan turned back to the three boys who had been watching the interchange with much interest.

"Now, lads, if one of you could direct me to someone who can give me a meal, I would be in your debt. I'm willing to work for it, but I'll need the meal beforehand. I haven't eaten in a day."

As he spoke, he realized just how hungry and tired he really was. He leaned against Horse, resting his right leg. I wish I could eat grass like you, old boy. Horse licked his ear and nuzzled the shaggy head of black hair.

[Firefoot]

“No, I’m not. And I take it you’re not either,” replied the man.

Scyld neither affirmed nor refuted the statement. True, he was not eager to ingratiate himself with these people. However, the thought had come to him that he might be better off going willingly to the camp than being discovered skulking in the hills. While he had learned a thing or two in the last couple months spent on the run, Scyld was no woodsman. He might evade their notice for a few weeks, but to what end? He would learn far more by being down among them and gaining their trust. He had little to fear, so long as his identity remained hidden.

Scyld could only assume this man had a similar story. It would be fear that kept him up here in the wild, Scyld guessed; had the man committed some crime, and did he simply fear authority? Or was it more personal than that? Did he fear recognition?

And the deeper question – why was he hear at all, and why had he stayed here all this time? Scyld thought he looked dimly familiar, so perhaps he was a native to these parts, but without a name to match the face he might as well never have seen the man before for all he knew about him. Regardless of this, he had been here at least as long as Scyld had been gone, and Scyld needed information. He needed to know what had conspired here since his departure, how the people felt about Sorn’s death, whether he himself had been forgotten or if he was a part of the rumors concerning Linduial’s kidnapping, whether the destruction to Sorn’s holdings had been intentional or incidental.

But to gain information, he must also offer it. “I believe we may be able to help each other,” he said abruptly. “I am called Nydfara.”

The proffer of even a name caught Oeric off guard. He had no reason to fear or suspect this man, but something about his manner reminded Oeric of a dog with a bone, some jealously guarded secret and a bristling if approached too closely. The suggestion that they might be of use to each other, though, intrigued Oeric. Of what assistance could he possibly be to this enigmatic stranger? And more importantly, to what use could Oeric himself put this ‘Nydfara’?

“I’m Oeric.” He replied, deciding there could be no harm in an exchange of names. There were undoubtedly those still around these parts who would remember him from days gone by. He had lived here with his grandmother until his early teens. Whether or not there had come to be associated with his name any taint or stain he knew not, not yet at any rate.

Without wishing to reveal more at this point, Oeric beat directly to the point. “You speak of helping each other. As you guessed, I’m not wishing to make the acquaintance of our new neighbors, not at this point anyway. How would you propose to help me in that? And what will you require of me in return?”

Scyld smiled grimly. Good, the man was open to an exchange; let him think he had found an ally. Scyld had not yet discovered how useful he would be, however. "Any enemy of these neighbors, as you call them, is a friend of mine. You know your own needs best, and perhaps you might tell me how I could best help. My own request is simple: I want information, anything you know or are willing to tell me about these people or this land. I have been away on certain... errands... for some time now and find myself out of touch with recent happenings."

[Lhunardawen]

Ginna let out a gasp of breath she did not realise she had been holding, which she hoped went unnoticed amidst the tinkling sound of metal shards hitting against each other as Harreld searched through them. It took a bit of effort to keep herself from breaking into tears when the smith had shouted. She knew she was in a precarious position here, daring to speak to the smith after everything that had transpired between them, and the thought of Harreld - always so gentle despite his appearance - yelling at her was more than she could bear.

Thankfully she had been mistaken, or so Harreld claimed. But it seemed that if she really desired to make herself an amenable company to him, she would have to keep her tongue in check when she's with him. He liked the quiet of Scarburg, he said. No matter, she could always enjoy a good chat with Kara and Frodides, as well as Modtryth and Léoðern, whenever she desired. There was no need to repress the woman's need to talk completely. It was just that...she thought he enjoyed hearing her speak. Perhaps all that time back in the old Mead Hall, he had simply been patient with her, but in truth every moment spent with her had been trying to him? Was that what had damaged their friendship?

She wanted to be silent altogether, if that was the way he worked best. She could not keep herself from asking one last thing, however.

"Is that why you left Edoras, then, even if you knew you would for some time be working in crude conditions here?" she asked, her voice nearly a whisper. Because I thought you will be choosing Garreth over me, especially after what I did, she added to herself.

[shaggydog]

Out of touch with recent “happenings”? It was clear that this self-styled ‘Nydfara’ was curious to know how Sorn’s hall had burned to the ground. Oeric had no intention of satisfying that curiosity though, not now. Not one given much to dissembling, Oeric merely shook his head slowly, saying, “You know as much as I, I’ll wager. These . . . settlers appeared out of nowhere, and I have no idea what their intentions are, except from the look of it, they are here to stay. The landowner here, Sorn his name was, is gone – I don’t know where or why.” Oeric nodded in the direction of the ridge, and the destruction which lay beyond. “As for that, I was wondering if you could tell me.” Not exactly an untruth, but a careful sidestepping of what he himself knew. Nydfara’s own denial of recent knowledge was in turn an admission that he had been here, at some time or other. Oeric had a suspicion the ‘errands’ the other man referred to were likely to be such that would not bear too close a scrutiny. It lay within the realm of possibility that Nydfara did have some knowledge of what had gone on before Oeric’s own arrival at the already deserted hall.

