Scarburg Meadhall

[littlemanpoet]

Rowenna came up to Harreld's makeshift smithy and found Ginna sitting across from him, pumping the bellows as Harreld worked on kitchen utensils. Rowenna kept a straight face but smirked inwardly. The girl can't stay away from him, she said to herself. The two were not speaking much. They both had their eyes glued on the work Harreld was doing. owenna stopped a couple of paces off.

"Sorry to stop your work Harreld," she said, glancing briefly at Ginna as well, "but we have found a dead body in one of the sheds and Lord Eodwine wants you to help with the burial."

Harreld mutely put down his tools and stood, stretching his back and legs. Ginna's face registered her alarm at Rowenna's news. She sat there, apparently wondering what to do.

"Ginna, could you send word to Garstan and the others while I help with the body?"

Ginna seemed relieved at not having to go see the dead body, and left without complaint, although maybe there was some reluctance to leave Harreld. It was hard to read her, or him just this moment. Rowenna led Harreld to the shed.

[Thinlómien]

Cnebba – late morning

“We’re back. Sorry it took so long,” Javan said. Cnebba glared at him. He was spoiling this.

Garstan’s eyes travelled from Javan’s bruises to those of his own son, and then to Cnebba’s nose which had started bleeding again.
“And what exactly was it that took you this long?”

Garstan hardly ever scared Cnebba, he was like a kind uncle to him, but now the stoneshaper looked quite stern. Cnebba shrunk smaller, hoping Garstan would not look at him.

Garmund’s face was a little pale, but his eyes were defiant. “We fought.”
“With an orc,” Cnebba added. Garmund scowled at him. Cnebba took a step back. He could not understand why Garmund was angry with him.
“Garmund and Cnebba attacked me”, Javan said.

“You did? Garmund, I’m disappointed with you. Cnebba, I’m sure your father is not very proud either. And Javan, you’re old enough to know better to no to continue a fight.” Garstan was shaking his head. Cnebba didn’t think he was very angry after all. Maybe they would now forget it all.

“Cnebba, you rascal, stop grinning,” Garstan said. He himself was grinning, though, but his eyes were serious. “Don’t expect to get out of this so easily. I want to speak with your parents with this, and with Javan’s brother. Who knows if we should even consult Lord Eodwine.” Cnebba and Garmund cast a look at each other. Surely not Lord Eodwine?

“Anyway, I won’t tolerate behaviour like that and nor will anyone else in this Hall. Here we’re all friends.” Garstan was scratching his head. It occurred to Cnebba that the stoneshaper maybe didn’t know what to say. “Now boys, stop glaring at me. We’ll bury this topic until the evening. We have work to do and it already has been delayed because of you.” The three boys nodded, more or less obediently. “Cnebba and Javan, fetch those poles over there. Garmund, you will help with this rope here.”


Modtryth – a few hours later

Saeryn was still asleep. She had slept lightly, face creased with tension. Modtryth had sat by her side and talked to her like to a child or a sick horse when she had half-woken up, terror in her eyes. Eventually her sleep had eased and now she was sleeping seemingly calmly. The healer Aedhel was with her now. She had told Modtryth that Saeryn’s physical wounds were not bad and most of her weakness was caused by exhaustion and distress. She had also said, more quietly, that there was the danger that Saeryn’s wounds would get infected and she could develop a dangerous fever.

Modtryth tried to ward off those thoughts. It was pointless to worry before anything had happened. She headed to the kitchen, both to see what was happening and ask if the children had been seen. On her way she met Garstan. The stoneshaper looked a little worried. “What is it?” Modtryth asked. “The boys. Garmund and Cnebba fought with Javan today. Fought to the point of a fist fight.” Modtryth’s eyes narrowed. There was a certain young man whom she’d have a word with. “I of course scolded them. I also told them we’d have a proper discussion in the evening, you and Stigend, I, Thornden and the boys themselves.” Modtryth nodded. That made sense. “We’ll see to it when the day’s work is done, then. Where are they now?” “They’re helping me with the tents. They’re all doing good work.” Modtryth smiled thinly and nodded. “Till later, then.”

After exchanging words with Garstan, Modtryth decided to go to the kitchen as she had planned. Cnebba was in good hands for now. Modtryth was curious to hear the latest gossip and see how little Leothern was faring before returning back to Saeryn.

