Hard Winters RPG

[Thinlómien]

"Then let me welcome you here in Scarburg, my lady. My name is Hilderinc. I can show you around. It is a humble place, especially now after the hard winter, but I am sure we will find you a place where you'll feel comfortable. I can take you to meet lady Saeryn, I am sure she will be happy to welcome you. If she is not too busy."

Brith smiled. It had been a relief that the grim mud-covered man spoke Westron, and spoke it remarkably eloquently at that. And now he was being most helpful.

"I would indeed love to meet with the Lady, but I am sure she has more pressing matters at hand at this very moment. I am pleased to wait."

She paused. The man was looking at her, his expression unreadable. "Oh," she said. "How silly of me. I'm pleased to meet you, Hilderinc. My name is Brith - well, my name is Brithiel really but no one ever calls me that, not even my mother called me that - and I am a seamstress."

He nodded at her politely. "Then maybe I can show you around first, Lady Brith."

"Thank you," she said. "I'm hoping to stay for a while."

He did not ask more, but instead led her out of the worst of the commotion. He pointed out the stables and the sheds, then took her for a short tour of the Hall itself. His way to put things was short and informative, if not military. He had the gait and the scars of a soldier too, but he didn't talk more about himself. Brith wondered why he wore his hair short unlike virtually all other knights of Rohan, but she did not ask. Even though he was curt, he was polite, and that put her at ease. He reminded her of some of the dúnedain of the North in his grimness.

She made some small talk as they walked, commenting on the excellent workmanship of the buildings. Many of them were clearly recently constructed, and even though they bore signs of being taken apart after that, the solid groundwork was there. She had seen much shoddier work in many places in Arnor. Still, the state of disrepair was very evident.

"You will have a busy summer ahead of you. So many things to make this place fit for an Eorl." She cast a quick glance at her companion to see if he had taken her remark the wrong way. She hadn't meant to think out loud.

[Thinlómien]

Eodwine had left and Wilheard went back for Bolt. He had left his mare's reins to a soldier that had come with him from Edoras, alongside with the instructions to hold her until he'd come to collect and stable her. Wilheard could see Bolt was uneasy, shifting her weight and tossing her head. The man handed the reins to Wilheard with a sour look.

"Your mare has a foul temper, sir. She bit me," the man said.
Wilheard stroked Bolt's muscular neck. She was much more at ease already. "I am not surprised," Wilheard said. "She doesn't like strangers." He scratched Bolt's forehead affectionately. "Oh, and you're dismissed," he added without even glancing at the soldier.
Muttering something under his breath, the man hurried away.

"Let's take you to the stables. You need a rest," Wilheard told Bolt and started leading her towards the stables. He didn't need a guide - after all, he had lived in Scarburg for a time, even though it had been years ago. It felt like it had been in a different life. He knew he had been to Scarburg only half a year ago, but all his memories of that time seemed to be coated in a thick dark grey fog. He remembered Bolt kicking a hole into her stall, he remembered a girl chasing a crow across the yard, and he vaguely remembered a lecture from his father about drinking, but that was all. He had been numb and miserable. Well, truth be told, he was still a little numb and miserable, but he had horses and people to look after.

There were a couple of people in the stables when Wilheard entered. He recognized the ostler Léof and greeted him curtly. Léof pointed him to a stall where to take Bolt. He was clearly used to some men preferring to seeing their horses themselves. Wilheard unsaddled Bolt and gave her water and the horse bowed down her head to drink.

Wilheard looked over his shoulder and saw a young man approaching with feed for the ill-tempered mare. Only then he realized it was not really a young man, more like an overgrown boy, and one he remembered all too well. "Javan, is it?" he asked, straightening himself to his full height. He smiled mirthlessly down at the lad, and he knew the scar made it look like a grimace. "Are you still in the habit of beating women?"

[Folwren]

Javan attended to the duties Léof gave him in a methodical way. He often helped in the stables though it was not his only job, and he knew what must be done. He noted where the men who brought their own horses stabled them and then went and fetched hay for them.

He approached the latest stalled horse, thinking more of his own upcoming supper than the one he held in his arms for the mare, when the man addressed him.

“It’s Javan, isn’t it?”

Javan stopped, the hay hanging rather limply in his hand. He raised his head and looked at the man. He knew him at once and frowned, not at all pleased to see him.

“Are you still in the habit of beating women?” Wilheard asked with an unpleasant sneer.

Javan’s lip curled with disgust, and he dropped the bundle of hay at Wilheard’s feet.

“She was more a brat than a woman,” he replied, turning on his heel.

[Firefoot]

This shirt would certainly have to be washed before he wore it again, Scyld mused as he juggled the muddy potatoes in his arms and looked about for a place to put them. He was interrupted from his task by the sound of a familiar voice, however, as he looked up to see Rowenna standing there. A glimmer of a true smile crossed his face before settling into something more reserved.

