Scarburg Meadhall

[shaggydog]

Light eyes stared back into dark, the bond of humanity now welded securely, linking these two in the way only death so close to life can approach. The ache of muscle and sting of raw, abraded skin went unacknowledged by the simple shepherd. Together, they had accomplished that most exhilarating, and yet humbling, of feats – snatching a life back from the edge of that abyss into which all men must ultimately fall.

The sight which had met Oeric’s eyes when he first rushed back into the copse and then through it ti the boggy patch of ground beyond had almost convinced him that such a feat was beyond possibility. The strange, dark man had sunk up to his ears, his face turned desperately upwards, his mouth and nose still clear of the muddy ooze, yet barely so. Oeric had not hesitated then, his actions becoming those of instinct tempered by experience, haste mixed with calm. Panic and a wrong move could spell disaster for them both. He had called out in a low voice, so as not to startle or alarm, brief reassurances that, though it might take a while, freedom was within sight now. Oeric wasn’t sure if the fellow spoke the same tongue as he, or if his ears were so full of mud as to render him deaf. But a slight relaxation and continued lack of struggling, as Oeric had advised, led him to believe the man might have heard and understood.

Meticulously, Oeric had chosen his path until it was no longer feasible to actually place a foot down in safety. With utmost care, he began laying out his pattern of willow boughs, stretching out his length on them, spreading his weight over the treacherously shifting mud. A head long rush to aid without the needed forethought was usually the cause of multiple deaths and a failed rescue from these bogs. The would-be benefactor, if unwise enough to try to reach the one trapped directly, merely ended up mired in the same predicament.

Oeric crept forward as quickly as he could, testing each move, each shift of his own weight. Finally, with one last wiggle, he was within a body’s length of the dark one. He dared move no closer. Coiling the rope, he cast and succeeded the first time in lassoing it over the man’s shoulders and arms, which, mercifully, were still above the mud, although Oeric could only guess at the suffocating press of such a position on the fellow’s lungs and windpipe. Slowly, Oeric pulled at the noose. The man’s hands flailed about, grasping at it and it seemed he had it. But as Oeric tried to pull steadily enough for it to tighten about the other, it slipped and lay impotently on the mud. Grimacing, Oeric tried once more, and with a brief smile of triumph, he managed once more to cast well and this time pull it tight enough to hold firmly. The far end he had already knotted around a sturdy willow root back on the edge of the bog. Now at least there was a functioning counter-point to the suction of the bog which would keep the man from sinking in further.

Oeric wriggled backwards until he was on firm ground then, wishing for a horse, or better yet, a team of oxen, he grimly untied the rope from the willow and looked about. The closest overhanging limb wasn’t that close to the man, nor was it overly sturdy looking, but it would have to do. Circling about, he threw the end of the rope up and over the limb, gave it a preliminary test pull, and then, wrapping the rope several times about his fists, he put his back into it and started to pull steadily. His body leaned at a sharp angle to the ground as he silently pulled with all his might. For many long moments nothing happened. Sweat trickled into his eyes, but he dared not slacken up to wipe it away. After what seemed an entire lifetime, he felt the smallest of movements. Redoubling his efforts, he grunted loudly, gratified to feel the rope move an inch. He risked a glance at the man, only a head and arms visible, the hands gripping the rope determinedly. Oeric called out again for him to stay quiet and not try to push or kick with his legs. The man stayed quiescent, and inch by inch, Oeric’s efforts fought the bog’s grip. Finally, the man’s upper body was free. He was stretched out, bent at the waist and half laying on the surface of the mud. Although Oeric could imagine the fatigue of body and mind that the ordeal was putting the fellow through, he still on grimly to the rope, which no doubt was sawing through the skin of his back and ribs as surely as it was Oeric’s hands. With renewed determination, Oeric pulled steadily, leaning almost horizontally to the ground. With a terrific squelching sound, the bog at last relinquished its hold and surrendered the man, who skimmed across the surface as Oeric fell to one knee and almost onto his face.

Jumping up, Oeric hurried back to the mud encrusted fellow, grasping his wrists and pulling him the last few feet to solid ground. Oeric had the fleeting impulse to run then, knowing he had done what he could. But exhaustion and ambivalence both overcame this urge, and he flopped down beside his new acquaintance. The man was laying on his back, breathing noisily, and staring up at him.

“Next time, be more careful.” was all Oeric could think to say. For some strange reason, the stocky, dark man grinned, then chuckled, then laughed outright at this. And for no reason he could think of, Oeric tilted his heads back and laughed along with him.

[Lhunardawen]

It was back to the kitchen for Ginna, back to the work she knew best in this place: helping Kara and Frodides prepare the meals; serving them to the hungry household; washing the dishes. She was not meant to do anything else while she was here; a serving wench was all Eodwine and Randvér had agreed for her to be. Whatever had she been thinking?

