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Old 03-01-2006, 01:42 PM   #1
Folwren
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Folwren is battling Black Riders on Weathertop.Folwren is battling Black Riders on Weathertop.
Æðelhild and the Healer from Meduseld bent together over the ailing man. Eodwine paced at the head of the table, looking rather anxious himself. As for the girl. . .the young woman, she had retreated to a corner and a chair, looking badly frightened. Thornden glanced at her briefly and turned towards Kara.

“Run to the kitchen, lass, and fetch some warm ale with honey. The lady yonder needs it.” Kara looked up at him briefly and he nodded towards the kitchen. She immediately turned and went off at a pleasingly swift pace, coming back in little time at all with the desired drink. Thornden took it from her hand and went quietly to young stranger.

Without speaking, and without breaking the line of vision to where the man lay, he gently pressed the cup into her hand and curled her fingers about it so that she was aware of it before he let it go. Numbly, she drank it, and not once did she look up, nor was she aware that Thornden stood watching her and the tears which escaped unconsciously from her lashes.

“He’ll be alright yet, lady,” he finally said. She gave a start, suddenly aware of him, and looked up. “The Healer is a greatly skilled man and I have seen him heal many wounds and sicknesses. Your friend could not be in better hands. Take heart. He’ll see through this day and many more after it.”
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Old 03-01-2006, 09:02 PM   #2
littlemanpoet
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littlemanpoet is battling Black Riders on Weathertop.littlemanpoet is battling Black Riders on Weathertop.
Late Afternoon

The sun had fallen more than halfway down to the western slopes. It now hung a fist's width over the Golden Hall, making that slated beacon glimmer with a sheen that made the spring thaw seem the more promising. There was quite a racket going on outside, the pounding of hammers, saws grinding, voices calling out for help or orders. The makeshift tent would be up by the end of the morrow. Then the builders could start dismantling the roof and hearth.

Eodwine sat by the fire, nursing a cup of mead, feeling just a little light in the head. He had become so of a purpose; this day had had more than enough adventure and new faces that all took some getting used to. Not that he didn't enjoy people, far from it! But the wildness of the day had taken its toll. Besides, he had to get himself ready for the advent of the Smith brothers, Garreth and Harreld. There was no knowing what kind of great blithering and blathering they'd make of all that had happened at the Hall this day. Eodwine's mouth lifted in a slow grin. It was going to be fun.

"What're you grinning about?" Falco asked after uncovering half his face from the large mug he'd been drinking from, licking his lips with deep satisfaction.

"Garreth and Harreld will be coming by soon for their suppers."

"And that's a good thing?" Falco gave him a skeptically raised brow. "You know what a cantankerballyhoo they'll make of things."

"A canta - what?" Eodwine asked, giving Falco a double take.

"Never you mind. I made it up." He drank another swale of his ig.* "How's the old man doing?"

Eodwine sighed. "Better. Marinel is resting abed. His daughter, Linduial, however, is a wreck. Have you seen her hands?"

"Aye. Never stop moving, all the while doing nothing but fidget. But you're a wreck too for calling her his daughter, if I heard it rightly. He's her guardian not her father."

"Ah! Right you are. That is the way of it on both scores!" Eodwine smirked as he watched Falco's befuddled face as he tried to work out what 'both' Eodwine meant. "Thornden has been kind, however, which is very good."

"You haven't failed of kindness yourself, Lord Eodwine of East Emnet."

"Well maybe I haven't, but it's still good to have a right hand man to go along with my left hand hobbit."

"It's left, now, is it?"

"If I had two right hands, you'd get one too. But you won't be paid, nor would I have you as anything but a guest in my house, so left hand hobbit it'll have to be."

"Very well!" Falco grinned. "A guest I'll be. I'm glad to see you've warmed up to Manawyth the Minstrel, or whatever you'd like to call him."

"He plays well enough. I'll need more than music from him, though, and I think he knows it."

