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Scyld
Scyld set off down from the Scar quickly, hoping to make it back to the Hall before the worst of the rain came. It was not to be: the drops soon started hitting harder and faster, and more than once he nearly lost his footing on the muddy, rocky ground. It had been foolish of him to come up here before a rainstorm, he realized. He slowed his pace; better to return wet and whole than to turn an ankle in the muck and be unable to return at all.
By the time he reached the fields separating the Scar from the Hall, the drizzle had turned into a downpour. Between the snowmelt and the constant rain, the soggy ground could hold no more water and the puddles in many places were up to his ankles. No point in running then: the water would only splash higher. As he came up to the Hall, even his thick wool cloak was soaking through, which felt thoroughly unpleasant, not to mention heavy. Squinting through the rain, he saw another figure approaching the Hall from the opposite direction, seemingly bearing a large burden.
It was Rowenna, he realized, as she drew closer. Her clothing was drenched, and he could not help but notice that the way the wet fabric clung to her was not unflattering. He shook his head of the thought. He had to keep his mind sharp if he was to have any hope of understanding how he had managed to irritate her so. At least now if she had something to say to him, it would be out of Eodwine’s hearing.
He reached the door just before she did. “May I hold the door for you, or would you prefer to have another reason to glower at me?” he asked as he held out the door with his free hand.
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