Scarburg Meadhall

[littlemanpoet]

Rowenna

“Are you well with this, Rowenna? You do not mind?”

Saeryn was asking in that way she had, right to the heart of the matter, seeking the truth of things. This is what Rowenna liked so much in her. She smiled. "There is no one for whom I would rather be bride's maiden than you."

And it was the truth. For there was no one else she knew for whom she would do this thing, at all. Still, her words had been heartfelt and she need do naught but what she was asked, for all eyes would be on Saeryn anyway, and that was as it should be, and she was glad of it.

As Eodwine made ready to be part of the sword fights, Rowenna and Saeryn walked hand in hand to the fighting circle, surrounded by the Scarburg folk. Rowenna was content to bask in the glow of Saeryn's joy.

Harreld

To see Lord Eodwine's joy was for Harreld a clearing of his heart and thought more greatly than ever before. His smile was so wide it almost hurt; for many years he had not been apt to it, until he had chosen to be free with his heart toward Ginna - and that had been rewarded many times over. And so he gave thought that mayhap his own wedding would at last not be so far off. That in itself was a great new thought, for only a few moons ago he had resigned himself that it might never happen.

She was applauding, delighted, then looked up at him with shining eyes and squeezed his hand once, meaningfully it seemed to him, and applauded some more. His eyes went wide and his smile felt as if it might crack his face. She was thinking the same thing! His heart was full and he let out a whoop of delight, which he was glad could be taken as his joy for their lord and lady.

Then the sword fights began, and his Ginna was to be a contestant. This was almost beyond belief, for she seemed so small and delicate to him. Yet when she went up against Degas, it became clear to Harreld that she was well trained, though her size told against her. His heart swelled with pride. She had a good eye and a good hand for the sword, which spoke very well of her bloodline. What a brood of strapping warriors we could make! he thought.

Her glancing blow on Degas' head took her out of the match, but that had half been Degas' fault, and Harreld was more than pleased. When she came back to his side she was breathing hard but looked exhilarated. He took her hand in his.

"You are every bit as much a shield maiden as our king's sister!" he cried.

[Gwathagor]

After a short break, the crowd and the final three contestants were summoned once more to the fighting circle by Lithor.

"The final contestants are Crabannan from the North, Degas of the Folde, and our own Eorl Eodwine!"

The last name was met by many cheers and hurrahs - the crowd clearly favored their eorl, who met their applause with a smile and lifted sword. Crabannan was grim and dour as usual as he sized up his opponents and hefted his shield. If he felt jittery or nervous, he showed no sign of it - unlike Degas, who seemed possessed by an anticipatory energy. He shifted his weight from foot to foot and looked tensely from Crabannan to Eodwine to the crowd and back again.

"These three will fight each other at the same time, each for himself and against the other two. Any man hit thrice will be eliminated and the last man in the ring wins!" announced Lithor. "Now, warriors - ready!"

The three combatants moved to pre-marked points in the dirt, forming a kind of triangle, all at equal distances from each other. Crabannan cracked his neck, Degas set his jaw, and Eodwine took a deep breath. The crowd was tense.

"And begin!"

Nothing happened immediately. The fighters made no move and the crowd barely breathed. A cloud shifted overhead, hiding the sun for a brief moment. A eagle shrieked high above and in another part of Scarburg, a horse whinnied. A soft breeze blew the scent of August grass up off the plains. For a moment, all was still. Then Degas made a sudden rush at Crabannan, the reverie passed, and they were away! Crabannan was too crafty to be taken by surprise, and stepped back with his left foot as the younger man came at him. Then with his shield upon Degas' back, Crabannan threw the other past, cutting the backs of his calves as he did so.

"One against Degas!" cried Lithor. The crowd cheered.

Degas stumbled, but was up again and whirled around just in time as Eodwine, seeing the opportunity came on strong from the left, aiming a blow for the shoulder. This Degas easily blocked by raising the rim of his shield - but instead of attempting to cut back at Eodwine, he instead lunged away, at Crabannan again. Crabannan, however was not there. He was attacking Eodwine now, and the two were hammering back and forth like two dwarves at an anvil (or like two Rohirrim at arms, as the case may be) - once, twice, and again.

As Degas leapt at Crabannan again, he noticed that Crabannan used footwork and shield-wards that were almost identical to Eodwine's, which surprised him very much, for Crabannan was known to be from the very far north. He had no time to be bemused, however, for he was immediately forced to negotiate the point of Crabannan's sword which suddenly presented itself before him. He struck down furiously with his shield and swung across his body with his own sword. Crabannan ducked his head to the side, avoiding a blow which would have cost Degas the game, and took a step back, a little surprised at the fellow's tenacity and fire.

Crabannan watched as Degas whirled at Eodwine, who was lunging at Degas' exposed sword-arm, which was pulled back and high and the last moment. Degas aimed a kick at the forward edge of Eodwine's shield, but Eodwine was too much a veteran to be taken in by such an old trick and merely stepped back, putting Degas off-balance. He struck out with his blade and caught Degas on the right shoulder.

"Two against Degas!" cried Lithor enthusiastically. Some in the crowd cheered, some groaned.

But Degas was not done. His shield flew up and dashed against Eodwine's out-stretched sword just as his sword smacked soundly against Eodwine's side.

"One against the eorl," remarked Lithor. The crowd had nothing to say.

But Degas still not done. He shoved Eodwine with his shield, ducked, spun on his right foot and lunged catching Crabannan hard on the right leg. The latter staggered back and winced visibly.

"One against Crabannan!" The crowd roared with delight at Degas' trick.

Crabannan was himself again in a moment. He renewed his guard. Degas, of course, now found himself in between his two opponents and hurriedly stepped out of the way. There was a momentary pause in the action, for Degas was now forced to be more cautious and Eodwine was still recovering from being nearly thrown in the dirt by Degas. Eodwine had noticed Crabannan's momentary stagger, however, and remembered the limp with which the raven-haired man had walked into Scarburg a month ago. He was an honest man and not given to taking advantage, but he was wise enough to play against his opponents' weaknesses. Crabannan, it seemed, had one.

He renewed his attack against Degas, who was nearest him, determining to finish the young fellow first and then to move upon Crabannan's apparently weak right. Shield forward, Eodwine pressed hard against Degas, aiming blows wherever he could. With a quickness that the older Eodwine could not match, Degas brought his shield across his body and suddenly back again, catching the back rim of Eodwine's shield with the boss of his own shield. Thus locked in a shield bind, Eodwine could do little but attempt to disengage towards Crabannan. It was too late however, and Degas had already cut him on the back and thrown him aside.

"Two against Eodwine," said Lithor. The crowd groaned.

Eodwine recovered quickly though and let the force of the throw carry him towards Crabannan, who was now moving with a definite reticence and even - he fancied - a limp in his right leg. Keeping his shield between himself and Degas, he dashed hard at Crabannan. His first cut at Crabannan's arm was deflected by the other's shield and his second cut, which was aimed at Crabannan's shield-shoulder, missed by an inch. Crabannan retreated half-heartedly beneath the onslaught, doing his best to ward off the blows with his shield and keeping his right leg well out of harm's way. Eodwine cut low this time at Crabannan's now exposed left leg, just beneath the lower edge of Crabannan's shield.

