The White Horse Inn, Act III

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Eorcyn considered before replying, for he could sense that Osric meant what he said, but that the old warrior remained, in his heart, loyal to his opinions rather than to the judgement of the King. Eorcyn warmed to him for that. His harsh words of before had come as a surprise to himself, and he was only just now beginning to resolve them in his heart. He had lived a long and successful life as a bard, and his selection this day should serve as the fulfillment of his existence, but over it all there stood yet a dark cloud. When he had heard Hearpwine sing, there had been no doubt in his mind that the young man would carry the day. His voice was untutored and his discretion somewhat lacking in performance, but there could be no denying the raw talent of the lad. Eorcyn’s own performance had been somewhat lacking this day, he thought, and even the youth Asad’s singing had, to Eorcyn’s mind, been deserving of higher praise. He had won the affections and the loyalties of the Golden Hall this day, and for that reason the King had chosen him wisely. But the hearts and souls of those with the ears to hear and the wits to recognise belonged firmly to his student. He was ashamed as he recalled the relief he had felt with Éomer had proclaimed that Hearpwine would not perform in the Golden Hall until his time had come to become master and not apprentice: Eorcyn feared sharing the floor with such talent.

He eyed Osric carefully and sat. Pitching his voice low he said, “I think you for that, friend, but I fear I owe you the apology, for I was rash when I spoke – rash and foolish: two things that are never comely in a man, but that are more than ridiculous when found in a man of my age and supposed wisdom.” Osric raised a questioning eyebrow but did not reply, so Eorcyn continued. “I fear that you touched too close to the mark with your doubts, for I share them myself. You are right when you say that I did not offer to bow to the greater singer, and I truly believe that there is much that young Hearpwine can learn from myself and Liornung. But there is an ugly truth that I will share with you – I believe that in a very short time the young man will have learned all that he can from me, and then I will be nothing more than an old encumbrance between him and the station that will be rightfully his. I am the better singer…for now. But when he reaches the full limit of his strength, when he learns to pace his song and achieve its full gallop where it shall have the most effect…I am afraid that I will sound like that croaking of an old crow beside him!”

They looked across to where Hearpwine sat in conference with the new arrival from the north. Osric said, “Such is the burden of age. We have come through our adventure and offer little to those who follow but the imprint of our feet upon paths that we no longer have the strength to follow. The best we can hope is that those younger feet will not completely obliterate the signs of our passage as they hasten to surpass us. But do not despair, for without the aged, how would youth know the path that they must follow? Hearpwine may surpass you someday, but for now he does not, and he looks to you as his rightful master. If you can find it in your heart to help him along the path you have taken, he will perhaps find the strength to make one of his own – and if that happens, your path will remain your own, and become the starting point of a most miraculous journey! That, I think, is no small accomplishment!”

Eorcyn returned his gaze to the rheumy eyes of his companion, and saw there that Osric was speaking as much to comfort his own age. He smiled at the man in what he hoped was a friendly manner, for his mind was still oppressed. “You speak wise counsel, friend. Come, let us order some drink so that I might loosen my throat somewhat, and then I shall constrain my apprentice to accompany me a song!” He turned and waved at the Innkeeper to get her attention.

[Bêthberry]

[OCC]

April and May were very busy months in The Shire and saw the completion of several excellent games. Many gamers deservedly earned access to Rohan and three Game Founders earned full status in Rohan.

Gamers with full status as Game Manager and Game Player

alaklondewen
Everdawn
ittlemanpoet

Gamers who have earned access as Game Players

Alatariel Telemnar
ArwenBaggins

Durelin

Eorl of Rohan
Esgallhugwen

Fordim Hedgethistle

Kransha

Lumiel

Memory of Trees
Meneltarmacil

Nuranar

Regin Hardhammar

Witch Queen

A round of applause and a round of ale at the White Horse for these new Gamers and Game Managers in Rohan! Every one of them wrote with accomplishment and creativity and responsibility.

New Writers of the Mark, please take the time, if you have not already, to read through the rules for gaming in Rohan in the thread called The Golden Hall.

Welcome to Rohan. I look forward to gaming with you either in Rohan games (when I can find the time to join games or run my own) or at The White Horse. Please do come to the Horse in character and allow us to raise a pint in honour of your accomplishments.