Not knowing how to proceed with this probing without giving away more than he received, Oeric thought once more upon how this man, or any man, could help him. Still unsure of his own desires, Oeric said simply, “As for myself, I wish only to remain as I have been before yesterday, left alone, until such time as I choose otherwise. In this you can be of help to me merely by making no point of bringing my presence here to anyone’s attention.” Nydfara eyed him shrewdly at this last statement, and Oeric surmised that the man was assessing this request for silence on his part. Whatever Nydfara made of it, however, the man only nodded slightly, neither agreeing to, nor denying, the request.

More than that, if indeed Nydfara had anything to add, was not to be explored, as, at that moment, a cry came to them on the air, causing both men to freeze. The call was close, and they were both alarmed that anyone should have approached so near to them without their realizing it. It was one word only. “Help!”. But it induced completely different reactions in the two.

Nydfara was on his feet in an instant and moving away from the cry, across the stony ground in a wary but rapid half crouch.

Oeric’s first response, born of his innate character, was to hurry down the slope and towards the distress cry. Whatever mishap had befallen the one who had called out, the voice, though strangely accented, was clearly that of one in need. As he made his way forward though, Oeric’s mind at least considered the possibility of whether those on the other side of the ridge would have heard the cry. His feet slowed as he considered his own position. If he made himself known, or was spotted and apprehended, then explanations would be requested, then required of him. He could perhaps play dumb and claim no knowledge of what had happened here. But then again, he himself had no way of knowing who might have heard by now of his own flight, and pursuit. His isolation here was both a cocoon and a prison. If word had gone beyond these lands . . . if Swain had really had time to send word to Edoras . . . Confusion and fear brought his feet to a halt. Then once more, a second cry, much closer, came.

Stiffening, Oeric realized that whoever it was, they could be no more than 30 or 40 paces away. A stand of willow bushes still provided him cover, but he knew their presence signaled the presence of water, and that in turn suggested what might lay beyond.

Still irresolute as to what he would do, Oeric cautiously made his way closer. Dropping to the ground, he wriggled into the bushes and pulled himself forward until he could catch a glimpse of what, and who lay on the other side. Perhaps, he thought hopefully, those beyond the ridge would soon arrive. Having heard the call, their attention would be occupied by aiding their hapless fellow and he could stay secure and unoted in the thicket. Slowly inching forward, Oeric listened for the sounds of both plight and rescue.

[littlemanpoet]

"Is that why you left Edoras, then," Ginna asked, "even if you knew for some time you would be working in crude conditions here?"

"For the quiet?" said Harreld. "No. In truth, I did not know that it would be this quiet out here in the country. I came because I wanted to." Because I hoped I could change your mind. "I needed the change. There, now I'm ready. The fire needs some air again, bellowsmaiden." Harreld smirked at the name. She was far more than that to him, even if he could not have her to wife. He liked her, and liked her talk because she asked interesting questions instead of never ending talk about nothing.

Ginna pumped the bellows while he worked, and this time the ladle went together nicely, as if it had never been broken. And that was what Harreld liked best about smithing. Wounds in metal could be healed as if they were never there; unlike those of heart and flesh.

[littlemanpoet]

“Is something amiss?” asked Léof. “Is there a better way which I have overlooked?”

"Nay, Léof," Eodwine smiled, "Thornden fears that I will not allow you to use any wood, for I wish our new hall to be built of stone."

A look of surprise came over Thornden's face, but he kept his peace.

"However," Eodwine continued, "the ruined hall will have to be cleared away at some point, and there is much wood there, though much is beyond use; still, I would like us to see what may be found in there first, to use as makeshift fenceposts or other things we need. What think you, Léof?"

[shaggydog]

Oeric Late morning

“So what do they call you?” Oeric asked, still grinning at some unnamable feeling nestled in his chest.

“Dagan-Turi_Dan, but Dan is probably easier.” The swarthy, stocky man replied. “And thanks, I owe you my life.”

Oeric tilted his head to look up to the skies and thought about the saving of a life, when it might happen and when it could not happen. After a long moment, he said, “I’m glad that I was able to do that for you, Dan.”

The other, whether through natural reticence, or more probably due to his ordeal, said no more, merely looking away towards the boggy spot that had almost been his tomb. Oeric wondered at this strange looking man, but was reluctant to ask him about his origins. That he was alive and well at this particular moment seemed enough.

Considering the possible outcomes of his question, Oeric asked hesitantly, “Would you be willing to do something in return?”

Dan looked at him, his expression unreadable. Oeric looked back, their eyes meeting. “I would like to keep my presence here unknown, at least until . . . until I decide the time is right. I don’t know if you have come here with these settlers, but if so, I would ask that you say nothing of me.”

[Firefoot]

The animal pens seemed terribly unimportant at the moment. Why did Eodwine keep going on about them now? There would be plenty of time tomorrow for the animal pens. What time of day was it getting to be anyhow? Surely dinnertime must be drawing near by now - except Léof wasn’t hungry, now that he thought of it. Thirsty, though. Or not so thirsty… the ale just felt good. He took another long gulp.

Rowenna was approaching the table. When had she left in the first place? Eodwine was standing. They had just sat down! Now he was talking: "I suppose we ought to get back to the animal pens, then, if we can get Léof out of his ale cup!" So soon? Best to finish quickly then. He threw back what was left in the cup – surprisingly little, only a couple mouthfuls, and pushed himself to his feet. Or tried to. How had his legs gotten so shaky? And why was his head swimming so? He gripped the table until the world steadied out. “I’m comin’,” he said. “Though I don’t see what’s the big hurry… Good stuff, this. Woulda had some long before now if I’d known that.” Were they listening? It was suddenly very important to him that they understood this. “M’ pa drank something awful. Never thought anything he liked could be good. ’Specially not ale, made him terrible. Worse to m’ sister, though.”