"I greet you, Nydfara. It has been years. Who brings this food?" she asked.

He felt suddenly guilty – it had indeed been a long time. Had she thought to hear from him? Did she intend for him to feel this way? Surely not – he must be reading into her words that which was not there. Better, safer, to focus on her question.

“Well, I helped to bring it,” he remarked smartly, “but Athanar’s son Wilheard led our convoy, and the food was sent by the King from Edoras.” He paused. “How have you fared, these last few years?”

[Folwren]

The two pots of porridge were nearly boiling. Saeryn stood by the stove and stirred first one pot then the other. She laid her hand on her belly. Her hands were trembling again. They often did now after very little exertion, and what with lifting and pouring the grain into the bins, she was very tired.

Stefnu and Modtryth came into the kitchen, carrying a sack between them. “This is the last one,” Modtryth said.

“Good. These will be done shortly. The fire’s hot enough, we can start more water.”

“Should we prepare anything else? Potatoes? Some of the dried meat, perhaps?”

Saeryn shook her head. “Not yet. The porridge will do us all good, but eating too much all at once would do more harm than good, I think.” She laid the spoon over the rim of the pot. “I will be back,” she said.

She went out the door into the hall and across to her and Eodwine’s room. She opened the door cautiously, so as not to wake her son, and was surprised to see Eodwine stretched out on the bed beside Eoghan. She went to the bed and laid her hand gently on her son’s forehead. He was still hot, but he seemed fast asleep and did not respond to her touch. She reached across him and touched Eodwine’s forehead. He, at least, was not feverish. He was asleep, though, and Saeryn took the moment to study him. He may not be sick, but he was far thinner than what was right. The skin was pulled tight over his cheekbones and his eyes were sunk far back.

“Are you asleep?” she asked in the tiniest whisper. If he was, she would let him lie until the porridge was entirely finished, and then she would wake him.

[Galadriel55]

The mud was brown and sticky on her fingers. It was on her dress and in her hair and on her hands, and on others’ hands as well. Many muddy feet came towards her, and many muddy hands dropped the muddy potatoes into the now muddy sack. It was a muddy world today.

Ledwyn stayed behind after the others have left, having recovered most of the scattered produce. On her hands and knees, she felt the area, searching for any hidden ones that may be buried in the dirt and puddles. No potato may be left to waste, not when each one could have meant the difference between a living person and a person otherwise. Her search yielded four potatoes and half as many stones. She only stopped when she covered a circle around the fallen sack twice.

She was filthy. There is no way she could come into the kitchen in this state. Ledwyn gave thought to it, and walked to the well. Drawing up some water, she washed herself first as best as she could. She splashed some on her skirt and shoes. They are wet already. At least they will be a little cleaner. She rubbed the fabric until the worst of the dirt came off. Last, she washed each precious potato, as well as the sack, taking care not to drop them into the well.

Once back inside the kitchen, Ledwyn dried her load so that rot would not form, and placed them gently into a clean, dry sack. She put them away with the rest of the stores – oh how blessedly full now! – hung the wet sack to dry, and joined the rest of the women in their duties.

[Legate of Amon Lanc]

New kettles of porridge were already simmering slowly next to the ones lady Saeryn had already prepared. Stefnu trod from one to the other with a spoon, humming quietly. Behind her, steady flow of suddenly frantically active Scarburgians as well as many of the newcomers were still streaming into the kitchens. More and more sacks of oats, vegetables, and all manner of edibles appeared that made Stefnu's mind already devise intricate ways of how they all could be used and what amazing and different kinds of meals they could be put into. As the supplies piled up, however, she began to think more soberly. There was much more to do.

"These are almost ready," she said to Modtryth, pointing at the kettles. "Did you see how many people arrived? I just hope this will be enough."

"There are no more kettles to make it in," Modtryth said. "These will have to do."
Stefnu nodded, laid the spoon aside and walked to the nearest pile of sacks. She surveyed it critically.

"These cannot just all be clumped about the hall, true?" she said. "Somebody should sort them out."

"Maybe that somebody should be us," Frodides's voice chimed in from behind.

Stefnu turned around, her braids whipping her back.

"And right you are, Frodides!" she exclaimed. "We cannot wait with everything for lady Saeryn, and she will have the little ones to take care of anyway. Leave that to me! As soon as everyone gets their meal, I will take a look at these-"

She noticed a curious look from Modtryth, and paused.

"I don't think I am going to eat much anyway," she finished. "When we are done with the meal, you can eat and I can make sense of these. And we need to know what we have here." Her gaze fell on one of the small sacks.

"Nuts," she noticed, picking it up. She rattled the bag. "What if we threw a couple into the porridge! There's not much, but just for the look! And for the flavour! I am so sure everyone will be happy to just have something they can crunch with their teeth."