Scarburg Meadhall

[Folwren]

“They probably think you ran off!” the new comer said in parting. Javan frowned as he turned away. What an unlucky thing for the man to have said!

“‘They probably think I ran off,’” Javan grumbled quietly between his teeth. He trudged back towards where Garstand waited, the two boys following him. “Of course I didn’t run off, and it wouldn’t have taken so long if they hadn’t fought.”

He stopped as he came insight of Garstan, waiting with his hands on his hips. Suddenly self-conscious, Javan felt for blood on his face and he glanced sideways at Cnebba. This could look very bad, he realized. Oh well, he shrugged, and walked forward.

“We’re back,” he said to Garstan as they got closer. “Sorry it took so long.”

[Gwathagor]

"I'm Kara, assistant cook here. And yourself?"

And there it was. His name and vocation. Crabannan took a deep breath and looked away briefly, staring up towards where the sky and the Scar met, grey against blue. This question made him uneasy, as his name frequently earned him a quick ride out of town. And then he had done and been so many things, that he hardly knew what to describe himself as anymore.

He considered mentioning that he had been a soldier of Rohan, but decided against it, as the matter of how he had come to leave the ranks of the muster might come up in conversation. No, best avoid that subject for now.. So, after a few seconds' deliberation, he settled on the occupation that he had until recently held and that he deemed would be the quickest way to the heart of this particular villager. It had worked in the East Emnet...for a little while, at any rate.

"Nice to meet you, miss. My name is Crabannan - " and here he cast a quick glance in Kara's direction to see if the name had rung any bells. It hadn't. " - and I'm a kitchen-worker."

As soon as the words left his mouth, he realized she would never believe him. He knew he looked like a highwayman or a bandit. The arsenal of weaponry helped little. How many kitchen workers carried two swords, a longbow, and a knife? Or a harp?

Kara raised her eyebrows.

"Oh?"

Evidently she was skeptical. Crabannan assumed a look of utmost sincerity.

"Yes, indeed. I was, until recently, a kitchen-worker. "

Kara raised her eyebrows a little higher.

"Mm-hmm," she said, and looked at him a little askance.

Crabannan sighed and looked about him, then back at Kara. He smiled at her a little wryly, and also a little embarrassed. Better to be honest this time, he thought. Maybe these people are different.

"I believe my looks are against me," he said. "To be honest with you, Kara, I'm a bit of a wanderer. I did work in a kitchen, once, but I was, um, very bad at it. A great many dishes were broken while I was there."

He suddenly realized he was quite tense and was fingering the large hunting knife which he carried strapped to his left leg. He pulled his hand away without drawing attention to i and looked down at his plate.

Biting into his bread, he continued: "I've done a great many things - too many to count, sometimes. I have trouble staying one place very long. I've been a soldier, a guide, a farm-hand, a hunter..."

He trailed off. That about exhausted the list of respectable occupations he could muster. There were many others which he wouldn't dare mention around these people, not unless he wanted to be sent on his way as quick as he could pack his bags, which were few. He had been a bard before the War, but he always felt pretentious bringing that up. And that was a long time ago, he reminded himself.

This conversation was making him irritable. Crabannan had learned to deal with his past by accepting it and not dwelling upon it; he did not apologize for it and he did not speak about it. Unfortunately, being around these happy, friendly people was making him thoughtful, something he tried very hard as a rule to avoid. Curse you, Kara, he thought. Why couldn't you have left well enough alone? He changed the subject abruptly, for her good as well as his own.

"Tell me about the settlement," he said, gesturing vaguely towards the tents. "How long have you all been here? Who is the eorl?"

Crabannan chided himself for being even mildly angry with Kara, as he knew her curiosity was natural. Hopefully she won’t pry too deep, he thought, as he drained his wine in one long swig.

[shaggydog]

Oeric made little attempt to avoid detection as he wound his way through the muddy patches and over small hillocks of last year’s dry and matted grass. The byre was but a few minutes away, a one time winter’s shelter for the sheep he had helped tend. He hoped that the fool stuck in the bog had the sense to keep still just a bit longer, and he thought perhaps he should have made himself known before leaving to get the rope he knew to be in the tumble down shed. On the other hand, there was still a chance that one of the dark man’s own would hear him or happen upon him and then Oeric’s help would not be needed, if they knew the proper way to extract one as deeply mired as that one was. If, if, if . . .