"Two against Crabannan!"

Eodwine flicked his eyes back toward Degas - and not a moment too soon, for Degas was swinging at him with sword and shield combined, apparently in an attempt to over-power him. Eodwine countered with a slash of his sword that came close to Degas' midsection and caused him to halt abruptly. The eorl swung back with his sword, meaning to catch and fling back Crabannan's inner shield-edge, thus presenting the Northerner's midsection as an open target. To his surprise, the shield was not there. He looked up at Crabannan, and, even as he brought his sword around and prepared for a powerful blow that would surely cause the dark fellow to collapse up on his bad leg, he found himself staring into a pair of knowing eyes and a grim smile. His puzzlement increased - and then his mighty blow came up short against the hilt of Crabannan's upraised sword. There was not a stagger, not a flicker of pain or weakness in Crabannan's eyes and then Eodwine realized he'd been fooled.

Eodwine was only permitted a brief instant for surprise, because Crabannan had suddenly whirled to Eodwine's left, out of reach, and headed for Degas. As Crabannan turned, he thrust his own shield hard against Eodwine's. He then lunged at Degas, who dashed the blow aside with his sword as Eodwine slashed at where Crabannan's back had been exposed a second before. Degas' sword flicked around and returned the lunge. Foiled by Crabannan's instinctive side-step, he allowed his momentum to follow though into kick, as he tried again to dislodge his attacker's shield. This time he succeeded and Crabannan's shield-arm was flung up, out, and back, but Crabannan was too quick to let this slow him down. He let the shield go, and it spun away into the dust, at the same time tossing his sword into the air. As Degas slashed violently at Eodwine and then prepared to execute a quick blow back at Crabannan's chest, Crabannan seized Degas' sword-arm with his now free right-hand. Pulling him close, Crabannan caught his own sword in his left hand and struck Degas with great force upon the thigh of his right leg - almost exactly where Degas had hit Crabannan earlier. Then, receiving insult upon injury, Degas found himself sprawling in the dust. Crabannan had tripped him.

"Three! Three against Degas!" hollered Lithor, and the crowd echoed the cry, indeed, they nearly screamed themselves hoarse, for they had never seen anything like this in their lives.

"Degas is out!" cried Lithor.

Degas rolled away and exited the ring, but Eodwine and Crabannan paused not a moment, for the heat of battle (such as it was) was upon them and they were both seasoned warriors. As far as they were concerned, the battle never stopped, and if you asked either of the afterwards, they couldn't remember a thing Lithor had said. Without blinking an eye or taking a breath, Crabannan leapt over Degas, twisting around to face Eodwine as he did so. As he came down, Eodwine flung his own shield at Crabannan's feet and sprang into the attack with a quickness that surprised even him. Crabannan was tripped and fell quite flat - but turned a somersault and came up with his sword at Eodwine's throat.

A stunned silence fell abruptly. The horse neighed, the eagle screamed. The crowd dared not breath. Then, as the crowd went suddenly wild, and as Crabannan and Eodwine's eyes met for the second time during the fight, they both smiled. Broad, boyish, irrepressable grins, followed by bursting, side-shaking laughter, as Crabannan leapt nimbly to his feet and Eodwine furiously shook his hand. Lithor's voice was drowned out entirely as the crowd swarmed about the two contestants, caring not a straw that their favorite had been beaten by the melancholy Northerner.

"Three against Eodwine! Crabannan has won!" shouted Lithor, leaping on a log and waving his arms. "He's won! He's won!"

And so he had.

[Groin Redbeard]

As the crowd pressed closer around the duelers, Lithor nudged his way out of the mass. He breathed a sigh of relief as he forced himself between the last couple of people that separated him from the elbowroom that he so desperately wanted. When Lithor was free of the crowd he looked back to see Crabannan lifted upon the shoulders of the people. Lithor chuckled and gave one last cheer for the participants, the duel was by far the most exciting game yet. As he walked to back to the soldier’s encampment Lithor was soon overtaken by Balvir and Matrim.

“What did you think of the fight?” asked Matrim, the young man was bobbing back and forth between Lithor and Balvir as if he meant to box with them. “I though it was very exciting to say the least, but Balvir here begrudges Crabannan his victory.”

“I only said that I didn’t care for the fellow and...”

“And that you suspected foul play.” Said Matrim, finishing Balvir’s sentence. The older guard grunted with disgust.

“It isn’t right, letting an outlander get the best of our lord, it just is not right, Anyway, I suspected that Eodwine let him win, it isn’t like Eodwine to show off in front of a crowd.”

Matrim laughed and skipped ahead of the two until he entered the living quarters fro the soldiers. As Balvir and Lithor entered Matrim was sitting with his feet propped up on the table with a smile on his face, the kind that a cat gets after it has just stolen a gallon of cream.

“Say what you like my friend,” continued Matrim. “I say you’re just upset because you didn’t have the sense to place your three gold pieces on Crabannan, like I did.” Lithor burst into laughter when he heard this and gave Balvir a sympathetic pat on the back before he moved over to the water barrel. The embarrassed, and now slightly red faced, Balvir remained silent while Matrim and Lithor had their laugh.

“Laugh it all up Matrim I voted for Eodwine because I am loyal. I wish I could say as much for you.”

“A fool and his money are soon parted,” said Matrim with an unfading smile. “I guess that makes you the loyal old fool.” Matrim started to laugh.

Balvir threw up his hands and sat down adjacent to Matrim. “Oh, put a lid on it!”

Lithor had been listening to the conversation while bringing out the three’s best clothes, swords, and armor. He then placed them on the table and went to fill a basin with water.

“Oh no!” Matrim said jumping up from his chair. “It isn’t wash day already!”

“No, not yet,” laughed Lithor as he poured the water. “But you could certainly use a bath.” Balvir nodded in agreement and looked at Matrim. “I’d appreciate that.”

“But not today,” interrupted Lithor. “We haven’t the time. Our lord is getting married and he’ll need an honor guard. We can’t go to a wedding looking as we are right now.”

“I would never have guessed that Saeryn would be Eodwine’s choice.” Balvir said thoughtfully. “Strange how things work out.”

“Say!” exclaimed Matrim with a note of glee. Balvir scowled as he saw his companion was about to change the subject.

“Weddings call for feasting and games! Do you think that we’ll get another day off of work on the marrow? Perhaps we will have more games to fight in!”

Lithor laughed gently at the young soldier’s enthusiasm. “I certainly hope not.” And with that said, Lithor began to gently splash his nose with water

[Folwren]

It is impossible to say whether the boys really meant to swear, or if they were actually aware that they were doing so, but when the two fathers and the older brother came tearing about the cropping of rock and heard them, all three of them were rather shocked. While Thornden ran to Javan, Stigend grabbed Cnebba by the ear and jerked him back a few feet so that Cnebba's feet barely touched the ground. Cnebba whined from pain. They were able to stop the fight, but unable to stop the war of words.

“You pig! You liar!” Cnebba shouted furiously as he strained against Stigend’s hands. “You’re no eorling, no matter how hard you try! They don’t break oaths, and you have!”

