[Gwathagor]

Crabannan pushed back the flaps of his tent and glanced around. He seemed to be alone. Satisfied, he crawled out, boots in hand. He'd grown reclusive over the past few months, pitching his tent in the woods outside of camp, appearing only for meals, to which he would contribute a string of rabbits or the occasional stag. Things had been unsteady in Scarburg since Eodwine had gone east and the new eorl had moved in, rocking the metaphoric boat with his great clunking steps and his heavy-handed ways. Crabannan's solution was to get out of the boat. So he kept to himself. Stayed out of trouble. Stayed away from the eorl's sons.

Wulfric and Wilheard will still be at board, he thought as he pulled on his boots. He looked up at the sun. They'd be there until about noonday, so he'd have to wait until then to break his own fast. He ambled over and dunked his head in the stream. Then he stood, shook the water from his shaggy hair, and ambled towards the Burg.

Despite being (or perhaps because they were) lazy, belligerent louts who had taken a marked, fervent dislike to Crabannan, Wulfric and Wilheard were also highly predictable and he had learned to order his days around where they would be and when. It would come to blows eventually, he knew, but for the present he was content to not be thrown from Scarburg for bashing the eorl's sons cross-eyed.

Not yet.

And I have other reasons for keeping to myself, he reflected. He passed through the rows of tents that housed many of the workers and soldiers and headed for the kitchen. He took his time.