Bêthberry,
Moderator for Rohan

[Bêthberry]

It had been a long and confusing morning for Bethberry, for she had chosen to avoid the competition at the Golden Hall. She had not felt inclined to remember the events of four years ago amid glittering celebration and regal pomp.

She had struggled with the children's lessons, watching their impatience and eagerness to be off to the excitment of the market and the competition. Rather than a formal lesson, she had encouraged them to draw on their slates images of kings and queens, the Golden Hall itself, the barrow of Theoden and those also of the many who fell that day. The children found an outlet for a time for their imagination and then grew impatient. She gave them leave, as she knew Frodides would have allowed, to run off to stand outside the Golden Hall in hopes of hearing the contest, with a warning to listen to Gomen who could be relied upon to keep a very watchful eye over them. With nary a word, they allowed their slates to clatter upon the old table and were away.

She sat quietly for a time, watching Ælle and Osric share a breakfast ere she rose and sought out Ruthven, the woman whose company always these days soothed her best. Ruthven knew, as did the poor of Edoras, that the last four years were years of struggle and deprivation. The costs of war were great and many went hungry and languished in pain and destitution from want. With the old rag lady only could Bethberry share her feelings of frustration with opulent ceremonies of the nobles when so much still yet remained to be done for the people. Yet, when finally she rose to leave Ruthven, her heart was more at ease.
Thus it was that she was back at The White Horse when Hearpwine and Liornung and Eorcyn bounded into the Mead Hall with their excitement and swelling enthusiasms which overtook the Inn. She had been about to address a new patron, a stranger, a northern Ranger it appeared from his dress, when Hearwpine caught her eye and nodded. She smiled at him, who seemed to have won a different prize that day, once which suprisingly gave him greater happiness than winning would have. Interesting, she thought, how things can be given even in the midst of others being lost or taken away.

Once the excitement and uproar subsided, she rose to speak to all.

"We are honoured here with the presence of three bards, the like of which The Horse has never before seen. In honour of this day and their art, may I offer them a fine meal from our kitchens and to all others, ale or cider as thirst may dictate or desire. And in memory of those who have fallen, the little remembered in song and verse as well as the great, for their sacrifice is no less keen for being less known. "

