Scarburg Meadhall

[Folwren]

Raban entered the smithy cautiously now. There seemed to be no reason for Harreld’s passion, and yet there he was, apparently caught in the midst of some terrible struggle or fury, just held at bay by his physically violent work. The old soldier steeled himself to his purpose and set right to the business he had come to perform.

“You were there when my lord Athanar brought Javan before his seat of court, and you heard the sentence given to the boy. I am to teach him how to make a shirt of chain mail. What I ever did to deserve such punishment, I’ll never know, but my lord’s wishes cannot be gainsaid by an old man’s grumblings. I came asking if your smithy could afford the space and the forge needed for such work. I have tools of my own, and would need but a corner of your space…” He looked about with his one keen eye, appraising what space there was. Not much, really. Some organizing and ordering would have to be done to make room for two more people. He looked back at Harreld. “Do you think it might be done?”