[Folwren]

Javan took the scolding as mildly as he could. He thought it was unnecessary and unfair, at least to be directed at him. What did Garstan expect him to do? Stand by and let them clobber him? He had not continued the fight, he had merely defended himself, he believed.

He brooded on it for sometime while worked on erecting the tents. His mood remained black as they worked, and he said very little, except when it was absolutely necessary, and then it was sharp.

The job seemed to be taking a very long time. All that was needed were some small tents, and yet here they were, still working, over an hour later, on the first one. The frame was almost completed and Javan was tying together the last stakes.

“I’m going to go get us some water,” Garstan said. “You three wait here for me. Javan, you can finish lashing this pole to that and then, when I get back, we’ll put up the canopy.”

Javan nodded and Garstan went off. Javan finished tying his knot. “Bring me the knife so I can cut it.” He looked over his shoulder to see Garmund slowly move to obey. “Hurry up, will you?” he snapped.

Garmund gave him a rather sullen look and handed the knife up. Javan cut the rope and stepped down. He put the knife back in its place and then glanced around. “Let’s start getting the canopy ready.”

“Father said to wait till he got back,” Garmund said immediately.

“He won’t care,” Javan replied. “Besides, we’ve been taking so long to do this job, we may as well hurry. I don’t want to be stuck here all day. You two are so slow. C’mon and help me with the canopy.”

The boys looked at him. “I’m not disobeying, I’m just going to unfold it!”

“You always get in trouble,” Garmund said. “I don’t want to be in trouble with you by disobeying. We already are in trouble for fighting.”

“I do not always get in trouble!” Javan replied fiercely, whipping around to face him. “Take it back!”

[Eönwë]

"Help!" shouted Dan, a fourth time. Why him? He had always hated marshland, and now he hated it even more.

Marshes made it hard to track animals, and to walk. The Drûghu were especially short, and this made it even harder for them to traverse this sort of land. They could get trapped in puddles that normal men could get out of simply because of that fact. Why? He thought again, cursing his ill-fate.

He thought he could hear rustling in front of him, and he thought he could make out a shape (or the movements of the plants, in a way that suggested a shape) coming towards him. Who or what it was he did not know. Was it a friend or foe? Or just a confused animal, blundering into a natural trap.

But just as it had come, whatever it was quickly disappeared back the way it came.

"Help!" he tried to shout, but already the mud was reaching up to his chin, muffling his voice slighly. He grasped upwards with his hands, trying to grab onto something- anything- that would allow him to pull himself upwards. But his hands caught nothing.

All his attempts at rescuing himself were futile, he thought, so he migt as well just relax. His body stopped thrashing about, and a sense of calm took hold of him. Now he would find out what the Gift of Men really was. He welcomed death. It would be better than what he was about to suffer.

His head went deeper under the mud, he lifted it back, so only his face was above the murky surface of the fetid swamp. He thought he heard another rustling, but was probably just his imagination.

"Help!" he tried once more to shout, already his head had sunk under, and all that exuded from his mouth was a bubble, going slowly upward through the congealed mud-water. His hands thrashed up and down, left and right, above his head. But this time he caught something. It really had been a person. He pulled on it with all his strength, but suddenly, he felt it give a little, and he was sinking again. But soon, it was tight again, and this time it was being pulled by someone from outside the puddle. A sense of utter relief entered his body. He went limp, except for his arms, hich grasped onto the rope with all the strength Dan could muster. He knew that if he slipped or let go, it would be just as bad as if the person who had come to save him had not pulled. It require both of their efforts to save Dan.

Finally, from out the puddle, the top his head appeared, crested with mud, his hair matted and brown. But his hair was almost totally covered by the congealed mass that could be called mud, for want of a better word, but was more like water. When his face broke the surface, he almost opened his, eyes, but then stopped himself before he did, otherwise the liquid would fill his eyes, causing him a temporary blindness. when his mouth came into open air, he opened in wide, gasping for air. He swallowed at least two mouthfulls of mud before the air finally came in. But when it did, it was a relief beyond anything he had ever felt in his life. He was alive! He had been sure that his fate was sealed, that he would die alone in a foreign part of the world, away from his family and friends. But luckily, he had been proven wrong. The had been someonw willing to lend a helping hand, more than that, they had saved his life!

Slowly but surely he emerged, soaked, dripping with mud, onto the bank, if it could be called that. It was after all, only a puddle.

