Scarburg Meadhall

[Eönwë]

The last month, his first in the camp of Lord Eowine had gone by like a blur. First there had been that whole businesses with Oeric and Nydfara, and then there had been some of the other strange events that had happened to him. He had never spent so long among people that were not of his own kin, and it had got to him. They had such strange customs, and everything was built on tradition and hierarchy. Back home, life was more free, and no-one had as much authority over people as people like King Eomer. Lord Eodwine though, reminded him of the chief of his clan back home (or what the Rohirrim would no doubt call a "mægþ" in their tongue. You see, Dan had learnt a lot on his travels lately). There, the chief had authority, but he was not some sort of untouchable figure, like some eorls that Dan had met on his way here.

But life was good, on a day-to-day basis. He had become closer to Erbrand lately, them both being new to this area. They also seemed to share similar interests, not least hunting. They would often talk in the evening after a hard days' work, sitting outside under the stars, about things that had befallen them, and about their lives so far. He learned that he had come from a large town called Arlburg nearby, and that he was a reknowned leather-craftsman there. Dan would talk often about his ventures into the dark forests beside his home, and of his carvings which had become somewhat famous among his family. They had bonded, but Dan was not as relaxed as he felt that he should have been.

He still had an uneasy feeling, a queasy feeling in his stomach. He had not told his Eorl about the other man he had met near the camp, Oeric. He wandered what had become of the man, and if he was still okay. He had promised to come, in return for his existence being unknown t anyone but Dan himself and Nydfara. It had been part of the deal once Nydfara had exposed himself. Dan had told them that as a Drûg, he could not allow Eodwine to be in danger. It was part of the Code. But he knew would not be able to keep lying about what had happened. He had felt bad about it, and it was growing on him. If Oeric would not come within the next two weeks, he would tell Eodwine. Every time he looked at Eodwine, the just lord who trusted him, or Erbrand, his friend, or exchanged The Look with Nydfara, he was squirming inside. The bad feeling in his gut would not go away.

He turned the contents of the oilskin pouch in his hand, wondering when the time would come.

[Gwathagor]

"You hail from Erebor, Master Dwarf? Indeed? Then we may have met before, for I am from Dale - though I have not been there in many years," said Crabannan. He shot a brief dark look back at Erbrand, just to ensure that the fool was making ready to clout him over the head. No, he was just standing there, glowering - evidently he was less a fool than Crabannan had thought him. I almost wish he would take a swing at me, thought Crabannan. It'd be the last thing he did for a while. He wasn't sure how he had expected Erbrand to react, or what he had been trying to accomplish by needling him. In fact, he almost began to regret it. He turned back to the dwarf.
"Nain, in the town of Dale, there is - or was - a cooper, an old man with black hair and the disposition of a firecracker. His name is Crabannald. Do you know him?"

Nain hesitated for a moment, seeming unsure. He searched the recesses of his memory.

"Or have you at least heard any news of him?" Crabannan seemed strangely interested in this old barrel-builder, and he wasn't paying the slightest to Erbrand now. Erbrand was taken aback for a moment, catching what seemed to be a note of genuine feeling in the tall man's voice. Not scorn, not anger, not cynicism, but genuine selfless interest in another person.

[Groin Redbeard]

The conversation had cooled down between him and Crabannan. In fact Erbrand was quite startled at the genuine concern in the mans voice, it was not the tone that he would usually take while asking a question. He guessed from the simularity in names that the barrel maker was a relative. For a moment he almost found it pleasant to be with Crabannan, but he quickly forgot about it when he remembered the reason for their encounter.

"If you'll exuse me sirs, I have business to attend to before the day begins, rabbits and all that stuff." He glanced at Crabannan with an offended look. "Good morning Crabannan, and It's good to have you with us, Nain." He conjured up a brief smile that lit up his face for a second, but it was quickly erased by his normal austere expression.

He walked briskly to his snares, which he quickly emptied. Two stoats, and yes one rabbit, was his prize. Seven out of the twelve snares had been chown apart, and two of the snares had their contents already emptied but with no damage done to them. This had been happening to him for the last several weeks, he could not figure out what creature would be that clever[Oeric]. This bothered him less than his problems with the wolves, he worried about the consequence if they were allowed to breed to even larger numbers before winter set in, then the whole camp would have a problem on their hands.