"Language!" Stigend shouted to Cnebba while Thornden was chiding Javan. "Watch your language, young man! You're not one in a position to say such things to Javan!" It was clear Stigend was furious. Stigend was just about to slap Cnebba when Garstan intervened and took hold of Stigend's free hand.

Thornden and Garstan immediately recognized where the pain came from - Stigend, used to hearing his son and his wife talked down all the time, was shocked to hear such words from his own son. They both paused, unsure of what to say. Javan had no such delicacy.

“What would you know?” Javan answered Cnebba, spitting blood and a tooth out of his mouth. “You’re nothing but a half-bred Easterling!”

Thornden boxed his ear and shook him sharply. “Stop that!” he hissed in Javan’s ear, furiously. “Don’t you dare say such a thing!”

"Calm down, everyone!" Garstan shouted and looked at Thornden and Stigend. They both loosened their grips on the boys and straightened their backs. The tension eased slightly.

"They said something about an oath-breaking. Now that is a serious thing. Maybe you, Garmund, could tell us more about that?" Garstan said, turning towards Garmund. Suddenly the focus changed and all the eyes were fixed on Garmund.

Garmund instinctively took a few steps backwards, away from the gazes, and mumbled something no one could hear.

"Let us hear it, Garmund," Thornden said, now quite calmly.

Garmund backed a step more and then paused. "It was just a bet, nothing important... really," he managed to say and immediately frowned looking clearly as one who had revealed something too much. Cnebba and Javan looked at him, their eyes flashing.

"No it was not... or..." Garmund tried but then fell silent.

The adults exchanged looks.

"Most people who mess around making bets lose all they have with it. Now, you three should not get used to that. You should earn what you have. Chance may be a nice lover but she's a terrible mistress when she turns her back to you." Stigend sounded dead-serious and all the boys looked downwards.

Garstan took Garmund by the shoulder firmly letting him understand there was no way off from it this time.

"What was the bet you had? Answer me!" Garstan's voice, which was rarely raised, was loud and clear right now. "What was the bet? Answer!"

Garmund tried to pull a brave face but he soon lost his calm and started to tremble and cry.

Cnebba broke free of Stigend's grip as his father was paying more attention the reactions of others than to him, and took the few steps to be in the center.

Cnebba bit his lip before opening his mouth.

"Javan boasted that Thornden would win the fight and that no other would stand a chance against him. And we made a bet if Thornden was winning or not. And as..." there Cnebba took a pause gathering his courage. "... As master Thornden was called out in the middle of the final..." Cnebba finally breathed in, "...he lost... And Javan here refuses to admit it." Cnebba swallowed hard trying to keep his calm and everyone saw he was having hard time trying it. "Thornden was called out from the final and so he did not win the game. But Javan refused to admit that and so we won him with the bet!"

The adults glanced at each other once again. Winking at Thornden and receiving an accepting nod from him, Garstan addressed Javan this time.

"Now what was that bet about, Javan? And is Cnebba right in saying you denied your bet?"

“No. He is not right. I would call him a liar, if that were allowed.”

“It’s not,” Thornden warned quietly.

“I have not refused my bet, but I do disagree that Thornden lost.”

Thornden settled all doubts. “I lost - at least in the sense you were speaking of. Crabannan defeated me in the ring, and you had boasted that I was the best. You were proved wrong. So, now that that’s settled - what was the bet?”

The boys all paused. Garstan glanced about, looking impatient. “Speak quickly - Stigend and I are in the next games.”

Javan adopted his old, sullen and stubborn look. Now that it came to it, he didn’t want anyone to know. “It wasn’t for money or for anything else like that. Since you all think Thornden lost, we can settle it from here.”

“I think perhaps the boys should come back with us,” Thornden said, addressing Stigend and Garstan. “We don’t want any more trouble today, what with the wedding and all this evening.”

The two fathers agreed, and mostly against their will, the three boys were escorted back to everyone else. The sword contest was about to begin and Stigend and Garstan made off through the people to join the contestants.

[Groin Redbeard]

With the termination of his participation in the sword fight, Erbrand was finished with the long day of games. It was actually fun to be beaten by Dan, a man whose skill with the sword was as evident as Erbrand’s skill with the bow. The two parted as friends from the field. No hard feelings, although Erbrand felt a little disappointed at losing his chance to face Crabannan or Thornden, who unexpectedly didn’t fight, but there would be time for all that later.

As Erbrand exited the field, with the victory of Crabannan, his heart was intent on finding Kara. The question he had posed to her was cut short by the beginning of the sword duels and she urged him to go lest he be disqualified. He would not, however, let his question die so easily. There she was!

“Kara!” he exclaimed to her, and his walk turned to a jog. It seemed to Erbrand as if he was always running to her side. “My participation in the games was cut short, it seems, by my inexperience with the sword.” he said in response to Kara’s sympathetic expression. “But I don’t care, I don’t care about anything in the world anymore!” Erbrand’s countenance broke into a smile, and he laughed for the sake of happiness itself.

“Kara, I left you with an unanswered question. I pray for you to please dance with me tonight, I can think of no better ending for today.” Erbrand’s mood suddenly became tame after this. The thought suddenly occurred to him that she might not even want to dance with him. Fool, don’t force yourself on her, give her a choice!

He backed a step or two backwards with the sudden feeling that he was crowding Kara. A smile still lit his face, but it was nowhere as bright as it was.

“That is, of course, if you have not promised your hand to... uh, I mean your first dance to someone else.” Erbrand’s face grew redder by the second. This surely wasn’t the best way to win over Kara for a dance. Why must she delay with this waiting? It’s becoming more unbearable by the second.

[littlemanpoet]

Faramund waited, mounted, before his men, as Athanar's horses, led by some of his men, passed between them and the Hall toward the front where most of Athanar's men were gathered. The men leading the horses eyed his company warily, as if they expected Faramund to suddenly call for a charge against them.

He smirked.

He enjoyed their caution, their fear. It made him feel full of self control. He was holding a position defense, as he had said he would to that self-important steward of Athanar's. He would show them all.

As soon as the last horses were taken from the paddock and were well on their way toward Athanar's men, Faramund ordered his men to move forward so as to fill the gap between the stables and the Hall. To move back between the Hall and Athanar's men could be construed as an offensive move, so Faramund chose against it. Even this was symbolic of determination and restraint. It would do.

Let him attack, Faramund said to himself. Then I would have him against the king's law.

But what was this? Coming from the other side of the Hall was a small group of men, and they were carrying something. It looked like a bed, or cot.

Father!

"Garrulf!"

"Yes, lord?"

"Go to the eorl. Find out whether he called my father, or if my father goes to the eorl by his own choice."

Garrulf rode off.

Faramund was not sure which would enrage him more. That blasted steward said that Athanar was not trying to trap him. This gesture, like no other, gave the lie to that piece of clever talk. Faramund ground his teeth, waiting while Garrulf ran his errand.

[Nogrod]

Lord Athanar saw Stedford and Blimring bringing old Friduhelm forwards with the aid of a few of Faramund's men. Just in time! he sighed to himself only to notice Faramund giving orders to a man who then ran fast towards him. He was curious about the message - and much content for the fact that it gave his men more time to rally around his flag if it would turn bad after all.