Eodwine looked around. There was Manawyth still near the hearth with the harp, running through song after song, his ale mug never empty nor food from his plate; Eodwine had made sure of that. He wanted his men loyal, and any lord knew that the best ways to breed loyalty in a man was through gift, praise, and respect. Not in that order, but as occasion allowed.

There was Æðelhild, speaking with Gudryn and Saeryn, probably discussing the situation of Marinel and Linduial. Léof was in the hall, seated with Gárwine at a table close to the wall. Both were apparently watching and listening to Manawyth.

The front door opened with a bang. In walked two large men with blonde hair flowing to their shoulders, and scruffy beards covering their collarbones. Their faces were beet red - as always - and the first one in spoke quickest.

"What is going on here, Master Eodwine! Are you putting up a circus next to your inn?"

"Nay, Garreth," Eodwine smiled, rising. "'Tis a tent to serve as meeting place whilst this room is changed to serve as my Mead Hall, for this is not longer the White Horse Inn."

"Oh! I forgot!" Garreth's eyes flitted across the room and stayed at the promising vision of three young maids, all three of whom he and Harreld had seen on previous nights. Garreth rubbed his hands and grinned. "I'm ready for food and drink and talk and - and -" he suddenly looked confused.

"-and dance," Harreld supplied as if by way of reminder.

"That's it! And I see we have us a minstr-" Suddenly Garreld's brow furrowed darkly. "What's a Dunlending doing here?"

*the reversed letters are not a mistake.

Last edited by littlemanpoet; 03-02-2006 at 10:50 AM.
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Old 03-01-2006, 09:52 PM   #3
Feanor of the Peredhil
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Saeryn smiled at the sight of the twins. She'd gotten used to their presence and enjoyed it greatly, though she had not seen them in several days due to her own recent persistance at hiding from the world when unneeded. Now she politely excused herself from Gudryn and Æðel and crossed the hall nudged Garreth in the ribs, and reaching up to do so.

"Dancin', ye say," she poked at him with an open smile and laughter in her eyes. "Ye see our new minstrel, and he's a'goin' to play us a tune. Manawyth, something fit for laughter?"

She was still cautious with the Dunlending, still unsure of him, but willing to play. If she could not poke and prod him as she could every other member of their small community, she wanted to know quickly. And more the better if her request was able to put these big men at their ease.

Manawyth looked at Saeryn with uncertain emotion in his eyes. Just as the silence became nearly uncomfortable, he nodded almost imperceptibly and his weathered fingers plucked an airy tune.

Saeryn took Garreth by the large, calloused hand, and pulled him into a bright bit of dance with neither rhyme nor reason. Ducking beneath his arm, she took Harreld as well and allowed the surprised man to spin her. Clapping her hands lightly and letting her bare feet take her whither they would on the path of the melody, she found herself before Eodwine and Falco, hand extended, thoughtless but for the joy of motion.

"Come, master of the hall, here is a song and these men called for a dance. And look," she pouted prettily, never ceasing the bright step, "they've gone and stopped. You'd not let a lass dance alone, now would you?"
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Old 03-02-2006, 10:45 AM   #4
littlemanpoet
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littlemanpoet is battling Black Riders on Weathertop.littlemanpoet is battling Black Riders on Weathertop.
Saeryn hopped from bare foot to bare foot before them, smiling winsomely as she invited Eodwine to dance. Of course she made it seem as if she'd take Falco just as happily, but her eyes spent more time on Eodwine. His mouth had gone dry and his fingers slick of a sudden. Her unbraided hair bounced upon her brow and shoulders. The smell of her worked like a potion on him, rendering his restraint limp as a banner without a wind. Thankfully she wore soft breeches and a laced shirt rather than a gown, looking boyish except for her hair. It would have been too much otherwise.

Eodwine coughed. To buy time he said, "Falco, I think she means you."

"As like use a pony as your warhorse!" retorted Falco. "You dance with her, and be quick before the song quits!"

So much for buying time. Eodwine drained his cup, peering over the rim of his mug at her with a heated eye. He slammed the mug to table, rose, and wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he offered her his hand.