He was walking back into camp, wondering on what to do with this new problem when he noticed a short man emptying the contents of a water pouch, it was Dan. Erbrand's features lit up and his worries left him for the moment.

"Good morning, Dan," he said in a cheerful voice, approaching him. Dan lowered the pouch from his lips and swallowed the water in his mouth. He seemed troubled about something, his brow was sunken and it took a moment for his face to lighten up.

"Are you alright, Dan," Erbrand asked in genuine concern, "Is there anything I could do to help?"

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

The mind of Degas of the Folde was tumultuous, a maelstrom of duties, of desires. With Farahil's approval of his intentions had come Farlen's, yet between the marriage of Degas and Linduial still stood his status: the exiled younger son, the poet and musician who supported himself as a traveling artist. Lord though he may be, Degas lacked the lands and the purse to wed the niece of Imrahil, the only daughter of distant sons of Mithrellas.

He clenched his fist, letting his mare pick her way across the long road of lands she had never trod. Rohan. His home. Glèowyn, a gift from Farlen, a pretty horse, tall and brown with dark mane and stockings, stepped lightly over the wheel ruts and small washouts of the road. It had obviously rained heavily not so long ago. With Feo safely in the keeping of Adragril – or rather, under the thumb of Adragil’s wife - Degas found he could travel twice as quickly, riding faster and longer, but he had discovered barely out of Dol Amroth that he missed the gap-toothed boy's quick wit and endless questions while traveling.

The trip had taken much longer than before, for then he had ridden in the company of Linduial's brother, and quiet though Farahil was, he was as good a horseman as he was the captain of his fleet, and when they made and broke camp, it was quickly, with competency and with quiet understanding. Degas had remembered quickly Lin's stories of her adventurous older brothers' travels not only to Rohan, but to as far north as Erebor, where they rendezvoused with not only with descendants of Bard the great bowman of Dale, but with Dwarves from both the Lonely Mountain and the Iron Hills. Adragil and Farahil had traveled to Far Harad, returning sun burnished and tattooed with the fierce symbolic narratives of the farthest South. Adragil wore his history proudly, his arms stained with the story - to those who could read it - of his defeat of the merciless Na'man Sufyan, his survival - horseless and without water - of the burning sands, and his stroll into camp with the head of his enemy held by its hair, wrinkled by heat and sun, stinking of blood and rot. He had won the allegiance of at least one tribe that day, delivering them from the terror of Na'man, who had forced obedience through indiscriminate impalement.

Farahil, however, wore loose shirts in which he could conceal many knives, and which had long flowing sleeves, fastened at his wrists, which kept his history from view, and while Adragil was prone to loudly recounting his tales for riveted listeners, Farahil sat quietly in the shadows, listening, and gathered others' stories to himself.

After months of companionship, Farahil and Degas had become as brothers, and Adragil, at Farlen's bequest, had requested - though as a request, the statement lacked the opportunity for negative response - that Degas accompany him on a short fishing trip: a week or two at sea, for Adragil to judge Degas's potential as a seaman.

When they returned, Adragil dark brown and glowing with virility, Degas burned and exhausted, Adragil had announced to Farlen and the silently watching Farahil that Degas "would do."

With no way to support Linduial, the lords of Gondor had chosen to find Degas a respectable way of deepening his purse and building his popularity amongst the people. The folk of Farlen's lands adored their lady, and it was a matter of diplomacy to prove to them that Linduial's northern friend was worthy of her hand.

So it was that when Wulf, an honest farmer of the Folde, had arrived at Dol Amroth with a broken arm carefully set, but healing poorly out of use, with the news that Saeryn had been gravely injured and could not be found, that the fields had burned and much of the town had been destroyed, and that Fenrir was dead, Degas had not been at home. For home, to him, was now Dol Amroth and Farlen's holdings as much as Rohan, for Degas had lived and traveled more in Gondor in his adult life than he had in his native fields.

He smiled bitterly as Glèowyn trotted toward Scarburg from Edoras. News of great import to the world of Men traveled swift as eagles flew, yet the news that Eodwine's household had moved had escaped Degas in his exile to Gondor. Nobody knew where the lady Saeryn was, or if she was alive?