She bowed before the three, old Eorcyn, secretive Liornung, and the expectant Hearpwine and then sought her way back to the table of the northerner, whose action in pulling out quill and parchment had caught her attention.

~~~

OOC My apologies for my recent absence. My road in real life went ever on and away from the Downs and indeed I crossed the continent and was brought to the Western shore. Yet I have returned to find one of the most splendid sub-plots the White Horse has ever seen. Wonderful work particularly by Aylwen Dreamsong, Nurumaiel and Fordim Hedgethistle and writing equally good by Kransha and Snowdog. May the other gamers return as well now that events have returned to The Horse!

Aylwen and I will be hatching new subplots as this one comes to a completion, so if any Writer of the Mark wishes to suggest further plots, please contact either Aylwen or myself. This is not to call for an end to the current plans, but simply to prepare for future events.

[Snowdog]

Hanasían had out an acceptable piece of parchment, and his quill, ink and powder were set by as well as he listened to the arousing bandter and celebration that had made its way in the White Horse. But in this corner of the Inn, Hanasían started to write of the dark, confusing days of the Battle of the Fords of Isen. He was hoping to meet his twin cousins Frea an Folca here, but they were obviously off celebrating. So he penned the names of men he fought beside and tried to note anything he remembered of each, and having lost himself some into that fateful day Theodred fell holding the eyot, he wrote some words they had traded before that fell battle.

"May I sit..."

Hanasían had instinctivly sensed his presence, though another may have been startled when in such deep thought. Hanasían waved his hand with the quill toward a chair in offerance to the bard before dipping the quill in the ink and continuing to capture a thought. Setting the quill down, he dusted and gently let slide the dust with a soft breath.

He set the parchment aside and lifted his tankard. He looked at the Bard and said,

'It is an honor to have a man of such high esteem to come share this table. It sounds as though you have done well this day?'

He took a drink of the ale, and leaned back. He could see the bard's eyes looking at the Elven script on the parchment in a curious way, and Hanasían went on,

'As you tell of deeds in song and word, I tell of them in writing. Too many deeds go un-sung and un-remembered, when so many fell in the struggle against the darkness. Much is worthy of word and song.

Hanasían then listened as a lady spoke of the Bardic competition, and an applause came forth at its finish. Hanasían said to the bard at his table,

'It looks like you are well rewarded sir!'

Hanasían then stood up at the approach of the woman.

'Mae govannen lady of Rohan!'

He stepped aside to make sure the remaining chair at the table was clean of boot dirt and offered her a seat.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

There could be no lack of happiness and festive hearts on that chill, early spring day. The progression of time and events could never be duplicated or occur as it had on that day, either. None could explain the spirit that had settled over the town of Edoras. Remembering the distant and recent pasts collided with hoping for a better future. Old friends were able to come together and remember friends long gone and past times spent together, whether on the battlefield or elsewhere. Strangers met and shared stories and songs, learning to come together as they shared the promise of tomorrow.

Despite all this happiness, there remained many a task for Aylwen to complete. Most of her work that day entailed feeding and serving the customers that flowed into the Horse constantly that day. This was the Innkeeper’s job every day, but today the tasks felt less hefty as they were lightened by song and tale ringing throughout the Mead Hall.

The afternoon passed much like this, with song and merriment ringing throughout the Horse and throughout Edoras with pride in their country. Hearpwine let his voice rest before giving a stunning encore of the tune he sang for the King and the Lady. Liornung aided in the song making, as did many others who passed through the Inn that day. Stories of the valiant warriors who died in battle peppered the festivities, reminding young and old of what had come to be just four years earlier.

Sunlight became scarce, however, as the good times and good tales passed all the time of day. People began to filter out of the Inn slowly, some ready to leave with their whining children and others hesitant to exit the White Horse. As the sun went down, Aylwen stood upon her stool and raised her hands for silence.

“After being an Innkeeper for fourteen years, I have heard and seen a great many things,” Aylwen began, looking over and catching Bethberry’s gaze for just a moment before continuing her speech. “I have met many people and learned much from each of them. Some I know and remember to this day, others come and go, only to have someone new walk in the next day. I have learned that perhaps it is the way of things for people and lessons that you love to come and go, as does the day. One can go after these people and these lessons, running to catch up and never have to miss them again. Or one can stay where they are and meet different people and learn different things, keeping the memory of those they miss alive in every task they do. Tonight, my friends, we gathered to remember those that we lost in a great battle…”