Garrulf reached him panting.

"Lord, sir, My lord requests you to tell him, whether you have called for his father, or if he is coming by his own choice?"

Lord Athanar smiled and looked at the soldier standing beside him.

"Tell your lord this. I requested to see lord Friduhelm, from your lord himself. He said his father was very ill, but that he would send my request to him to find out whether he wished to have any visitors. After that it was clear he had no intention to do what he promised and later he practically denied us a possibility of visiting him with this aggressive manouver of bringing forth the troops in between and looking like an aggressor. So I asked Stedford to pay him a visit and ask if he'd like to meet us - letting him know about the situation... and it seems he wishes to. Otherwise he would not be coming forwards, or what do you think?" Lord Athanar flashed a smile to Garrulf letting the words hammer in.

"So you can tell lord Faramund that his father is coming here from his own accord and his meeting us is already approved by your lord himself." He made a pause, glancing over Garrulf first to lord Faramund and then to the men carrying old lord Friduhelm forwards, almost reaching the corner of the main building. After quickly glancing at the readiness of the men of Scarburg he finally turned back to Garrulf.

"Tell your lord also this... if he does not make any aggressive moves and let's me speak with his father in peace, we will then leave in peace as well. This is a serious offer." He looked the soldier to the eye.

"And tell him that if he wishes, he should feel free to join the conversation, alone." With a nod lord Athanar made it clear he had made his point. Garrulf bowed and turned on his heels running back to lord Faramund.

Athanar looked at the soldier go for a few seconds and then turned towards Thornden and Coen. "I'm going to dismount and go to meet lord Friduhelm, alone, hopefully in a spot nearer to our troops than Faramund's. I try to time it right... Do not make any agressive moves Faramund could use as a pretext for attacking. But keep an eye on him and be ready to cover me and the old man if he does something stupid."

Thornden looked like he was bursting with questions but Athanar hushed him quiet. "I know what I'm doing Thornden. Just keep an eye on Faramund and act only if you have to. Don't let them trick you into any unwarranted action."

With that he glanced forwards to see that Garrulf had reached his lord and had started to deliver his message. Also the men carrying old lord Friduhelm had entered the zone between the two groups of soldiers facing each other.

"Wish me well..." Athanar said and dismounted his horse. Looking at Faramund he saw Garrulf had just got in to the end of his message.

Athanar nodded to Thornden and Coen and started walking slowly towards the men carrying the old Friduhelm.

[littlemanpoet]

Garrulf was coming back. Faramund had watched the exchange between Athanar and Garrulf, and it seemed to him that many words had been spoken. Garrulf stopped before him.

"Well, Garrulf? Can you cut through all the many words from the eorl's rapid lips and tell me his meaning?"

"Lord, he said that he asked you to see your father and you said yes. He said that since you-" Garrulf paused and looked at his feet.

"Out with it, messenger!"

Garrulf looked up and swallowed. "Since you came to the stables instead of going to your father, and since you made moves of readying for battle, the eorl took matters into his own hands."

"So the eorl called my father?" Faramund grated.

"He said that your father goes to him freely, with your consent, he told me to say."

"He lies! Is there more?"

"He said that if you make no aggressive moves and let him speak with your father, he will leave in peace. He said it was a serious offer. And he invites you, lord, to join him and your father. That is all, lord."

"Back to your horse, Garrulf."

The man nodded and moved away. Faramund looked. Stedford and a few other men had brought his father to the middle of the courtyard. Athanar had dismounted with a look in his direction, and was walking toward his father.

He had to know what they were saying to each other. He called over his war leader, Grimhelm.

"Keep your eyes on me. If I make this motion," he pushed his hand palm down toward the ground, "attack. Otherwise, remain vigilant."

"Aye, lord."

He started toward the eorl and his father, seething and disturbed: this was going to be two against one, but he had to know what was said.

[Mnemosyne]

As Wynflaed returned to the kitchen, the holbytla rose and bowed. "Forgive my hasty words, Lady Saeryn. You are quite right. No doubt you have endured much in Eodwine's absence. And until that time, as you say, lady, I can stay here if you like, and accompany you to Minas Tirith, if you will have me."

"What is this talk of travelling to Mundburg?" said Wynflaed. "Is this a wish you have been harbouring, Saeryn?" She paused to think things over--the idea of abandoning one's duty to be with someone, even one's husband, had never occurred to her. "It is not unthinkable," she finally said, "but I should say that it would be most unwise to do so before the people are wholly used to Lord Athanar's and my rule. You have been invaluable in banking the fires already, and yet see how many troubles have occurred despite our best efforts. And even if things should be ready in a month, would you be in fit enough condition to travel, even with an escort as worthy as our guest?"

[Folwren]

Saeryn shot Falco an annoyed glance and then turned to Lady Wynflaed. “There was no talk of going to the Mundburg. . .not immediately, anyway. Of course it would be unthinkable, now, and that’s just what I was telling master Falco here,” she gave him another glare. She was embarrassed to have Wynflaed have to tell her her duty, and she blamed Falco for the scrape he had gotten her in.

“As for whether or no I will be fit for travel, that is yet to be seen. I imagine that I will be able to for some months to come.” She paused, noticed the stiffness of the situation and stood. “Please sit, Wynflaed, I’ll find another chair. You do not know Falco, although you’ve been introduced.”

Stigend had already swung a chair around from the other side of the room to where Saeryn now stood. Saeryn took it with a grateful glance. The men excused themselves to return to their work, and Falco, Saeryn, and Wynflaed were left relatively alone; only Fordides worked at the hearth, listening all the while.

[Galadriel55]

The end of a meal was always marked by a furious final effort on the part of the kitchen workers to clean, collect, wash, dry, and clean. The women were gliding in and out of the kitchen, matching their movements like partners in a well-learned dance. Today there was more work than usual; the arrival of two more groups of travelers meant that some of the men had to take turns eating at the tables, or else find other places to sit. But these visits boded well for the Hall – the wayfarers brought with them wagons of cloth and fine armor and fruit that do not grow in the Mark and other wares besides. Trade must be going well, Ledwyn remarked to herself.

Even she got a treat out of it – one of the companies passing through the Mark on their way north stopped at Scarburg for three days’ time to rest and barter. Among them was a family - a lively couple with two children. She befriended the woman, who was a wonderful weaver. The woman taught Ledwyn how to make simple but beautiful patterns from knotting ropes or strings together. She promised her that if they ever come to Scarburg again, she will teach her how to make more complicated patterns, and maybe to weave on the loom.

“Ledwyn! Will you come with me to get the flowers?” Kara called to her as Ledwyn finished scrubbing the pots and began drifting outside. Kara was asked to gather flowers and other decorations to adorn the Hall for the coming of the guests. Ledwyn paused as the young woman finished drying her last piece of cutlery before joining her. “It’s a beautiful day,” Kara continued with a laugh, “we could both do well with a walk in the meadows.”

Ledwyn hesitated. She promised Theolain she would meet him by the well after the meal; he said he wanted to show her something. But he is probably playing with the other boys by now, and would not miss me for a quarter hour, she thought, and when Kara insisted, she obliged.

