The White Horse Inn, Act III

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Eorcyn bowed to Osric and smiled gravely. “You doubt that the King as his nobles have made the right decision,” he began. “I am afraid, for my sake, that there are many who will think so too. Perhaps you have not heard the whole story of the Contest however? I offered the place of victory to Hearpwine but was denied by the King.”

“I have heard the story,” Osric replied, “and I am glad to know that it is true. But by what I’ve heard, you denied the decision of the King in that you felt a younger man who could serve him longer would serve him better. I did not hear that you relinquished the title of the better singer.”

“And that I do not,” Eorcyn said, his voice taking on an edge of iron that it had seemed incapable of earlier. “Master Hearpwine is talented and passionate, but he is young and untutored – he will benefit from a few years’ seasoning.”

Oscric made to reply to this, but Hearpwine stepped forward with his arms raised between them. He had not noticed the slight altercation at first, for his eyes had been taken by Mae where she stood (quite prettily) contemplating what must have been for her a miraculous sight: not one, but three Bards to the King! Hearpwine tore his attention from her and spoke to the two older men. “Please my friends, do not quarrel upon such a happy day: do not mar my victory with disagreement. For a great victory I deem it – have I not won both the favour of the Lady and the right to learn from the King’s Bard himself? Come Eorcyn,” he added quickly to forestall and more harsh words between the two old men, “give us the happy song that my friend Osric asks. And if I might be allowed, I will accompany you on my harp.”

Eorcyn looked at Osric once more but did not say what he was thinking. Instead, he seized the middle of the room and began to hum a familiar tune. Hearpwine knew it well, and soon the melody flooded from his harp to all corners of the room.

There was an old fiddler who had a cow
The cow wore striped pants
And when the old fiddler would play a tune
The cow would love to dance
Dance, dance, dance, the cow would love to dance
Dance, dance, dance, the cow would love to dance

The fiddler played and the cow she danced
Beneath the light of the moon
The fiddler got tired, but the cow did not
She said: "Play another tune."
Tune, tune, tune, Play another tune
Tune, tune, tune, play another tune.

The cow kept dancing and danced all night
And most of the following day
And all of the animals joined right in
And danced their shoes away
Away way way, they danced their shoes away
Away way way, they danced their shoes away

There was an old fiddler who had a cow
The cow wore striped pants
And when the old fiddler would play a tune
The cow would love to dance

Eorcyn finished to a round of applause and raucous laughter, bowing and smiling to those around him (but not, Hearpwine noticed, to Osric), saying “‘Tis a piece of lovely nonsense I learned of the Halfing Meriadoc,” he explained. “I met him when he and his companions returned here with our King, and though he was saddened by the loss of him he loved, he did teach me the words to this song. ‘It’s a silly song,’ he told me, ‘such as my people sing, and not at all fit for high company. But I sang it for Theoden before he rode away from Dunharrow and he said he liked it. I sing it now in memory of him’.”

Hearpwine applauded with the rest of the crowd, and soon the cry came for him to sing a tune but he shook his head quietly saying, “I am sorry, my friends, but I have done so much singing since I arrived that I must give my voice a rest. Why, all last night I sang, and then this morning I had to give a performance fit for a King. And then, I’m afraid, I much abused my throat in the celebrations after. Please,” he added wearily, “allow me to have a bite to eat and some drink and then I shall sing for you when my strength is gathered once more. In the meantime, I daresay my master will be willing to share his song-hoard with you all.” Eorcyn smiled and bowed once more to the Inn, saying that he would be happy to entertain any requests for music.

Hearpwine took the opportunity to move away from the centre of the room. The tables were all filling up, and he went over to a small one by the window where sat a Man dressed in the habiliments of a Dúnedain Ranger. “May I sit,” Hearpwine asked.