Oeric let out a big breath of frustration. Why did these people come here, come now? Why couldn’t he have been left alone in his shame and grief? Why did that fool have to go and get himself stuck? Why had the one called Nydfara used his brain and run the other way, while he, like an idiot, had gone running straight towards discovery and his own undoing? Shaking his head in anger, Oeric none the less kept on his course and soon arrived at the shed.

It was the work of but a few seconds to enter the dim interior of the byre and fish about in the moldy hay of years past, clutching the rope in his hand and setting off once more, back the way he had come. How often since finding it had he not thought long and hard about its possible use, the one remaining cross beam of the ruined roof standing starkly silhouetted against a starlit sky, beckoning. And now it would be used to save a life instead. Even a simple mind such as Oeric’s could grasp the irony of that.

Hurrying back, his mind inventorying the scattered willow boughs he had seen littered about the copse, Oeric paused once more at the edge of the patch of scrubby trees. Straining his ears, he heard neither any sound of approaching rescue from the camp, nor did he hear any further cry from the fellow in the bog. Well, fate had decided this one it seemed. He quickly selected the boughs he would need and with no further thought for secrecy, crashed through the willows to meet that fate.

[Groin Redbeard]

The Sun was high in the sky and progress was slow. Traveler slumped and sagged as he walked behind Erbrand, his mane was damp with sweat and each breath came out in long sighs. The humans were as tired as their animals, not one of them had any rest since they set out that morning.

It was not long before Balvir found a place with shade, under a large oak tree. The hunting party unloaded their game off of their horses and let them roam free to graze, while the men drank from their water flasks. Their spirits were lifted by the needed rest and soon all four of them were laughing at hunting stories. Lithor told them about the time that he learned to shoot from horseback, shot, missed the deer, fell off the horse and broke his arm, Erbrand howled with laughter until tears came from his eyes. Now of course seeing a man fall and brake his arm would be an offal thing to behold, but everything seemed so far away right there and then, plus, Lithor told it in a most amusing way.

Soon Erbrand began asking questions of the three men’s youth and where they grew up. Lithor told him that he grew up on a farm in the West-March near the river Adorn. Matrim told Erbrand that he grew up in the town of Ethring, his father was a noble in the town. Balvir grew up in the southern ends of Gondor in Belfalast, and Erbrand listened as Balvir recounted his days in the city of Linhir looking out each morning on the Bay of Belfalas. All the while Erbrand listened with intrigue at the stories of strange places, he didn’t interrupt their accounts to ask a question, and instead he let his imagination fill in the blanks.

“Tell me,” Erbrand asked when Balvir finished speaking, “I’m new to Scarburg and I’m desperate to make sure I know who everybody is, and I was wondering if you could help me out?”

“Well the first people you’ll want to meet is Harreld,” said Lithor, “He’s a smithy you see, and a darn good one at that, he is shy around strangers, especially the lady folk, but you’ll find that out soon enough.” Lithor laughed at his own joke, and the two Gondorians laughed with him. Erbrand didn’t know what they meant, and he took it for some inside joke.

“Let’s see,” Lithor said, counting with his fingers, “There’s Stigend the carpenter and Leofric, he’s the fellow you saw at the stables this morning, he takes care of our horses back at Edoras, and Garston the stone shaper. Then for the ladies there’s Ginna, Frodides, and Kara, who all work in the kitchen.” Lithor chuckled to himself again. “And then there’s Rowenna, now you better watch yourself with her.”

“Why is that?” Erbrand asked.

“Her past has been a terrible ordeal,” Matrim chimed in, “While she was still a young woman she was abducted from her farm by brigands and has seen death come to her father and two children. Her experiences has made her awfully determined at some things and frequently causes trouble if she is to gain from it, but when you’ve been through what she has been through you can’t really hold it against her, nasty business. You just make sure you never get on her bad side.”

Erbrand solemnly nodded his head. Balvir stirred from his comfortable dormant position, his back against a tree, and got up.

“Well, let’s break it up, we should be getting back Scarburg. We’ll go round up the horses,” Balvir motioned for Matrim to follow him.

Erbrand sat for a little longer pondering the names of the occupants of Eodwine’s household. He knew that the day would be nearly gone by the time he got back to camp, no socializing today. His back was ached as he rose from his spot, Balvir and Matrim returned with the horses and he began slinging the deer over Traveler’s back.