They laughed as they ran into the fields. Spotting a sprinkle of bright petals in the grass, they shouted and grabbed fistfuls of colour. When Kara’s flower basket was filled, they both lay down on the grass, breathless and giddy from laughter.

“Remember last time?” asked Kara. Ledwyn giggled. Last time they came here together was in the spring of last year. Ledwyn knew most of the men, but she still felt a stranger in the Mead Hall. Frodides told her to collect trenchers from the far table, where a few men were still sitting, absorbed in an argument. As she took a half-filled trencher from one of the men – she did not know his name yet – he turned around in mid-sentence and looked at her. “Are you blind, wench, or is it the new custom to take food away half-eaten?” Ledwyn stammered an apology and pushed the trencher back towards him. “What am I supposed to do with only half a man’s plate?” the man demanded. Some of the men chuckled. She knew he was mocking her, but she did not know what to say or do to stop him. She made to take the trencher again and return to the kitchen, but the man asked with such indignation why he is being punished so with hunger. In the end, Kara, who came to clean the other table, told the men off, took Ledwyn’s hand, and they came to this very meadow.

That was also the time she came back to find Theolain playing catch-me-in-the-house with the other children. It was the first time she saw him play with them. He had a grin on his face as he ran in and out of the oddly-shaped house drawn on the ground. Before this day, he would wander around Scarburg by himself, sometimes coming into the kitchen to get more food, or visiting Léof in the stables, or – which Ledwyn noticed happened most often – following Harreld around wherever he went, an occupation that often delayed the progress at the smithy while Theolain was coaxed to play elsewhere. Finally, Harreld solved the problem by fashioning the boy a toy bird to play with outside when Harreld worked.

When Ledwyn came back to the Hall this time, carrying a large handful of wildflowers, she did not find Theolain waiting for her at the well, or by the kitchens. She decided that this is well, that he is too busy running around with the boys or tailing Harreld to remember. She was glad for him that he found his place in Scarburg. Though when she saw Cnebba walk by an hour later, he claimed he never saw Theolain after the meal.

[Galadriel55]

“Hello, Theolain!”

Fiddlesticks! Caught.

“Good morning, Mother,” Theolain nodded politely.

“Why out of bed so early?” Ledwyn asked cheerily. He did not know what to say that would not be a lie, and he would not ever lie, especially to his mother. He shrugged.

“Well, off you go, then,” Ledwyn said with a smile as she ruffled Theolain’s hair. I will need to cut it again soon, she thought. Theolain pulled away gently. “Good morning, Mother,” he added again with a brief smile, and walked away.

He was going to sneak a small loaf of bread from the kitchen, but now he dared not risk meeting his mother again. And if she was awake, so was Frodides, and he did not want to face her either. He could wait an hour and break his fast with everyone else. But that was precisely why he woke up early – he did not want to break his fast with everyone else. Or with anyone else, for the matter. He preferred rocks to most people. And to his rocks he went.

Looking around to make sure no one was watching him closely, he strode out of the Hall. He walked straight through the fields, the grass long dead and lying flat. There was a trace of frost on the stems. The cold was coming in early, bringing with it a rough wind.

Then the rocks began. First small rocks on smooth hills. Then larger rocks and sharper crevices. Many of the rocks are too big for him, but he finds ways to go around them. These rocks, that are closest to the Hall, he knows well. One day, he might climb the rocks until the end of the world. But not for a long time. He will return today, before lunch. No one would know where he was.

Twenty minutes down the Scar, Theolain climbed on top of a large slab of rock and walked to the edge. He turned around and lay flat on his stomach. This was the tricky part. He slid down slowly, until he was hanging by his hands. With his foot, he felt for the hidden step in the steep stone. Finally finding it, he lowered himself down to the next handhold. Repeating this operation twice, he jumped the rest of the way. Jumping was quicker, but falling was not. He knew that better than anyone.

He stood on a ledge in the side of the stone wall. On one side, the rock dropped off steeply again. On the other, there was nook in the surface with an overhanging roof – a hole, Theolain decided once, that was carved out by a giant spoon. It was not big enough for a grown man to sit in, but for him it was a cave. A cave full of treasure.

Out of its hiding place, he brought out a small bundle – a collection of gems tightly wrapped in cloth. Theolain untied the knot holding it together, and out rolled the gems: a wooden knife, several sticks and tree knots of unlikely shapes, a blue feather, a few special stones, and a toy bird.





“Theolain!”

Fiddlesticks! Twice in one day! Now there are definitely going to be questions.

“Theolain, you get back here right now!” Ledwyn shouted from the doorstep. Theolain obliged dutifully.

“The wind has gotten colder, and you are traipsing about without a care about falling ill. Now go inside and get dressed properly. Where have you been wandering in this state?”

And here come the questions.

“Mother, I won’t be ill. You shouldn’t worry about me so much. Why are you here? I thought you were making lunch still.”

Ledwyn came down the stairs towards Theolain. She was about to reply when a gust of wind, unfelt before in the shelter of the Hall, threw her off her balance. As she struck out her hands to regain her step, the wind whipped her shawl off her shoulders. Up and away it flew, until it caught on the thatch almost at the top of the roof. Theolain watched Ledwyn wring her hands. He knew what she was thinking – she did not want to lose the shawl, but she could not retrieve it and would not ask for help. That is how she was all the time, Thaolain thought; she would always be silently upset and do nothing, not for herself and not for others. We can always manage, she always taught him. Well, so could he.

Ledwyn was surprised by the sudden wind. She shivered from the cold, without her woolen shawl. It was a good shawl, and she would be loathe to part with it. But there was no way to get it back: what has happened, has happened. What the wind carries off, only the wind can bring back. Even if she were to call a man from the Hall – and it would be extremely foolish to distract them from their duties for some shawl that she lost so embarrassingly – it would likely be gone by the time he arrived, with the wind tearing at it so. She resigned herself to making a new one and was about to reach for Theolain when she noticed he was not there. She looked around. He was pulling himself up atop the wood stack by the guardroom. Once there, he could reach the edge of the roof over the kitchen.

“Theolain, get down here now! You’re going to fall!” he heard Ledwyn cry as he pulled himself up over the edge of the roof. No, I won’t, he thought. He knew what it feels like to fear to fall. But he did not fear to fall this time. He was not going to fall.

He crawled carefully to the top on a wooden support beam, to avoid damaging the thatch. Reaching over, he grabbed his mother’s shawl and jerked it free. He struggled for a minute to tie it tightly around his waist as it flapped in the wind. Then he climbed down.

“Over here, lad! I’ll give you a hand!” a man’s voice called. Theolain turned to look. It was Baldwic. He caught Theolain as he swung down from the roof and placed him firmly on the ground. “You shouldn’t be doing that, you know,” he said, though not unkindly. Theolain knew it was well-meant, but he did not appreciate it. He did not respond.

Ledwyn ran over. She busied herself over Theolain’s clothing, brushing off the straw that stuck to his breeches. She took her shawl with words of both thanks and reproach. Then she turned away to thank Baldwic. When she turned back, Theolain was gone again.