Aylwen paused for a moment. She eyed Hearpwine and Liornung, Osric and Eorcyn, Bethberry and Ruthven, and she passed her gaze over all the patrons of the White Horse in turn.

“Hail the victorious dead.”

---

Aylwen pulled the windows of the White Horse Inn open with ease that came from many years of practice. Dust flew from the opening, visible only in the rays of light that flashed from outside and danced onto the wooden floor of the Inn.

Days and weeks had passed swiftly from those few celebratory nights in early spring. Trees bare of leaves had long begun sprouting buds, and before long the grand shade of green had flourished across Edoras again. Air no longer brought chills or shivers, and flowers had been blooming for a few months. Midsummer fast approached Edoras.

Motan paraded around the Inn at that early hour with a crown of colorful flowers upon her head. Frodides chased the little four-year old about, until she caught her daughter and lifted her high into the air with laughter in both their hearts. Aylwen smiled as she watched them, then turned and went to open the next window. Goldwine happily purred and rubbed against the Innkeeper's leg. When the woman would do no more than scratch once behind his ears, the cat curled his tail in a put-off manner and went to rub his back against on a leg of one of the many chairs that littered the room.

The sun had scarcely risen in the sky when Aylwen opened the front door of the White Horse for any to enter.

[Nurumaiel]

"Come now, Gomen!" Maercwen laughed as she stroked the neck of the impatient stallion that was prancing by her side. Gomen's cheery face peered from around the stable door and he nodded before withdrawing. The stallion gave a loud whinny and a little buck. Maercwen tightened her grip on the reins and caught his head, kissing his nose. "Patience, Mihtig, patience. I know this fair summer day brings thoughts of adventure to your mind, but we must wait for Gomen."

And Gomen soon appeared, leading a tall chestnut horse that thrust its head proudly to the sky and looked for all the world a king. Behind Gomen was Leofan, who went to his daughter and looked doubtfully up at Mihtig. The stallion was tall, strong, and spirited. He was not certain that his young daughter, just barely eighteen now, could manage him. "Mae, are you sure he won't be too much for you? You're strong enough to handle him?"

"No, Papa," the girl replied. "I'm not nearly strong enough to handle him. I am relying solely on the training you have given that will cause him to listen to my words rather than my strength, as well as the obedience and respect he has for me as his 'sister.'"

"Very well," said Liornung, but still he looked doubtful. He addressed his eldest son then, instructing him to watch over his sister and both the horses, and to make sure no harm befell any who were to ride out that day. He bid them farewell with a last bidding that they return within two hours so Mae could help her mother with the washing. He watched as they rode off and then turned to the sound of singing and laughter. Mereflod and Motan were skipping towards him, both golden heads wreathed with flowers and each little hand clutching a bright array of equally colorful flowers. "Papa, papa!" they sang as he skipped towards him. He kissed them both and caressed their hair, saying, "My little daughters look like the queens of fair flowers and bright meadows. Where did these lovely flowers come from."

"They came from our garden, Papa," Mereflod replied. "We've worked oh so hard in it every day and the flowers are all growing so beautifully. Don't you like them, Papa?"

He kissed each again, replying, "I love them. Make sure you pick some for your mother, Mistress Bethberry, and our innkeeper Aylwen."

"Oh, Papa," said Motan, "we already did. See?" She held out a dimpled hand. Leofan laughed. "Good, good," he said. "Now go give those flowers to those three lovely women and see if Bethberry wants you for lessons. If not ask your Mamma if she needs help. And if she doesn't need help you may come out here and play." The girls hugged their father once again and then skipped away, clasping hands. Leofan chuckled and went back into the stable.

[Durelin]

It had taken Durelin quite a long time to get all prepared for a move to Rohan. It was a long way from Bree to Rohan, after all, and a long way meant a big difference. This was certainly a great change for this Shire loving young woman, and many details entailed in making this move complete. Now that these details, and other details of her life, had been worked out, Durelin decided that it was time to introduce herself to the goings on of her new home. And, as it was in any quaint, quiet, common sense little town or a bustling city without any signs of cheery faces on short, stout halfling bodies, the resident inn was the place to go to get ‘in the know’.

As a city such as Edoras, a city very much unlike Bree, she was finding, had several inns, it was important that she find the inn. Whatever population size a community had, there was always one place where any could go and see anyone. ‘Anyone’ was just reduced in size in cities. When Durelin’s feet had become rather sore in her soft, slipper-like leather shoes (a bad choice, she now realized, to wear that day), she finally came upon an inn with its doors thrown open wide with sounds of merry making that had been calling to her for a block now. Still, this had to be relatively quiet for the inn, this early in the day.

