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 Ćlle 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.
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