[Legate of Amon Lanc]

On that unusually cold October morning Hilderinc had overslept for the first time in what must have been months. And that despite his usual trouble with sleeping. But last night, he had somehow managed to fall into deep slumber the very moment he lay down, without the need to take his usual evening stroll around the Mead Hall. Maybe it was the hard work they'd done that day, even though Hilderinc had been proven time and again that his sleeplessness could not be cured merely by making his body feel tired. Maybe it was the cold that seemed to creep through the evenings and mornings on that autumn, and made many of the men feel like bears ready to winter. Whatever the reason though, Hilderinc had slept long and dreamlessly also for the first time since they had returned from the war in the East.

When he opened his eyes, he saw the sunrays coming in through the window, cold shafts of waning autumn light. It was not too late, but it was certainly very late by Hilderinc's standards. Only a few of the soldiers were still in the barracks. The room had been rebuilt and rearranged in the past years, its state now being much better and far more comfortable than when they first arrived. Even Scyrr had stopped complaining about its state, even though now he was about to change posts once again. Hilderinc hoped for the man's sake that this change was going to go more smoothly than the last one.

He quickly got himself up, trying not to lean against his right arm. A memory from the last war, a farewell gift from two Easterling warriors and their wain. It didn't hurt as often anymore, but there were times when it betrayed him. He still felt he got off lightly, however, and he tried not to think much about it.

Hilderinc marched out of the barracks. Most of the men were already done with breaking their fast and buzzing around Coenred and Thornden, who were to divide the tasks among them. Everything was getting ready for lord Athanar's departure, which was due soon. Hilderinc found himself strangely glum as he sat down to eat his porridge. He had grown, in his own way, fond of Athanar's men, it was his longest standing post since the end of the Great War. But the same could be told about Scarburg and its people. He still was not sure why chose to remain behind instead of following Athanar to a new place, but when the lord had asked, Hilderinc's response had come unhesitatingly. Only later he had begun to wonder, a rational men he counted himself to be, to think about the reason he was sure had to be hidden somewhere. But it seemed to elude him, and maybe not actually wishing to know, he had pushed it aside.

"Alone as usual," roared Scyrr who was just carrying his own bowl away from the table. "Some things never change, do they?"

Hilderinc looked up at him, raising his eyebrows. "Happy to be leaving?"

Scyrr paused, dropped his empty bowl on the table and waved his hand around. "Happy to leave these behind. You're happy to stay, huh?"

Hilderinc shrugged.

Scyrr leaned closer to him. "You know what, maybe you are getting old. Old men can get, you know, weepy about things." He narrowed his eyes, staring at something on Hilderinc's head. "Is that grey hair?"

"Might be," Hilderinc took another spoonful of porridge. "Maybe you should leave old man to his breakfast, so I can help you packing."

"How kind of him," Scyrr poked another soldier who was passing by and pointed at Hilderinc. "He wants to help us pack."

"How about you help with packing," said the soldier, Fearghall.

"I have packed my share already yesterday! Can't some of the lazies from the Hall do something for a change? Why should I rush!"

"Because the lazies lit the fires and cooked up breakfast for you?" Hilderinc suggested, chewing. "And maybe also because it's the Captain's order?"

"I'm sure you will be happy to become the Captain once we leave," Scyrr growled. "I can already see you enjoying bossing the folk around. Too bad I won't be here."

"I doubt I will become a Captain," Hilderinc replied. "I do not think anybody has even thought of that. And what would be the purpose of it, anyway?"

"I wouldn't put it past this Thornden or Eodwine siss-"

"Scyrr," Fearghall put his arm on the soldier's shoulder.

Hilderinc swallowed the last spoonful and rose up.

"You will be gone soon enough," he said. "Then you can complain about the new place and new folk all anew. But if you want a friendly advice, you are going very far, and different land usually means different manners. Take it slow. And you can tell the same to Áforglaed, too."

Now it was Scyrr's turn to raise his eyebrows. "Didn't you hear, man? Áforglaed is staying with you lazies here."

Hilderinc stared at him for a moment. "Really? That's news to me. How comes?"

"He decided yesterday, unless I am mistaken," said Fearghall. "I overhead him talking to the Captain."

Scyrr grinned. "I bet it has to do with one of the lovely ladies from nearby..."

"That is just gossip," Fearghall dismissed him.

"Indeed," Hilderinc said. "Haven't you and Baldwic especially been trying to court some of the farmers' daughters before, and yet it does not make you stay..."

"Not me, I was just watching over the boys," Scyrr objected. "Making sure they don't get into trouble with the local muck-rakers. As for Baldwic, that girl of his got married off, as it were. Her daddy probably knew what he was doing..."

"Hey, Scyrr," Fearghall once again cut the flippant soldier's speech. "That is not a nice way to talk about Baldwic. Besides, the way I heard – though I do not lend much ear to rumours – it was Baldwic who ended it with her."

Hilderinc shrugged. Rumours did not interest him, either. But Áforglaed was staying... he did not know what to think about it, but in some way, it was good. Athanar's men had really changed during the years of their stay in Scarburg – most of them, anyway, he thought, looking at Scyrr. Most of those who previously resented the place had grown fond of it, and it became their home, and there was no longer a distinction between men of Scarburg and men of Athanar.

Just what I have been saying from the beginning, Hilderinc thought to himself, picked up his bowl and carried it away to the kitchens, looking forward to another cold, but pleasantly busy autumn day.

[Galadriel55]

Ledwyn has not left Theolain’s side since he stopped breathing. She has barely left him when he was still alive. She sat by his bedside for days while he first became hot and then slowly, day by day, became frighteningly cold. First he shivered. Then he became completely limp. And then he stopped breathing. As if his life left him bit by bit, seeping out slowly, that one could barely tell when it was finally gone.

She had vague recollections of people talking to her. Someone brought her food, but she did not eat. Later, Saeryn draped a cloth over her shoulders. She did not realize until later that it was Saeryn’s own shawl. For the first time in weeks she did not even feel cold.

The men wanted to take him away. He must be buried properly, they told her. His body should be laid in the ground. But she would not let them. Do not take him away from me yet, she said – or maybe she just thought; she was not certain anymore. It is so cold out there. The ground is frozen stiff. On the morrow, they will warm it with a fire to dig a grave, like they have done for the others. And then the ground will freeze again, and he will freeze with it. Let him be warm for one last night! Just one more night! But, in spite of the blankets and fires, Theolain remained cold and remote in his stillness, as if to show that no warmth in the world can stop that which is inevitable.

Ledwyn did not know how much time passed. She simply suddenly became aware of herself. Maybe she awoke from a doze, but she did not recall sleeping. The Hall was quiet around her, and it was dark. When did everyone go to bed? How late was it?

She slowly stood up, her legs clumsy and stiff from sitting all day. She wandered through the Hall like a wraith, Saeryn’s shawl dropping slightly on one side on top of her own. She walked around the Great Hall, occasionally putting out a hand to brush the long tables. After a while, she found herself at the door to the kitchen.

The last coals in the hearth were still smoldering slightly. There were not too many now, since dry wood was scarce in Scarburg and had to be burned sparingly. Ledwyn lit a candle from one of the remaining spots of glowing red. Theolain would have liked them once, she thought. Securing the candle on a table, she turned away from it and began rummaging in the store of eating utensils.