She paused for a moment to look at the sign hanging above the door. The White Horse Inn she read, thinking of how she should not have doubted that it would have ‘horse’ somewhere in its name. She pondered the meaning of a ‘white horse’ until her thoughts were disrupted by a tugging on her arm. The small hand in hers was gripping as tightly as it could, and the child the hand belonged to was seemingly trying to pull Durelin’s arm off. The child was of course hers; it was her only son, as she had only an infant daughter at home with the father (who was in no mood to be social, at this point!).

“Mamma!” he cried with an incredible amount of huffiness, “Can’t we go in?”

The boy was just barely eight, but he was already almost up to his mother’s chest. He was going to be tall, much like his father. Also like his father, he had very blonde and very straight hair, along with light blue eyes, almost a blue-grey. This was all due to Rohirrim heritage. This was his father’s home, and this was why Durelin was here. He had refused to allow his son to grow up any more outside his homeland. Durelin could not argue with that, nor would she wish to. She had left family in Bree, but this was her family now. There was no way she would ever be lonely, she knew, as she looked down at her son with a smile. It won’t be much longer before I am unable to do that. I will smile up at him, and it will be very different, she thought, as she was already beginning to feel that time was playing tricks on her.

“What did you say, Loar?” Her son was in no mood for smiles, but he knew to say “please”. Durelin’s smile widened as she let go of Loar’s hand and had to pick up her skirts to walk quickly enough to follow the boy, now running in his excitement. Durelin sighed as the boy disappeared into the crowds and stopped to look around. It would be quite embarrassing to be seen running with her skirts pulled up trying to catch her child. Besides, he couldn’t get himself into too much trouble, the amount of people here would not allow him to…would it? There was a good many, but not enough to hide him for long. But perhaps there was enough that they would not notice a young boy doing mischief… Durelin then imagined her young son slipping underneath someone’s table, reaching up to tip over a mug of ale and opening his mouth wide beneath it. Her head turned wildly from side to side, her eyes straining to search the entire inn. She sighed once again, this time much more heavily, and gave up for now. An inn like this, much larger than the Green Dragon back in Bree, was perfect for hiding someone as cunning as her son.

Calmly, but quickly, she walked up to the bar, and got the innkeeper’s attention. “Excuse me, miss. Did you see a young boy run by here just a moment ago? I seem to have lost him already.”

[Kransha]

The midsummer air, fresh and crisp, may have had the gentle temperament of a cooling breeze, but Osric of Aldburg only felt the restricting heat, which forced his garb to cling to him with more weight, dragging down his resolute posture as he dragged his quivering right leg and his stiffened left along the grassy ground, swinging up his oaken cane beneath him and planting it firmly in the soft earth. His shadowed eyes sparkled anew as his gaze drifted up, taking in the serene sight of the White Horse Inn that sat, nestled into the rural terrain of Edoras, before him. The wrinkled wreaths of reddened flesh around his two clouded eyes pulled apart and his narrowed mouth curved into a satisfied smile as he looked upon the structure, letting his armored chest heave with the relaxed atmosphere of a refreshing, deep sigh, breathing in the brisk air. He lowered his wizened head, shaking it with a furthered smile as his mind slipped into the shroud of reminiscence, which clouded both vision and his experienced senses.

He looked older somehow, which he was, but by more than a simple season. His shoulder-length hair and unkempt beard, formerly speckled with shadowy gray, was now as white as winter snow. His beard stretched down farther, hanging in limp strands over the glinting leaf mail and furnished leather hauberk that covered his chest. The aged Rohirrim seemed older in the way he carried himself along as well, stooped over with an arched back concealed by a long cloth cloak with a collar of bristling fur. He held a long staff of oak-wood that had been polished delicately and sanded of all blemishes, with a rounded sphere, amber in murky hue, which his gnarled digits were curled around tightly, clutching the cane near him. He wore more elaborate garb than he had borne the last time he came this way, garb which weighed heavily upon him as he staggered along a winding path which only he saw. Osric wore a simple tunic, evergreen, that hung down like a cropped robe and a sturdy hauberk of brown leather over that with the stencil of a braying steed drawn into the material. His forest-colored sleeves and trousers swung limp on his limbs, too large for him, but were affixed to his arms and legs by two glinting, golden-bronze vambraces and greaves, strapped with bands of cloth to each appendage, pauldrons bound to his sagging shoulders, and a skirt of dull golden leaf mail, all these designed with constant thematic motifs of horses and blades. It was ceremonial dress, to be sure, as it served no purpose but to make old Osric look nobler, more chivalric, more royal in gait and bearing, or so it would seem to most who had seen him before under any circumstances.