[Kransha]

Osric, with his withering gaze, smiled as best he could, though the smile’s luster was removed. He looked at Eorcyn, the two clouded orbs nestled into his wizened face unblinking as the bard’s eyes met his. They exchanged only a swift glance, the glance of brethren, though they shared no such bond. Both men broke the locking of their stares instantly, so as to keep up their combined appearances. Eorcyn turned to entertain the berating of numerous questions. Osric, muttering indignantly to himself, turned, reflecting back to the words Liornung had said, talking of the Golden Hall of Meduseld and his subsequent melancholia. This drove Osric’s mind from quiet contemplation to deep, unsettled thought as the candle flame of a darker memory, though thatched with glistening gold, flickered in his mind, sparkling seductively to entice the thinker back to it.

It had been years ago, the number of which had been lost to Osric’s inferior memorial records, that the man, now old and having lost his prime years to war, had been called to that place where men and women, poets and fiddlers, and all their jolly kin had flocked on this fine day. He had felt himself a lad, though he’d seen so much of war’s ineptitude, its uselessness, the squandering of fair youth and the stealing of the beauty in the world. After that day he was old, and, strangely, he had not been so before. Before he entered the Golden Hall, he had been a warrior of Rohan, with the white steed on grassy green behind him. When he left, his strides no longer filled with exaggerated vigor, he had been an ancient dotard of a Rohirrim, unfit to hold his station, or the gaudy titles pinned upon his breast unjustly. He was saddened that day, profusely, and his luster abandoned him, spurning him cruelly and striking him from his high perch, no longer the noble falcon but the cantankerous old crow, reclusive in his stories of war, death, and illusions of merriness.

For his deeds and for his presence in the War of the Ring as a man who stood on the field for principle and for honor, Osric of Aldburg had been allowed to enter that hall, alongside the few brothers of his who had not fallen, and be looked upon by the noble Eomer and fair Eowyn, Lord and Lady of the kingdom. He had been humbled, not by them, but by the place, by some strange futility that accosted him to no end. He could not shake as he looked upon the marble pillars, gleaming in sunlight manufactured perfectly by the sensational golden hue of the rafters above, on the dazzling tapestries of past conquests ceremoniously decorating Brego’s hall. It was something that lingered in Osric now. But, the Rohirrim tried not to consider it an ill thing. He had seen Meduseld, and was honored to have even the syllables of his name spoken by the brave and regal Eomer upon his gilt throne. Now, as Osric so warily assured all others, was a time for celebration.

“So,” queried the man, more as thundering statement than question in reality, clapping his suddenly clenched fist upon a table and rattling its foundations, “who now is left that has not placed his voice upon our heart strings and plaid, like master Liornung on the fiddle? I know but one who has yet to awe us with his words and song!” The crowd seemed to unanimously agree with the anonymous voice, since none knew its owner, and began to shout and hoot and holler, though they soon realized that they did not know which bard they ought to center their attentions on. They all looked around, bewildered, which allowed Osric a choked-back chuckle, which soon stopped as his own attention was swiftly diverted to another, more important matter.

Slowly, but with zealous sureness, Osric edged his rickety wooden chair across the floor, scraping up the polished wood, towards where Eorcyn sat. The bard took notice, but seemed, with his theatrical skill, not to, at first. He shot a sideways look at the once-warrior and turned back to the crowd, but Osric persisted doggedly, swinging his chair up and over beneath him and to the table that Eorcyn stood beside, his arms still half spread as requests seem to rise and fall. Osric gestured to him, somewhat ruefully, and the bard turned to the man, sitting beneath him. Osric, pushing up from the table with wobbling, narrow arms sheathed in cloth, stood hunched before the bard and spoke, though no others heard his voice in the commotion.

“Eorcyn," he said in reservation, being all but concise, "you must forgive my inconsiderate choice of words when we spoke. I was somewhat addled at this whole scenario playing out; my ancient wits were prone to some failing, so I may have seemed ungrateful. I want, now, before the end of this happy day, to extend my hearty thanks for your services to my friends this day, and to the noble men and ladies of the Great Hall. I know I should not speak on their behalf, as I am barely a member of the conglomerate I speak of, but I can still hope that you might accept this poor excuse for penance.”