"I will show you how to dance, lady! See if you can keep pace with me!" She placed her hand in his and he grabbed her other hand. "Sash right!" he cried, and began spinning her round him, making a little vortex between them with the sudden speed of their steps. She was grinning. "Arm right!" He dropped both hands and took her right elbow with his right, and spun her the new way, keeping time with each step.

A pipe began to play above the harp, decorating the melody with trills and flourishes. Æðelhild. Eodwine grinned. Falco was clapping, a smirk on the other side of his puffing pipe.

"Arm left!" They dropped arms and locked left elbows, skipping the opposite way.

Someone had started beating a drum; Eodwine looked. Garreth, grinning, was beating the nearest table with his fists. A makeshift cymbal started up, Harreld beating a plate with a wooden spoon.

"Join the dance!" Eodwine shouted. "Keep it up, Manawyth my minstrel!"

Last edited by littlemanpoet; 03-02-2006 at 09:16 PM.
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Old 03-02-2006, 10:28 PM   #5
Feanor of the Peredhil
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"Trying to make me miss a beat?" Saeryn accused with a wink as she sashayed right on time. "Would you make a lass look the fool? Such a kindly lord and master you be."

She stuck out her tongue and he laughed, spinning her about. Though she was dizzy, she knew that he'd not let her fall. Her head ached slightly, but her spirits were too high to mind it. Of a sudden, a sharp pain shot through Saeryn's side. Her breath caught and she stifled a cry, having forgotten her still tender ribs until now.

Eodwine caught her instantly from her spin and held her steady as she gasped for breath, clutching her side. The music faltered but she waved them to play on.

"I'm... fine..." she choked out, the pain gone as quickly as it had come. She breathed deeply as he looked worriedly down at her. "I suppose I'm not quite ready for spritely steps as those yet... perhaps something a little less frolicksome.

"Falco!" she turned to the hobbit with a laugh, trying to calm the protective look on Eodwine's face, still confusedly aware of the warmth of his hands as they held her steady by the waist. Her breath came quickly still. The bright tune modulated into one slower, more airy and somehow, more sad. "May I have this dance?"
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Old 03-03-2006, 03:48 PM   #6
Anguirel
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Manawyth had at first thought, as he sat at the hearth with the foreign harp in his prematurely hardened hands, that he had best stick to his oblique promise to sing of his own story. But as he plucked at the strings gently, and the hours grew darker and darker, he realised that he was neither mentally nor verbally prepared for such an undertaking. In practical terms, many changes would need to be made, to keep the Rohirrim from despising him for insulting their kind. But more importantly, the memories of the days in the company of the dark host of Caerissin, the horror of the Hornburg, he loss of poor Orwindoc, the one of his brothers least quick to anger, the shortest one, with kind, dreaming eyes...

It would make a fine song, he realised, a beautiful song, but not at such a time and in such a company. It would be six hundred verses long, each beginning with "They went to Caerissin," and ending with "Crebain-meat they." He looked from the pretty, hesitant Saeryn, to the jovial halfling to whom he owed his reception. On these, he could not inflict his bloody past. Tonight another ballad would have to do.

Yet he was a Dunlending, and sadness grew in his nature like ivy on a proud, regal oak. He would have none of the light, brisk, coarse, witty carousal-songs of the mark. No, he would show the Horse-Lords of the beauty of sorrow on which the remnants of his people prided themselves. In such a mood he rose.

"I will to you sing," he started, "a song known by every true-hearted man in Dunland," (ha! many would not admit to the existence of such beings!) "yet one that comes not from us, nor from your country."

"This is a tale of the old days, and the King in the North at Annuminas, and a voyage he bade be made unto distant Forochel. Our legends say it thus, that a Dunlending was among the crew, and alone survived to sing...but to the song itself..."

He was proud of the short speech he had delivered. He found the Rohirric tongue easier to construct in the high style of song.

"Of course, we sing it in our tongue, but in the south changed it has been somewhat, so that our languages meet. I hope that when our tongues meet again, in the age upon us now, they will bring happier times than those of which I shall now sing."

A long strum on the harp, echoing about the rafters of the hall. And he began.