***

Hilderinc's sleeplessness had returned with the winter. It did not add to his mood that had already been affected by the sour prospects of the Hall, just like everyone else's. However, Hilderinc did not become gloomy as Scarburg's hopes dimmed. Instead, he became very stern, observant, marching around the Hall and wading in the snow around it day and night, or so it would seem to its inhabitants. He really did not sleep much, and on very cold nights of midwinter, he was even secretly happy about it. For, as death began creeping into the Mead Hall, Hilderinc began reflecting on it, and came to the conclusion that he did not want to pass away in his sleep. Not ever.

That particular night, he again could not sleep. Instead, he paced around, wrapped in his blanket on top of his clothes and a spare cloak. He had spent a long time outside, as if hoping he could find any dry firewood or spot a rabbit, or at least a squirrel. Not a chance. As he headed back to the Hall, it was already deep night. Everyone was asleep, or so it seemed, until Hilderinc noticed bright gleam of candlelight coming from inside the kitchens. Wondering who might be up at this time, he walked to the door, removed his glove and cursed silently under his breath as the cold air hit him violently. He put the glove back on, clumsily opened the door and quickly jumped in, leaving the winter outside.

It was warm inside the kitchen, and a lone shape sat by one of the tables. Ledwyn. Hilderinc recognized her light brown hair and her countenance; now, after several months of winter, she looked even more thin and fragile than usual, like a frozen reed. She did not seem to have noticed him entering, nor heard him opening and closing the door. In one heart-stopping moment Hilderinc thought she had frozen to death, but then he noticed a small movement as she clutched one of the kitchen knives, staring at the blade, as if she were studying the reflection of the candlelight on it. She turned it slowly this way and that. If not for her face, she might have been playing. Then, still turning the knife, she lifted it higher. Her hands froze, with the knife pointing straight at her.

Startled, Hilderinc took a few quick steps to her side, but her hands again rested on the table, still holding the blade.

"Ledwyn?" he spoke. She did not answer, just stared at the knife in her hand.

“Shouldn’t you be sleeping?” Hilderinc continued. Ledwyn stirred. She nodded very slightly, but she looked past him, like she did not understand where his voice was coming from.

"What were you doing here?" Gently but firmly, he took the knife from her hands. He looked down at the blade and frowned. Did she just... He examined her face. She seemed not to notice her surroundings, but just stared into the distance with her far-away look, as though she was seeing something beyond the wooden walls of the kitchen. She was definitely not asleep, but Hilderinc was not certain that she was awake.

She has gone through a lot in the last few days, Hilderinc thought, on top of this terrible winter. Poor Theolain.

"Listen," he said aloud. "Everyone is asleep. You should go to sleep, too. Sitting here at night is not what you should be doing..." He felt clumsy, he was never particularly good in talking to women. In fact, he never had to, not like that.

"I understand," he added, while he was not sure it was true, "I understand it must be hard, Theolain..." He vaguely tried to remember anything about the lad; realizing he had barely known him. "Your son was a good boy," he finished. "But you already said farewell to him, we all did. And while he is gone, you are still here." Almost as an afterthought, he added, "If you are just listening to your thoughts, you will start thinking about weird things."

"He's not my son," Ledwyn said in a quiet, dead kind of voice. She was not looking at Hilderinc.

He inclined his head, slightly confused. "Do not say that. He has passed away, but he still..." He stopped, as if his train of thought was interrupted by a sudden idea. His eyes once again shifted to Ledwyn's face, pale in the candlelight.

"He is not my son," she repeated firmly, despite her lost look. Did her mind wander astray in a memory? Who was she seeing? Who was she talking to?

She stood up and turned to look at the fireplace. The last of the heat was fading away, leaving the coals dead and ashen. The small specs of redness were fading away. Only a few were still dancing and breathing in the night air. By sunrise, none would be left.

Very slowly, her eyes became alive. She looked around her and only now noticed Hilderinc standing behind her. She did not give a start, but she seemed slightly confused. Seeing the knife in his hand, she said, "I simply wanted to cut a slice of bread from the stores. I have not eaten today." However, instead of breaking her fast, she disappeared quickly behind the kitchen door, her shawls trailing slightly behind her.

[piosenniel]

This Game Thread is moving to Elvenhome.

It can be revived for play on the request of the gameplayers.

~*~ Pio

[Nogrod]

"Sir," Wulfric said quickly. "Scyrr is wounded. He says he was attacked by the local tanner, named Erbrand. Will is now with him - they're in the far end of the yard there, by the trees. I have sent for a healer."

Lord Athanar felt like his heart paused for a beat or two. Oh no... not this... not this anymore...

For a moment Wulfric searched in vain for an answer from his father's face.

"Can he be moved? Move him here if he can!" Lord Athanar tried to come to grips with the reality. "Now where did you say he was?"

Wulfric pointed a finger and Athanar nodded feverishly. This was something he didn't like that much but what he was so good at as to rise up to a position he had. He knew how to act in these situations and he was already transforming into that mode of being.

"Forget bringing him here! See to it yourself the healer is being brought up! See it like it was your brother's life at stake! Find Coen and Thornden to organise a full search for the tanner and to secure any other folks that might be endangered by a lunatic! Then make them come to me as it were! Like now! Hurry up!"

He didn't wait for his son to answer him but rushed towards the trees to find Willheard trying to keep Scyrr conscious. Lord Athanar kneeled beside his son and inspected Scyrr's wounds in a haste.

"Don't worry pal, you'll be alright..." Athanar said gripping his shoulder firmly and covering his cheek with his palm. Looking him into the eyes lord Athanar whispered silently but firmly "Whatever this was and whyever it was... rest assured my man, the justice will be done... and you will live to see it done."

Scyrr tried to moan something but lord Athanar put a finger on his lips and hushed him silent. "There's time for everything Scyrr. Trust me, I've seen men dying and you don't look like one. Breathe now, don't fade, don't try anything. Breathe. Help is coming. Take it easy. Breathe. We know it was the tanner... take it easy... breathe... take it easy... breathe... take it easy... breathe..."

He almosted lulled the man into relaxation. Willheard was not sure he believied his eyes. What was his father doing? Athanar felt the astonishment of his son and turned towards him when Scyrr had fell back to concentrate on just breathing.

"Men are frail son. They are frail when they fear death. A good leader stands beside his men and encourages them. Unless you're a healer there's not much else you can do. But even that can be crucial. And there is not such a low man a good leader wouldn't support, even with his life..." Lord Athanar's whisper died in the air as the noise of the oncoming footsteps overcame it.

[Thinlómien]

Wulfric

"Forget bringing him here! See to it yourself the healer is being brought up! See it like it was your brother's life at stake! Find Coen and Thornden to organise a full search for the tanner and to secure any other folks that might be endangered by a lunatic! Then make them come to me as it were! Like now! Hurry up!"

"Yes, sir," Wulfric said - to thin air, for his father had already dashed away. Veteran's efficiency or lunatic's impulsiveness, Wulfric didn't know which one, and he didn't not have time wonder about it.