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Eorcyn considered before replying, for he could sense that Osric meant what he said, but that the old warrior remained, in his heart, loyal to his opinions rather than to the judgement of the King. Eorcyn warmed to him for that. His harsh words of before had come as a surprise to himself, and he was only just now beginning to resolve them in his heart. He had lived a long and successful life as a bard, and his selection this day should serve as the fulfillment of his existence, but over it all there stood yet a dark cloud. When he had heard Hearpwine sing, there had been no doubt in his mind that the young man would carry the day. His voice was untutored and his discretion somewhat lacking in performance, but there could be no denying the raw talent of the lad. Eorcyn’s own performance had been somewhat lacking this day, he thought, and even the youth Asad’s singing had, to Eorcyn’s mind, been deserving of higher praise. He had won the affections and the loyalties of the Golden Hall this day, and for that reason the King had chosen him wisely. But the hearts and souls of those with the ears to hear and the wits to recognise belonged firmly to his student. He was ashamed as he recalled the relief he had felt with Éomer had proclaimed that Hearpwine would not perform in the Golden Hall until his time had come to become master and not apprentice: Eorcyn feared sharing the floor with such talent.

He eyed Osric carefully and sat. Pitching his voice low he said, “I think you for that, friend, but I fear I owe you the apology, for I was rash when I spoke – rash and foolish: two things that are never comely in a man, but that are more than ridiculous when found in a man of my age and supposed wisdom.” Osric raised a questioning eyebrow but did not reply, so Eorcyn continued. “I fear that you touched too close to the mark with your doubts, for I share them myself. You are right when you say that I did not offer to bow to the greater singer, and I truly believe that there is much that young Hearpwine can learn from myself and Liornung. But there is an ugly truth that I will share with you – I believe that in a very short time the young man will have learned all that he can from me, and then I will be nothing more than an old encumbrance between him and the station that will be rightfully his. I am the better singer…for now. But when he reaches the full limit of his strength, when he learns to pace his song and achieve its full gallop where it shall have the most effect…I am afraid that I will sound like that croaking of an old crow beside him!”

They looked across to where Hearpwine sat in conference with the new arrival from the north. Osric said, “Such is the burden of age. We have come through our adventure and offer little to those who follow but the imprint of our feet upon paths that we no longer have the strength to follow. The best we can hope is that those younger feet will not completely obliterate the signs of our passage as they hasten to surpass us. But do not despair, for without the aged, how would youth know the path that they must follow? Hearpwine may surpass you someday, but for now he does not, and he looks to you as his rightful master. If you can find it in your heart to help him along the path you have taken, he will perhaps find the strength to make one of his own – and if that happens, your path will remain your own, and become the starting point of a most miraculous journey! That, I think, is no small accomplishment!”

Eorcyn returned his gaze to the rheumy eyes of his companion, and saw there that Osric was speaking as much to comfort his own age. He smiled at the man in what he hoped was a friendly manner, for his mind was still oppressed. “You speak wise counsel, friend. Come, let us order some drink so that I might loosen my throat somewhat, and then I shall constrain my apprentice to accompany me a song!” He turned and waved at the Innkeeper to get her attention.

[Bêthberry]

[OCC]

April and May were very busy months in The Shire and saw the completion of several excellent games. Many gamers deservedly earned access to Rohan and three Game Founders earned full status in Rohan.

Gamers with full status as Game Manager and Game Player

alaklondewen
Everdawn
ittlemanpoet

Gamers who have earned access as Game Players

Alatariel Telemnar
ArwenBaggins

Durelin

Eorl of Rohan
Esgallhugwen

Fordim Hedgethistle

Kransha

Lumiel

Memory of Trees
Meneltarmacil

Nuranar

Regin Hardhammar

Witch Queen

A round of applause and a round of ale at the White Horse for these new Gamers and Game Managers in Rohan! Every one of them wrote with accomplishment and creativity and responsibility.