They reached the scar around an hour later; it wasn’t long before they were back at camp. Lithor broke into a fast song that was familiar to the group and they all joined him in singing. Erbrand’s thoughts of the strangers at camp faded from his mind, he was accepted as one of the group by these three and that was all that mattered.

[Firefoot]

“Help!”

Scyld reacted instinctively. Another’s plight was not his problem, unless by helping the person he might help himself. He knew neither the current situation nor identity of the endangered, he had not himself caused the problem, and he could feign ignorance later should it prove necessary. Time to be gone. He snatched his pack and sped off.

Oeric’s actions told another story. Fool. If his utmost desire was to remain unknown to the Eorl and his men, he would not run toward the cry. Oeric, Scyld judged, was conflicted, and conflicted men were the most dangerous sort, because one could never predict what they would do. Sorn had always been straightforward. So had Linduial, though Scyld still did not understand her. This Oeric, though – he did not act as he spoke. Nor had he spoken wisely if Scyld’s help was truly something he wished to gain. He had asked for Scyld to keep his secret and offered nothing in return. Whether by ignorance or unwillingness, he had proved a poor informant. And now he had proved he could not even keep his own skin safe by haring off after a cry for help.

Very soon, however, he slowed his pace as a new thought came to mind. He was ready to enter the newcomers’ camp, was he not? And how better to earn trust than to help one of their own? The plan, somewhat risky in his mind, warred with his instinct. Almost against his will he found himself stopping and turning around. He did not have to make his presence known right away. He could wait and see what Oeric made of the situation. Yes, that would suit. And if helping out seemed unprofitable, they would never need know he was there.

[littlemanpoet]

Léof had given his assent to rummaging through the ruins for makeshift fenceposts, and so the three of them, including Thornden, were busy at it. It was hard, sweaty work, for most of the time such wood was found beneath and behind other more ruinous items such as downed walls, ruined furniture, and the like.

The stables, which had been situated on the western side of the old hall, were worthless, a heap of burnt wood good for nothing but kindling for bonfires. They had greatest success on the east end where there was an upstairs crashed down upon the lower level; it was this lower level that offered the least ruinous scraps of fencepost. After more than an hour of hard, sweaty work, they decided that they had found enough of what they were looking for, and hauled their findings back toward the paddock.

They were met by an urgent and pale Rowenna. "Lord, I have something to tell you that cannot wait."

Eodwine's brow rose. "Is someone in danger?"

"Nay, no longer, though someone was indeed but had the worst of it. I found a dead body of a man in one of the sheds."

"Is every man among us accounted for?" asked Eodwine, looking around.

"This man has been there since before we arrived, I am sure, lord," Rowenna answered.

"Léof, Thornden, I think we have earned ourselves a break. Let us see this."

The three men dropped their wood in a pile and followed Rowenna back to the shed, and Rowenna opened the door wide. They peered in and found it just as she had said. After observing, with nose plugged and eyes watering, Eodwine shook his head and ruminated that they had spent an entire day and more in the place with a half eaten dead body of a man waiting in a meat curing shed. It was unthinkable except that it was so. He wished mightily that it was not.

"Well, what do you think we should do about it?" Eodwine looked around the small group. "Bury it? Burn the thing and its innard to ashes? Or," he grimaced, "I have heard tall tales that the Haradrim have been known to 'examine' such bodies for signs of how and why they died." Eodwine had smirked at his use of the foreign word.

[Firefoot]

It had been with some trepidation that Léof followed Rowenna to the shed, torn as he was between curiosity and trepidation. A brief glance, a passing whiff told him all he wanted or needed to know. Something had to be done with it (he could not think of the body as a “him”), and his first wish was that they might simply burn the entire shed with the body inside of it – but wood was too valuable, it seemed, for such a wasteful process.

Eodwine’s suggestions were far more plausible, until he mentioned the Haradrim practice. “Lord, surely not!” Léof cried out at this. He would be hard pressed to tell which was fouler, the sight or the smell of the corpse, but ‘examining’ the body as Eodwine put it defied his imagining. The thought of touching the body even enough to bury it revolted him. “Let the dead lie in peace!” Then he faltered. “Unless – you really think it might tell us something?” Of course foul play had been involved. People did not just lay down and die in abandoned sheds. “But – would any know what to look for? And who could stand the smell long enough to look? Lord – let the dead lie. Can the way he died truly be important?”