But, Osric was not alone on this journey. Beside him, half in his shadow stood a taller, but far less imposing individual with a more colorful face and youthful complexion. He was a fair-haired lad, certainly young, with a bright face, a merry expression, though wrought with seriousness, and a quick and patient gait as he wandered on behind the other. His head was held upright, ovular, and capped by some unruly dirty-blonde hair which hung down but an inch less than that of Osric, unkempt and untamable. His eyes, cold and watery blue, searched the sky rather than the ignoble ground and his features remained smooth and simple. His outfit was certainly not as contrived as Osric’s, which gave him a more amiable look, as he wore naught but the earthy colors of brown and green shades upon him, a long, withered tunic, a tight hauberk over that, and a frock coat draped messily over his prominent, broad shoulders. He was a lad by most standards, no longer a child, but not yet a man. He stood and walked, ever nearing Osric until the older man began to droop on his course, sliding down. Then, suddenly, old Osric stumbled. The young man groped for the opportunity and dove, his hands clenching around his uncle’s arm and hauling him tenderly up.

“Here, uncle, let me help.” He crooned, his voice calm and composed, “I said in Aldburg we should have ridden.” It was a scolding tone, one of reprimand, he held, which elicited an irked and involuntary wince from the other, who's eyes, narrowed and suddenly tinted with a darker hue.

“Ulfmane is not the steed he was once, Sigurd.” Osric almost snapped as he wrenched his arm foolishly from the younger man’s grip, “I do not take him on trivial journeys like these. I would not trust his care to the most renowned of stable-masters in the Wold, and you know that. My legs can carry me the distance, and I do not doubt that yours can carry you faster than you are going.”

“I’m not trying to patronize you, uncle.” scowled Sigurd, Osric’s nephew, letting go fully of the armored arm of his mother’s elder brother and shaking his head, showing a look of meek frustration. Osric, his facial expression loosening wearily, turned to him as the pace of the two slowed. “I know, I know,” the Rohirrim grumbled, “It is the fact that you’re right. My leg protests whenever I try to force it into action, no matter what circumstances apply. You are right to worry. But, all of that is unimportant. My woes are no longer your concern, which is why you are here, in Edoras. I assure you, you’ll find the same in the Horse that I found, and t’would do you good to get away from Aldburg for a week or two…or three…” his voice faded steadily, but suddenly rose again and swelled as the two of them caught the vague sight of two figures on the horizon, headed in the opposite direction from them, “And there they are now, I’ll wager! That’ll be Miss Maercwen.”

Sigurd didn’t bother to ask how his uncle had managed to recognize someone from so far away so quickly, and sighed heavily. “You know her, uncle?” he queried, rather glumly. “Oh, yes.” said Osric, his delighted air disrupting Sigurd’s moody one, “I suffered the great shame of trying and failing to summon a poem that could do her young beauty justice.” Suddenly, Sigurd’s deep blue eyes widened with a strange, shocked horror plastered against his gently sloping features. “It wasn’t the-”

Osric cut him off before he finished, sharply, “No, of course not! You don’t think I’d…” his voice died in his throat as suddenly as it had peaked. He looked down at the ground and turned slowly from Sigurd, taking a few small steps forward with his nephew close behind. “I didn’t.” the same nephew acknowledged icily, “You’ve been frivolous with it before.”

“I’m careful enough as it is, Sigurd.” Shot Osric again, becoming incensed for the second time, though he did not turn to his nephew, “I don’t need you telling me not to be frivolous with my words, when you have trouble enough keeping rein on your affections.” Now, as Osric finished, it was Sigurd’s turn to be incensed. The young man, less than half Osric’s age, seemed about to leap at his uncle, as he grabbed Osric’s pauldrons-cloaked shoulder and managed to spin him until the two men, of the same height, faced each other. “You don’t know that, Osric,” he said in a low, meaningful voice, “and I would appreciate if-”

Yet again, Osric severed his words in midair and pulled onward, trying to look mildly optimistic. “Fine. No more of this. We’re here to be merry, nephew, not to sulk about our sins. Let me introduce you to Miss Aylwen and Bethberry. T’wouldn’t surprise me if old Liornung was there as well, since that was his niece…” suddenly, as he paused, a gleeful glint rippled across the musty surface of his eye as a grin peeled over him. “Ah, yes, I should definitely introduce you to Maercwen. I’m sure you’d get along very well with that charming girl and-”

Sigurd coughed loudly, forcing the sound to halt Osric. Though the old Rohirrim still bore the same devilish look, he stopped speaking as the two of them neared the darkened threshold of the White Horse Inn, stumbling as gracefully as they could inside, through the heated air around, managing to work past the first signs of new life in the inn. Osric smiled again, still with some grimness in his look, but it faded as his face and that of his nephew’s was bathed in shadowy light, beaming from above and seeming to make the air sparkle serenly. It had been some time since he’d been in the White Horse, but the last day he’d spent there had been imprinted on him, emblazoned on the stony palette of his mind, as it was a most memorable experience. His meetings, his celebrations, his conversations, all things he felt being relived. This was what he wanted for Sigurd…though he wasn’t as keen to say why.