New Writers of the Mark, please take the time, if you have not already, to read through the rules for gaming in Rohan in the thread called The Golden Hall.

Welcome to Rohan. I look forward to gaming with you either in Rohan games (when I can find the time to join games or run my own) or at The White Horse. Please do come to the Horse in character and allow us to raise a pint in honour of your accomplishments.

Bêthberry,
Moderator for Rohan

[Bêthberry]

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 Ælle 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.

[Snowdog]

Hanasían had out an acceptable piece of parchment, and his quill, ink and powder were set by as well as he listened to the arousing bandter and celebration that had made its way in the White Horse. But in this corner of the Inn, Hanasían started to write of the dark, confusing days of the Battle of the Fords of Isen. He was hoping to meet his twin cousins Frea an Folca here, but they were obviously off celebrating. So he penned the names of men he fought beside and tried to note anything he remembered of each, and having lost himself some into that fateful day Theodred fell holding the eyot, he wrote some words they had traded before that fell battle.

"May I sit..."

Hanasían had instinctivly sensed his presence, though another may have been startled when in such deep thought. Hanasían waved his hand with the quill toward a chair in offerance to the bard before dipping the quill in the ink and continuing to capture a thought. Setting the quill down, he dusted and gently let slide the dust with a soft breath.

He set the parchment aside and lifted his tankard. He looked at the Bard and said,

'It is an honor to have a man of such high esteem to come share this table. It sounds as though you have done well this day?'

He took a drink of the ale, and leaned back. He could see the bard's eyes looking at the Elven script on the parchment in a curious way, and Hanasían went on,

'As you tell of deeds in song and word, I tell of them in writing. Too many deeds go un-sung and un-remembered, when so many fell in the struggle against the darkness. Much is worthy of word and song.

Hanasían then listened as a lady spoke of the Bardic competition, and an applause came forth at its finish. Hanasían said to the bard at his table,

'It looks like you are well rewarded sir!'

Hanasían then stood up at the approach of the woman.

'Mae govannen lady of Rohan!'

He stepped aside to make sure the remaining chair at the table was clean of boot dirt and offered her a seat.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

There could be no lack of happiness and festive hearts on that chill, early spring day. The progression of time and events could never be duplicated or occur as it had on that day, either. None could explain the spirit that had settled over the town of Edoras. Remembering the distant and recent pasts collided with hoping for a better future. Old friends were able to come together and remember friends long gone and past times spent together, whether on the battlefield or elsewhere. Strangers met and shared stories and songs, learning to come together as they shared the promise of tomorrow.

Despite all this happiness, there remained many a task for Aylwen to complete. Most of her work that day entailed feeding and serving the customers that flowed into the Horse constantly that day. This was the Innkeeper’s job every day, but today the tasks felt less hefty as they were lightened by song and tale ringing throughout the Mead Hall.

The afternoon passed much like this, with song and merriment ringing throughout the Horse and throughout Edoras with pride in their country. Hearpwine let his voice rest before giving a stunning encore of the tune he sang for the King and the Lady. Liornung aided in the song making, as did many others who passed through the Inn that day. Stories of the valiant warriors who died in battle peppered the festivities, reminding young and old of what had come to be just four years earlier.

Sunlight became scarce, however, as the good times and good tales passed all the time of day. People began to filter out of the Inn slowly, some ready to leave with their whining children and others hesitant to exit the White Horse. As the sun went down, Aylwen stood upon her stool and raised her hands for silence.