Eodwine would have word, if he did not have Saeryn herself. Degas knew his sister, though they had seen so little of each other in recent years... But with Fenrir dead? Degas would be forced to move home, to care for his people, to be the benevolent Lord his father had been, and Fenrir had failed to be. The younger son, fulfilling his doom. If the news were true - and Wulf was a true hearted man, a true man of Rohan who spoke no lies, and rarely spoke uncertainly - then Degas now held enough lands, enough coin, that even Adragil, heir to Farlen, could not argue his position as a provider to Linduial.

Yet... If it was true, and the lands were burned? A summer's harvest destroyed? Though perhaps it would not be so bad, with early vegetables, and some hayings complete... Yet if the barns had burned as well? If the stock and surplus was ruined? Degas would beggar himself to feed his people and their horses this winter, yet how could Farlen let his child marry the poor Lord of a destroyed set of lands any more than he could let her marry a wandering orphan with impotent nobility?

But then... could he marry Linduial and use her dowry to purchase materials for his people? He loved her, and they were to be wed. Would it be so bad to use what money she would bring to him for such a noble purpose? Would she believe his intentions? Or would she see him grasping for ways to pay?

Degas struggled with himself until Glèowyn pranced jerkily, and he settled. He wished to marry Linduial now. His longing grew, a fire which raced through his blood. He wanted Linduial as his wife, his equal, the mother of his children. He envisioned straw haired toddlers, learning to run; boys he could train as Riders of the Rohirrim, girls who could ride and shoot as well as them, but who could also manage a household. Degas had always been astonished by the unfathomable depths of his mother, his sisters. While he had developed his skills as a Rider, as a Man of Rohan, they had learned all he knew as well as how to weave, how to raise children; they had mastered the art of haggling, something which still left him with what felt like an empty purse and a far smaller purchase than anything with which Saeryn could walk away.

Saeryn. Why had she left Lotheriel? Why had she gone back to Fenrir?

And for all that made sense in the world, what had happened upon her return?

With the Mead Hall of Scarburg in view - but it was tents and raw lumber; what had happened here? - Degas let Glèowyn open her stride. Eodwine would have news of Saeryn. Degas needed his sister. He had skirted his lands on his ride home, needing to know what to expect. Needing to know if his beloved twin was safe... if she was alive.

He dismounted, delighted, even in his dismal mood, to see familiar faces. Under other circumstances, this would be for him somewhat of a homecoming. Yet now, he desired only to see the lord of the hall.

But surely he could not stride in, a familiar face to some but a stranger to most, demanding immediate audience with a man only just eating breakfast. Thornden would greet him, would find Eodwine for him, but would these others who were unknown to Degas? And if they did, would his brusque manner offend them?

He closed his eyes for a moment, blinking back tears of frustration, of anger, of terror. His sister-- but he durst not think of it.

He hitched Glèowyn for now to a post driven deep and near fresh grass, and strode toward the tent from which most voices seemed to emanate. Blinking the early sun from his eyes, he felt glances fall upon him.

Seeing Náin close to him, Degas crossed swiftly to him, barely noticing the Dwarf's hand upon his hammer.

"Master Náin," he began. He stopped, collecting himself. "Who now..."

Again Degas paused. Dignity, he told himself. Dignity, humility, confidence, politeness. "I must speak with Eodwine, as soon as may be. Can you help me?"

[Formendacil]

"Master Náin, who now..."

Náin started, and turned abruptly to see a figure that it took him a moment to recognise. It was true, he admitted, that he had not been close to Degas before his departure to Dol Amroth, but he could see that the young man was changed all the same. There was a greater confidence about him, or at least, there was a greater strength. There might have been confidence, but this seemed to be lost as Degas was struggling somewhat with some inner turmoil.

"I must speak with Eodwine, as soon as may be. Can you help me?"

Something must be afoot if a traveller so early in the morning preferred the eorl to breakfast, Náin thought.

"I..." he glanced at Crabannan, who was looking a bit confused at them, though whether this was because of Náin's question, the arrival of Degas, or both, or perhaps some other thought. The fact that the troublemaker (for so the Dwarf now thought of him) was confused mollified him somewhat, and he relaxed his grip on his hammer, though he did not release it.