As she worked quietly, she was vaguely aware but heedless of the questioning looks Kara kept tossing at her. She would tell Kara whatever she cared for her to know in time, but right now Ginna wanted to keep her thoughts to herself. She needed to think things over, to stop herself from committing more actions before she realised their consequences.

Except that when I have a real smithy it will be hot and close, and . . . I would not have you mar your beauty, dear one.

Harreld's words echoed in her mind. They brought her relief for a few reasons. For one, she remembered now that this was her niche. Kara and Frodides needed her more than Harreld did, especially now that Modtryth had Saeryn to take care of, at least until the lady was completely healed. And who would look after Léoðern when everyone else was busy? No, Harreld would have asked Garreth to come to Scarburg with him if he could not work alone.

Second, and more importantly, so far as she was concerned, his response proved that he did not despise her as she had feared. Perhaps it was really for the purpose of finding that out that she had offered to help him. And though he refused her, his first words - slips would be more appropriate - told her what she needed to know, and partly what she had already known, or guessed at.

I understand, she had replied, looking down at her hands as she felt a blush creeping to her cheeks. And thank you, she had added in a whisper, but Harreld missed it as he had already begun mending the ladle in his hand. They had spent the rest of the time in silence, until Rowenna came to call him away. Ginna had been reluctant to be parted from him when she felt there were still some things left to discuss; but as he had not pressed on with what seemed to be his intentions, she had not seen it fit to question him further at that time. She had done as Rowenna asked, telling Garstan and the others of the dead body found in the ruins and the planned burial, and then returned to the kitchen. She thought Harreld would probably let her know if he still needed her.

But what if Harreld did speak plainer at some point? Ginna couldn't help wondering. How, then, would she respond? If Ginna knew her father at all, she was certain he would be arriving in Scarburg soon to help his friend Eodwine rebuild his home. If Harreld came to that point, perhaps the man who had always made her life difficult could make that decision easier for her, one way or another.

[Firefoot]

Was watching someone drown and doing nothing the same as killing him? Scyld wondered idly. Oddly enough, Oeric seemed to have disappeared, though he had to have come past this man struggling in the bog. Scyld had hidden himself some distance away to watch the drama unfold. He had seen men die before. Not many, only a couple, but to interfere would have meant his own death. Now, however, helping would come at no cost to himself. In fact, he may even be rewarded. Wasn’t he on the point of entering the Eorl’s camp anyway? Assuming, of course, that this one was from the Eorl’s camp.

Fortunately, he was saved from making up his mind by Oeric’s return. The rescue itself was unremarkable, but the man who emerged from the bog certainly was. If man he could be called – so stumpy were his limbs and strange his proportions that he must be one of the Wild Men. Scyld could scarcely believe it; he had always more than half thought that they were only a figment of legend. What strange company the Eorl kept! Then, just to further his shock, Oeric and the Wild Man began to laugh, for no apparent reason at all. It was not a familiar sound to Scyld. He himself rarely laughed, and at those times it was a biting sound that contained little merriment. If there was anything amusing about this situation, it was the sheer irony; Oeric who had no desire to be discovered had willingly risked his safety, while he who was ready to make himself known hid. A slight but grim smile crossed Scyld’s face. Yes, that was ironic, and Scyld had a good eye for irony.

The only way to make the situation more ironic that it already was, Scyld mused, would be if the stumpy little man refused to simply let Oeric go. He knew nothing of Wild Man customs – would he feel that Oeric needed some sort of honor for the act? Or might the Eorl have a mandate against wanderers on his land? Ha! Teach Oeric some sense, that might. Would the two fight? Somehow, Scyld had a feeling that the Wild Man would win, despite the difference in their heights. But this was all still idle speculation. How might he play a role? Might there be an opportunity here for him? He would soon know; their voices ought to carry easily over the short distance. He need only wait.

[littlemanpoet]

"Whoa there Léofric," Eodwine grinned. "I've not seen you drink anything beside water for months, and now you're cup is half empty! Eat some food or you'll be sleeping the afternoon away! We still have some of the animal pens yet to finish."

Eodwine gave a strong pull on his own mug of mead and was pleased himself with the effect.

"I don't think Frodides, Kara and Ginna need a fourth pair of hands," said Rowenna over her smaller cup of strong drink. "Maybe I could help you speed the work."

Eodwine considered as he tore a chunk of black bread from the loaf before him. "What think you, Léof? Could we use an extra pair of hands?"

"Um, yes I guess. Maybe I'll have another o' these firs'."

Eodwine grinned. "I think we'll be needing that help, Rowenna. Go make sure Frodides can spare you."