“After being an Innkeeper for fourteen years, I have heard and seen a great many things,” Aylwen began, looking over and catching Bethberry’s gaze for just a moment before continuing her speech. “I have met many people and learned much from each of them. Some I know and remember to this day, others come and go, only to have someone new walk in the next day. I have learned that perhaps it is the way of things for people and lessons that you love to come and go, as does the day. One can go after these people and these lessons, running to catch up and never have to miss them again. Or one can stay where they are and meet different people and learn different things, keeping the memory of those they miss alive in every task they do. Tonight, my friends, we gathered to remember those that we lost in a great battle…”

Aylwen paused for a moment. She eyed Hearpwine and Liornung, Osric and Eorcyn, Bethberry and Ruthven, and she passed her gaze over all the patrons of the White Horse in turn.

“Hail the victorious dead.”

---

Aylwen pulled the windows of the White Horse Inn open with ease that came from many years of practice. Dust flew from the opening, visible only in the rays of light that flashed from outside and danced onto the wooden floor of the Inn.

Days and weeks had passed swiftly from those few celebratory nights in early spring. Trees bare of leaves had long begun sprouting buds, and before long the grand shade of green had flourished across Edoras again. Air no longer brought chills or shivers, and flowers had been blooming for a few months. Midsummer fast approached Edoras.

Motan paraded around the Inn at that early hour with a crown of colorful flowers upon her head. Frodides chased the little four-year old about, until she caught her daughter and lifted her high into the air with laughter in both their hearts. Aylwen smiled as she watched them, then turned and went to open the next window. Goldwine happily purred and rubbed against the Innkeeper's leg. When the woman would do no more than scratch once behind his ears, the cat curled his tail in a put-off manner and went to rub his back against on a leg of one of the many chairs that littered the room.

The sun had scarcely risen in the sky when Aylwen opened the front door of the White Horse for any to enter.

[Nurumaiel]

"Come now, Gomen!" Maercwen laughed as she stroked the neck of the impatient stallion that was prancing by her side. Gomen's cheery face peered from around the stable door and he nodded before withdrawing. The stallion gave a loud whinny and a little buck. Maercwen tightened her grip on the reins and caught his head, kissing his nose. "Patience, Mihtig, patience. I know this fair summer day brings thoughts of adventure to your mind, but we must wait for Gomen."

And Gomen soon appeared, leading a tall chestnut horse that thrust its head proudly to the sky and looked for all the world a king. Behind Gomen was Leofan, who went to his daughter and looked doubtfully up at Mihtig. The stallion was tall, strong, and spirited. He was not certain that his young daughter, just barely eighteen now, could manage him. "Mae, are you sure he won't be too much for you? You're strong enough to handle him?"

"No, Papa," the girl replied. "I'm not nearly strong enough to handle him. I am relying solely on the training you have given that will cause him to listen to my words rather than my strength, as well as the obedience and respect he has for me as his 'sister.'"

"Very well," said Liornung, but still he looked doubtful. He addressed his eldest son then, instructing him to watch over his sister and both the horses, and to make sure no harm befell any who were to ride out that day. He bid them farewell with a last bidding that they return within two hours so Mae could help her mother with the washing. He watched as they rode off and then turned to the sound of singing and laughter. Mereflod and Motan were skipping towards him, both golden heads wreathed with flowers and each little hand clutching a bright array of equally colorful flowers. "Papa, papa!" they sang as he skipped towards him. He kissed them both and caressed their hair, saying, "My little daughters look like the queens of fair flowers and bright meadows. Where did these lovely flowers come from."

"They came from our garden, Papa," Mereflod replied. "We've worked oh so hard in it every day and the flowers are all growing so beautifully. Don't you like them, Papa?"

He kissed each again, replying, "I love them. Make sure you pick some for your mother, Mistress Bethberry, and our innkeeper Aylwen."

"Oh, Papa," said Motan, "we already did. See?" She held out a dimpled hand. Leofan laughed. "Good, good," he said. "Now go give those flowers to those three lovely women and see if Bethberry wants you for lessons. If not ask your Mamma if she needs help. And if she doesn't need help you may come out here and play." The girls hugged their father once again and then skipped away, clasping hands. Leofan chuckled and went back into the stable.