His eyes scanned the yard and found flocks of soldiers wandering towards the stables or the kitchens. Drills over, he guessed and started striding towards the training fields with a quick pace, but soon broke into a run.

"Coenred!" he called when he saw the commander talking with the peasant officer, Thornden. Both the officers were alert immediately.

"Scyrr has been attacked by the local tanner, who has fled somewhere. You two are to organise a search for the assaulter and see that the folk are safe. After that, the Eorl requires to see you."

[Eorl of Rohan]

SCYRR

Everything was a-whirl. The fever that overtook Scyrr was nothing like any sickness he had known, the scalding heat and shivering chill alternating in turns. Every time he took a shuddering gasp, his slender frame was wracked by spastic coughs that yielded dark, coagulated blood. His breath was a dry rasp in his throat. The nervous and fitful rush of adrenaline that had enabled him to stand in the presence of Lord Wulfric only went so far; the moment he was out of sight, he collapsed. Blood from his crushed larynx spilled into his lungs in lieu of air. They called it drowning on dry land in the Mark, he remembered hazily. His vision blurred as he stared blankly up at the jagged outlines of green treetops silhouetted against the reddening sunset of the sky.

Did a minute pass, or a thousand?

Then a hand brushed his cheek. He almost pulled away with a cry because it seemed too icy a touch to his fevered brow. It jarred him awake from his half-trance, and with consciousness came back the feverish loop of nightmarish visions that danced before him, the searing pain in his lungs, now desperate for air, and the sharp metallic taste of blood. He wished he could fade once more. But the panicky buzz of conversation now pressed their claim to be heard, and the blurs focused themselves into recognizable features, and…

His eyes widened. For a moment he would have leapt to attention, abashed. However, his injured leg buckled under the sudden pressure, and he collapsed back down, pallid as a ghost and swallowing with difficulty a cry of pain. He had not wanted to be seen by Lord Athenar. Not like this. Not when he had let him down like this.

"I'm sorry." He whispered, a pleading look to his eyes, too weak to add the 'For letting you down'.

He had come off worst in a brawl with a craftsman, lowest among the commoners, who presumed to challenge not only his authority but dared to assault a rider of the Mark. And he got away with it. This insubordination, this wanton disregard of authorities, this vicious streak of violence, the baseborn tanner got away with all this because he did not have the power to check the cur's insolence. He had dragged the honor of serving under the banner of Lord Athanar through the mud. It was a shame which he would never live down. Looking into the ashen-gray eyes of Lord Athanar, Scyrr braced himself for disappointment, or even anger; he would deserve it and more. But there wasn’t a single accusatory look from his liege-lord, only concern. It took a moment before Scyrr realized - to his amazement and chagrin - that *Lord Athanar* was trying to comfort *him*, to ease *him* of his anguish, when he himself had a precarious political crisis on his hands. Not to mention that lord seem too preoccupied to even notice that his fine raiment was all bloodstained with his syrupy blood.

"Breathe now, don't fade, don't try anything. Breathe. Help is coming. Take it easy. Breathe." Lord Athanar said gently.

Abashed at this unlooked-for compassion in his lord, Scyrr momentarily struggled to disentangle himself from Lord Athanar's grasp. He didn’t deserve this. Besides, he had to track down that... But none of his sinews responded to his command. With a painful sigh, he let himself go limp, listening to the distant sound of the soothing words that his lord whispered. Before lapsing into a fitful sleep, it was with a flash of his temper that Scyrr snarled to himself, 'And as for you, Erbrand, you should count yourself lucky if you're the only person I kill over this.'
.

[Durelin]

Coenred was surprised by the approach of Wulfric, who ran towards them with clear urgency. He called out to Coen and Thornden before he even stopped, and the two men stood essentially at attention. It was not often that the Lord Athanar put either of his sons in command, but the Captain served them as well. He saluted the young man when he finished speaking, his mind still processing what he had just heard.

Were things not more urgent Coen would have sighed in sad exasperation. So that was at least one missing man accounted for... Had there been a moment's peace since their arrival? It had been nothing but petty politics and brawls, as if these were a desperate people. Coen did not understand it. He glanced at Thornden, observing his reaction. He doubted that young man understood it either -- he seemed a good, level-headed man, contrary to what was often typical of his age.

"We will at once," he said. Attacked... "Dead?" he asked grimly. Coen began going over in his mind what men he would trust with this search and the security of the town. He would snatch up Hilderinc first, as usual. Three groups, with himself, Thornden, and Hilderinc as officers. Two on foot, one on horseback to scour the surrounding area. Coen doubted the man would be foolish enough to hide, particularly if he had killed the soldier. And he hoped no one would take him in. More than likely he would be on foot... Perhaps two groups on horseback.

Attacked by the tanner...alone? That was difficult to believe. Coen had met this tanner, and he knew Scyrr.

Having received an answer from Wulfric, he turned to Thornden. "I recommend three groups, led by you, me, and Hilderinc, my most able man. I suggest we send my party and Hilderinc's out on horseback to search for him outside the town, as he has likely fled. You can see to the safety of the town with the majority of the guards, as well as see if he has chosen to hide. Are there hunting dogs we can use? A tanner has an easy scent to follow."

Thornden and the resident guards still knew the town and its people best, and would be better trusted. Coen and Hilderinc would better serve more as enforcers than protectors for the time being.

[Folwren]

So many questions and possibilities were spinning about in Thornden’s head that he did not know how to answer Coenred. “I don’t want your men to-” he began. “I mean, I don’t think lord Athanar meant us to go,” he stammered.

That was a poor way to put his thoughts. He tried to lay aside personal feelings and shock from the reported incident and spoke more clearly.

“I understood lord Athanar’s command to mean that we are to organize the searching parties and send them out, but we are to report to him as directly as possible, whereas were we to go out searching, we may be delayed for hours.” The two looked at each other. There was a pause, and then Coenred conceded.

"You are right," he said. His words were short and clipped, and his tone tense. "It is best for us to go to the Lord Athanar directly. I will give orders for the search parties to form, and then we will go to the Hall."

Thornden nodded and they strode together towards the stables. Another thing bothered Thornden, though, but if he voiced his concern it may cause a wedge to be driven between the two of them, and their men. Still, after going about ten paces, he had made up his mind to speak despite the possibilities of that.

“Captain,” Thornden said without slowing his pace. “If Athanar does expect us to go out with the search parties, after he has spoken to us, I would rather I was one to lead one of the search parties out. It is absolutely unnecessary to keep a group behind to protect the others, Erbrand is not dangerous unprovoked, and he will not make any further attacks, I can vouch for that. As you say, it is improbable that he stayed and tried to hide, but if he did, Hilderinc will be capable of searching the place. Also…” and here he paused. “If we do overcome him, I feel I should be there. And if we are not to go with the search parties, send Balvir, or Matrim, or Lithor...Lithor!" Thornden stopped in his tracks and things became suddenly clearer to him. He had seen Lithor during the drills, not coming down to join them, but riding...somewhere. He had not thought much of it at the time, uncertain if what had happened that morning had given Lithor different duties than joining the drill, but now he knew that had not been the case. Thornden had just seen the second rider beyond Lithor, and though he had not seen his face, he now guessed his identity.