"Certainly, Degas," he said, though his eyes still lingered on Crabannan, which Crabannan noticed, though Degas seemed a little too agitated to do likewise. "I need to see Eodwine myself, though I was in no hurry. I have not seen him yet, however, having only just arrived myself. We can seek him together." Náin did not forget Crabannan, though.

"Well, unless you know where we can find the eorl?" he said.

"Thornden will know where he is," said Degas, who was still not paying attention to Náin's odd attitude towards Crabannan. The lad must be troubled, one part of Náin thought, while the part of him that wanted to give Crabannan a fairer chance was hoping this meant that he was still nonchalant in action.

"Aye, but I have seen as much of Thornden as I have of Eodwine," said Náin, looking down at his breakfast. "But we can be off. Would you prefer to eat first, perhaps? You cannot have eaten this morning, but perhaps you would rather wait?"

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

"I broke my fast on the road," Degas answered swiftly, "but I thank you for your consideration. My business with the Eorl truly cannot wait."

Self-consciousness overbore him then, and he wondered at how Adragil could command the attention of a room without effort. Walking in and speaking in as low a rumble as he could produce - for Adragil's voice was like thunder: loud and deep - Adragil still managed to send maids scurrying to do his bidding. Even silent Farahil seemed to have legions of loyal followers at his command: if not the men of his fleet, then the men and women of his household it seemed would fight for the honor of providing the man with what he desired. Degas, with business more urgent, perhaps, than ever had he been entrusted with before, could think of no way to channel either Adragil's brazen strength or Farahil's shadowy certainty.

"Is there any man here who knows where he can be found?" Degas peered around him, his eyes unable to adjust to the darkness through the door of the tent. Even so soon after dawn, the sun was bright to ride toward, and standing in it still, he could not make his eyes see who stood or sat, greeting each other and the day mere steps from him.

This would be another problem for him to deal with: Linduial came from stock of men for whom others would gladly lay down their lives. Degas's people had known little of him during his childhood, for he had been the shier of the twins, and had left home early to learn his art at Elessar's court. He would be hard pressed to win their allegiance after the iron fisted rule of Fenrir.

[littlemanpoet]

He lifted a brow in response to Saeryn's query. He had his pride. She must not know much about smithing.

"Sharpen this sword? Of course! Any smith worth his barter should be able to sharpen a sword properly. I had much such practice during the War. Bit if a young buck I was back then, but I learned plenty. It's like horseback riding you see, once you know how, you know how, the skill just needs a little honing. When would you like it back? See, I have a backlog what with Lord Eodwine's hall buidling project and all. What? What's wrong?"

Saeryn was looking at him as if she was stunned. He wondered why. And he wondered if it was because he'd strung so many words together at once. He'd started doing more of that since he'd begun talking more with Ginna. Females no longer tied his tongue just by being in the same room; he'd picked the one he was after, and the rest were no cause for alarm anymore.

Eodwine

Eodwine had found Thornden first, then Stigend near his tent, and asked them to go for a stroll along the borders of Scarburg. They had talked about the hot weather, about the previous day's work, about other various small things that had gone on in Scarburg over the last month. Stigend and Thornden related how things had been going between Cnebba, Garmund, and Javan since the bow and arrow lessons had begun.

They came to the Scar and climbed up it so they could see the plains to the north, and squinting into the distance they discussed the folk who came with torches lit to spy on them during the night. Eodwine had sent Dan, Erbrand and Lithor to find out what they could about them, and the folk had been found. They lived in a makeshift settlement on the Entwash; it was a poor affair. The folk hunted deer, fished the river, and grew some crops to subsist. It had been the opinion of the three spies that this folk did not like the competition for deer that Scarburg now represented. This made sense.

It also made sense that these folks were subsisting on land that was within the realm of the Middle Emnet, and thus fell under the lordship of Eodwine. He discussed with the two the best ways to bring the land under true lordship rather than that in name alone.

