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"Well, Garstan, there appears to be something of a disagreement between these boys. It seems to me that Javan is being attacked unjustly by your son, and this other boy - you, what's your name? - Cnebba, that's right. I'd as soon have them fight it out..."
Crabannan trailed off. He rightly read Garstan's expression as one of disapproval. "But maybe you know just as well as I that Javan would whip both of them." Crabannan smiled. "And Garmund is your son. I reckon you'd best deal with the three of them. If it makes any difference, though, I'm on Javan's side." He glanced over at Javan, who was looking at him appreciatively. Garstan got his attention again.
"You still haven't told me who you are." Garstan still felt unsure of this fellow; he was just a little too...
"Apologies, Garstan. I'm Crabannan. Eodwine sent me to help you and these tusslers set up the tents. Though...it's looking as if we won't get the job done. We've got quite a few tents to go yet, and we can hardly look after the little boys and work at the same time."
"I'll deal with them, Crabannan, if you don't mind."
"That would be best. I can be a bad influence."
Crabannan turned to face the job at hand - but not before giving Cnebba and Garmund one last dark glare, just for good measure. They quailed. Then, with his back to Garstan and the boys, he seized a coil of rope and a hammer, and set to his task with a will. He would eat well tonight, and he would earn it, too.
Pounding the stakes felt good. It had been a few weeks since he had done any proper work, and he found that he almost missed it. As he worked, he fell into a rhythm which was interrupted only by the occasional pain in his right leg - the old knife wound, and the only thing which had prevented him from feeling entirely at ease and at home in the fledgling Scarburg, which, over the next weeks, began to rise about him, phoenix-like, from the ashes.
He could have let this unease propel him onwards, wandering again, but Scarburg felt restorative to him, almost idyllic. And he had begun, already, to make friends here: Javan, Kara, maybe even Garstan. But then he would recall the hastily buried corpse at the foot of the Scar and the ruined hall, images staining his idyllic first impression of Scarburg with mystery and suspicion. And, ironically, this held him even more. He could not leave. There was adventure here, perhaps even danger, and he found himself fascinated, riveted.
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