He tried to wipe the mud away from his face with his sleeve, but all he accomplished was smudging it further.
Finally, he got the mud out of his eyes, and looked straight into the strained face of his saviour.

[littlemanpoet]

Rowenna came back with Harreld, who wrinkled his nose.

"It is in there?" he asked.

"Aye," Eodwine said. "We must take it out of there and bury it."

They found spades and climbed a little way into the scar. Finding a likely spot with not so much rock and gravel, Eodwine and Harreld were the first pair to set to, taking a turn digging while the other three watched. Then Léof and Thornden took a turn. When all four men had had a turn, Rowenna jumped down into the growing hole before Eodwine and Harreld stopped stretching their aching muscles in preparation for taking another turn. The girl did not mind getting her hands dirty, and no matter what she did, it seemed she could not help looking fetching doing it. As she dug, the four men discussed how they would go about removing the body and burying it. They would need gloves, which Harreld had pairs of and to spare, for it would not do to touch the fetid flesh.

Rowenna stopped and looked up. "Have you never been curious what lies beneath the skin?"

Léof pulled a face.

"Not beneath skin ready to fall off the bone," Eodwine remarked. Rowenna shrugged and kept digging.

At last they had the hold dug, about six feet long, three feet wide, and three feet deep. Eodwine had heard of six feet under, but this harsh land was unforgiving, and he decided that three feet was enough to ward off wolves and the like. They found a strong plank of wood and returned to the shed. Eodwine told Rowenna to wait outside, but he could not stop her from peering with great fascination into the gloom.

Even in the dim light, they could see that the man had been a big burly fellow, muscle running to fat, perhaps an indication of middle years, and the luxury of having more than enough to eat. His clothes, torn and eaten through as they were, also told of a good life; good quality homespun befitting a man of importance, no lord but maybe a well off farmer or craftsman. Through half closed eyes, the men approached the body with caution. The visible presence of death was no stranger to them. Even violent death was not so rare, whether from the war, or the time leading up to it, or from the multitude of accidents that could strike a man, woman, or child down at the least expected moment. Yet this gruesome reminder of the frailty of life had settled a thick mantle of respect and dread over them.

Thick leather boots encased the feet, which lay closest the door. The legs and torso stretched inwards, diagonally, towards a heavy table by the wall, which had no doubt been used for a cutting surface, hundreds of shallow slices streaking its surface. The head, or what was left of it, lay close to one of the table legs, face downwards. The back of the skull appeared to be intact. Raggedly chewed patches of scalp remained, from which trailed long tufts of rusty hair mixed with an abundance of grey . The entire back of the corpse showed signs of decomposition and having been gnawed upon. But a close but brief inspection did not reveal any significant wounds or signs of the cause of the fellow’s demise.

If only they could have stopped there. Laying the plank down beside the body, it seemed most appropriate and easy to roll it onto the wooden slab by grasping the shoulders and giving a good push. The corpse turned belly up most obligingly and to a man they all jumped to their feet, gasping for breath and standing clear as best they could. The face was a ruin of decomposed mush, at first glance perhaps attributable to the rodent activity on the soft fleshy parts of the face. Eodwine, however, steeled his nerve, and his stomach, and bent down for a closer look. The gaping maw that had once been the right side of the man’s lower face was smashed in, the upper jaw shattered, broken teeth sticking out at odd angles. His gaze travelled downwards to the mess that was the chest and stomach and that at least was a tale any idiot could have read. Although the flesh was almost non-existent, a long rent of splintered bone was easily discerned, tracing a path from the left clavicle to the middle of the right ribcage. The instrument of this destruction, it would appear, was to be found lower down, nestled half in, half out of the cavity where the man’s innards had lain, and where now a mucky pool of black decay coalesced. The meat hook, used for hanging heavy sides of mutton, venison, or pork was embedded tip in and even the wrenching of the body as they had rolled it over had not caused it to drop free from its tomb. Fascinated, Eodwine saw the point had pierced the back bone and thus the hook lay securely anchored in place.

The dull gleam of metal affixed to antler provided the final revelation to the onlookers. Under the dead man’s body, twixt hip and groin, a formidable dagger had lain concealed. Naked to the air once more, its role in this drama was unclear. Had it belonged to the killer, or was it some counter-point to the silent but eloquent accusation of death by another’s hand? Eodwine reached out and carefully plucked the dagger up, noting the smear of dried rusty colored blood along its edge. He set it on the table and called his fellows to the nasty business.