"For today we celebrate all that has been achieved so far," Eodwine said finally. "I know not if it will be on the morrow or a few days hence, but it is time for me to go to Edoras and see the King, to report what has happened here, and to take counsel with him for the furture of Scarburg and the Middle Emnet. While I am gone, you two will have leadership: Thornden over the guards and the protection of Scarburg, Stigend over the daily work. If the two of you cannot agree on something, I give final word to you Thornden, but only after you have had Stigend's counsel.

"Have you any questions for me?"

[Formendacil]

Náin's prompt met with a responce. The one who was clearly Rohirric answered.

"Oh, I'm sorry. My name is Erbrand, I have heard the kitchen ladies talk of you, Nain."

From the way Erbrand glanced at his companion, and from what Náin had heard walking up, this seemed to be a theme of the morning. Náin resolved to ask Kara what this was about, if he saw her--and if he could think of a comfortable way to bring it up, though the prospects of that were unlikely. Though he knew Kara was aware he was fond of her, his Dwarven heritage and his own awkwardness were such that he had no intention of stating this outright. As Náin thought this out, he almost failed to notice what Erbrand said next.

"Your skills will be of much use here, Nain. I've heard the Dwarves are amazing craftsmen when it comes to building things."

Indeed, Náin paused just long enough, trying to process what Erbrand had said, that the other man spoke next, obviously taking his silence for modesty or else for not seeing a need to respond to the obvious.

"You hail from Erebor, Master Dwarf? Indeed? Then we may have met before, for I am from Dale - though I have not been there in many years," said the other, now glancing at Erbrand in his turn. Erbrand gave him no reply though, and he looked back at Náin.

The Dwarf was nodding. He had thought the other man sounded more northern.

"Nain, in the town of Dale, there is - or was - a cooper, an old man with black hair and the disposition of a firecracker. His name is Crabannald. Do you know him?"

Nain was not sure. He had not travelled into Dale often, though in his fifty-three years, he had become familiar with the Mannish town. He thought back, trying to recall if he had ever met or heard of a cooper. Nothing was surfacing.

"Or have you at least heard any news of him?"

Alas, thought Náin, if I cannot remember him, how can I have news of him? Crabannald... Crabannald...

"If you'll exuse me sirs, I have business to attend to before the day begins, rabbits and all that stuff. Good morning Crabannan, and it's good to have you with us, Nain." Erbrand gave a brief, becoming smile, and then departed. Náin, who had not caught Crabannan's name previously, seized on it to cover his inability to recall this cooper that seemed to matter to the Man before him.

"I take it from your names, that you and Crabannald the cooper are close kin?" he asked politely.

"Yes, very close," said Crabannan and something about his half-smile triggered Náin's memory. The details stubbornly refused to return to his mind, and Náin was quite sure he had never known Crabannan's name before, but he had seen the Man before, in a tavern in Dale.

Náin had forgotten why he had been in Dale. Probably, he had been working on one of several reconstruction projects that had followed, and still followed, in the wake of the War of the Ring, and he had often stayed in the town rather than returning to the mountain. Having been to many taverns, Náin could not recall the particulars, but he did recall what the proprietor had told him in a low voice when he had caught him glowering at the newcomers arrival.

"That one's trouble," he had said. "Gets into half a dozen brawls a week. Doesn't buy enough either to cover the bad business. Just likes trouble, I guess."

Náin's eyes narrowed for a moment, as this memory blinked across his mind in the moment after Crabannan had replied, and the Dwarf found himself immediately suspicious of the man in front of him, and he remembered the Man's words to Erbrand that had sent the Eorling spluttering as he had approached. "How is Kara?" Perhaps Crabannan had not acquired the same reputation in Rohan he had held with the tavern master in Dale, but Náin was suspicious and Dwarven loyalty overcame Dwarven reticence.

"Perhaps you could answer a question of mine, Master Crabannan," he said. "I could not help but hear you mention Kara as I approached, speaking to Master Erbrand, and I am curious what you meant. I was well acquainted with Kara when I stayed at the Mead Hall in Edoras, and would be pleased to hear of her good fortune--or to commiserate over her ill."

Although his words were fair enough, Náin's hand clasped itself tightly around the shaft of his heavy mason's hammer, just below its ponderous head, and his muscles, hardened as they were by decades of physical labour, clenched tight. If this troublemaker were sullying Kara's name in any way, Náin had no intention of seeing him continue.