The King sits in Annuminas
Drinking the blude-ried wine:
'O quhar will I get a guid sailor,
To sail this schip of mine?'
Up and spank an eldernmon,
Sat at the king's richt knee
'Pengolodin is the best sailor,
That sails upon the sea.'

The King has written a braid letter,
And signed it wi'his hand;
And sent it to Pengolodin,
Was walking on the sand.
The first line that Pengolod red,
A loud lauch lauched he:
The next line that Pengolod red,
The teir blinded his e'e.

'O quha is this has don this deid,
This ill deid don to me,
To send me out this time o'the yier,
To sail upon the sea?
Mak haste, mak haste, my mirry men all,
Our guid schip sails the morne.'
'O say na sae, my master deir,
For I feir a deadlie storme.

Late, late yestreen I saw the new moone
Wi' the auld moone in hir arme;
And I feir, I feir my deir master
That we will come to harme.'
O their North nobles wer richt laith
To weet their cork-heil'd schoone;
Bot lang owre a' the play wer played,
Thair hats they swam aboone.

O lang, lang may thair ladies sit
Wi' thair fans into their hand,
Or eir they se Pengolodin
Com sailing to the land.
O lang, land may the ladies sit
Wi' thair gold kems in their hair,
Waiting for thair ain deir lords
For they'll se thame na mair.

Haf owre, haf owre to Angleton,
It's fiftie fadom deip:
And thair lies guid Pengolodin,
Wi' the North lords at his feit.


The ballad, with inconsequential alterations, is a version of Sir Patrick Spens, one of the traditional Scottish Child Ballads by an unknown hand.
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Old 03-03-2006, 06:57 PM   #7
Firefoot
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The day was finally drawing to evening by the time Léof returned to the Mead Hall. He had stopped by once to make sure Marenil was doing all right; Gárwine’s hurried explanation had worried him and he was relieved to find that he would eventually be fine. But other than that brief sojourn, he had spent the rest of the time happily alone in the stables.

Before returning to the hall, he did remember to clean himself up a bit. He washed his face with the same fresh water he used to fill the horses buckets and straightened his hair out as best he could without being able to see his reflection. He could do little about his rather worn clothes except brush the worst of the dirt off; changing them would be no good since his only other outfit was equally worn and dusty. At least he did not look like some stray lad off the streets anymore – or so he hoped.

The sound of merry music greeted his ears as he pushed through the doors. The lord Eodwine and Saeryn had struck up a vigorous dance, and many of the people were contributing to the music in some way, whether with real or makeshift instrument. As Léof picked up the beat, he began to clap along in appreciation. He was not much of a musician himself, nor had he ever learned much of dancing, but he appreciated good music as much as anyone. He did feel stabs of regret, however: not for himself, but rather for his sister, three years his junior. When would she ever learn to dance like that or have time to enjoy herself as all young lasses should? She had been even worse off than he, and she was still trapped at home. And within a few years, their father would undoubtedly marry her off, thus sealing her cage. She did not have any way out, either, not like him. Not that she ever complained. She held her head high and bore it all in silence – the obedient child that Léof could not be. Léof had always regretted that he had never been able to help her in any consequential way, and had been wishing over the past several days that he had not needed to leave her behind. He had to get her out of there. Eventually, when he could save up enough money, he would bring her out of there to Edoras. He did not have much of a plan for after that, but he knew that he had to get her out. He knew that he was his only hope, and it was a burden he placed willingly upon himself.

Such thoughts for the lively tune! But as he came back to himself, he realized that the harp’s music was no longer vibrant and joyful but poignant and mournful. How odd, he mused, that the Dunlending should take so much of the joy out of this place with his dark song? Is that the manner of his people, to take a near-party and turn it into something sorrowful? As the song drew to a close, Léof found himself more confused about the choice of song than particularly moved by the song itself. And as rustic and out of place as Léof had felt in his short time in Edoras, he could see those traits exemplified tenfold in the Dunlending, however accepting Léof might be. He had no idea how he ought to respond to the music, and for once he was thoroughly glad that he was faded into the background.
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