Soon the body was covered with dirt and rock and the five of them were tamping at the soft mound with shovels.

All five agreed that a strong drink and a thorough washing were quite in order.

[Firefoot]

A strong drink… at any other time, Léof would have bowed out. He had watched his father become drunk and violent far too many times to count, and Léof had vowed never to become that man. Nor did the taste recommend itself to him; he had tried it once, a few years back and on a dare, and that had been enough. Never mind that it had been exceedingly poor quality; Léof hadn’t anything to compare it to.

But to forget the dead man’s face – Léof thought that he should not mind getting a little bit drunk. Nausea had threatened all afternoon, and he thought that if the sordid affair had continued any longer he really would have been sick. Perhaps he ought not rule out the possibility just yet either, for his stomach churned just thinking of the matter. Just don’t think about it, he told himself. So great was his detachment that he hardly realized when they arrived back at camp and a round of drinks was called for.

He eyed the drink before him warily for just a moment. Then, with only the slightest flicker of trepidation in the back of his mind, he took a large swig. The taste was somewhat better than he recalled, but the burning as he swallowed remained just the same. He took another gulp, then a third. He soon began to feel pleasantly light-headed. No wonder people drank this stuff; nothing seemed so bad under the drink’s influence. Not even dead bodies in the shed. Léof shuddered involuntarily. Perhaps a few more swallows.

[Gwathagor]

After finishing his much needed breakfast, Crabannan had wandered through the camp at an leisurely pace. Skirting the work parties and tents, he slipped through the camp unnoticed, but observant, gnawing on the remnants of the bread (which Kara had given him at breakfast) as he took in the sights and sounds of Scarburg. Like a young tree, the settlement was alive and growing fast, sending out branches and putting down roots in this hard, rocky land.

Crabannan could not help but be impressed by the tenacity of these Rohirrim, carving out their living where was so little to be had. Seldom had he met a people as tough as they - save perhaps in the hot south.

After he grew bored of eavesdropping and shirking work, Crabannan wandered his way towards the eastern end of the camp, and thence up onto the Scar. He scrambled and clambered up the rocky slope, through jagged rocks and scrawny pines until he suddenly found himself looking out and down across a vast region of reeds and mud and little pools; and beyond that, in the distance, green fields. Turning back towards the west, he saw the settlement of Scarburg nestled at the foot of the Scar. He sat down atop a large flat rock in the sun and, there, for an hour or more, he watched the bustle of the fledgling tent-village: women carrying baskets, boys raking stones out of garden plots, men repairing tents, smoke drifting up from scattered fires.

Without Horse to converse with, and surrounded by solitude and silence, Crabannan grew thoughtful. He cursed himself for acting like such a fool that morning, and wondered gloomily what reports those three boys were spreading about him. The thought dashed his hitherto good mood. Impressed by the hospitality he had been shown, he had begun to consider staying on for a few more days, but he doubted he would be welcome once Lord Eodwine (whom Kara had told him about during breakfast) found out what kind of man he was - an apparent troublemaker and a ruffian. But perhaps these Middle Emnet folk were more gracious than their East Emnet cousins. All the same - Crabannan had no intention of introducing himself to the eorl. There was no need to. He would lay low and quiet for a day or two, then continue on to Edoras.

Below, a knot of folk carrying something towards him caught his glance, and a practiced eye told him it was a corpse. He slipped down from his perch and moved down through the boulders for a closer look. He saw them bury it without ceremony in the rocky soil, and then head off back towards the encampment.

"Curious," he said aloud to himself. "I would have thrown it in the bog and saved the trouble of digging."

Who could the dead man have been? It seemed unlikely that it could have been someone the villagers knew well, given the indifferent burial. Perhaps it was connected somehow with the burning of the hall...? After all, Kara had not been able to tell him how the hall had burned. Perhaps...perhaps friendly and hospitable Scarburg had its skeletons after all.

Crabannan chuckled wryly to himself, for he suddenly found himself very badly wanting to stay. Scarburg was steadily becoming a rather interesting place.

Upon reflection, he reckoned that with a little effort he could find himself some legitimate work and a friend or two. Perhaps he'd seek out Javan, who he had rather taken a liking to, and see if the lad could help him settle in. He swung down over a final boulder and began to move back towards camp. He was hungry again.