Eorling Mead Hall

[JennyHallu]

Marenil grinned slowly, easing his body carefully down onto the bench. "Thanks, Lord, but I've just drank a jug of water thinking this out for you." Quickly he outlined his plans, starting with his ideas for freeguests. As expected any mention Marenil made of fees was met with a disapproving frown, and he let the issue lie--for now. Time enough for Eodwine to change his mind: eventually someone would abuse his generosity again as Osfrid had.

He quickly moved on to plans to partition attic space into homes for the household, indicating with a gesture that he'd like to get through the whole proposal before Eodwine stopped to argue with him. This idea seemed to go over better, but Marenil had expected it to. There was no denying that the old Inn was becoming decidedly full.

Next he detailed plans to purchase some livestock and build pens for them in the area planned to someday become the Mead Hall. The rebuilding of the Hall would take years, and the space might as well be used in the meantime. This seemed to be greeted with enthusiasm, but again Marenil gestured to indicate there was more. There was much to do and think about, and he wanted to get it all through with.

Briefly he mentioned that he'd like to get a trade caravan going to Gondor, then quickly hurried on.

"Just one last thing, my lord. The city of Edoras is also under your jurisdiction, and there are some taxes that I do not see are being collected. It is customary for there to be a fee owed you by any who wish to set up a market stall within the walls, and a tax on the sale of a house or business-place. Not as much money here as those fees bring in Dol Amroth or Minas Tirith, but significant just the same. The market fees at least would help the state of your purse, strained by all this construction."

He sat quiet a moment, thinking through to make sure he had covered everything. "Yes, hmm...I think that's all. Nothing else we can accomplish without more money. What do you think?"

[littlemanpoet]

"I think, Marenil," Eodwine smiled, "that you must be terribly missed back at Dol Amroth, for your skills in stewarding seem unrivaled. I am a lucky man."

Falco interrupted, "You surely weren't born that way, so I figure it must be the fact that you've a Hobbit to keep you company."

"Ah, yes, that simply must be why, my proud Baggins of a hobbit."

"Baggins! Fishing for compliments, are you!" Falco grinned.

"Ah but not all hold the name Baggins in as high a regard as you, Master Boffin."

"More's the pity, and their loss into the bargain." Falco lapsed into silence, aware that Marenil was being quite patient with a small, amused smile.

"Now to my thinking on the many matters, Marenil, that you have laid before me. I say a 'yes' to the attic work, to livestock and pens for them, and to the collection of market booth taxes, seeing as they are owed anyway. Oh, and 'twould be wise of us to make sure with Meduseld how much of that the King expects to come his way; after all, I hold these lands in fief to him.

"One other thing: I would like you to assign Thornden to visit farmsteads that are in arrears on their payments of dues, whether in kind or coin."

A thin smile on his face, Eodwine studied Marenil. "I sense a keen mind behind those quiet eyes, my dear steward. As I said already, I am a lucky man. But keep one thing always in that keen mind of yours. An Eorlinga's word is of more worth than what his purse holds."

[Laiudanama]

The sun rose slowly towards her pinnacle, stretching her rays brightly as she awoke from a night’s slumber, beaming benevolently down upon every corner and creature of Middle Earth as midday approached. The day was indeed turning out to be a nice one: beautiful weather, a clear sky stretching away infinitely, and the heat rising pleasantly to a temperature that would surely have every Man in the Mark looking longingly out of his window – and sure, if there was no other urgent business to attend to, midday would surely see a fair number of men reaching for their walking staffs, the fine Ladies of Gondor and Rohan changing into their summer hats, scores of children racing out of their schoolrooms into the bright yards beyond…

Trystan glared at the sun furiously, wiping a hand over his perspiring face and, disgusted, spat to one side, trying to clear his dry mouth of any filth which may have got in. The very idea revolted him, and the boy spat again, just for good measure. Though he was without both food and drink, Trystan decided that, after several hours – how long? He was losing track of time, beginning to measure it in terms of monotonous shovelfuls of filth – now would be about as good a time as any for a lunch break. And why not: here, less than a hundred yards from the Ravine, a pit of household waste, sewage and other the gods only know what other forms of filth and waste, who would be watching him? Not Lord Eodwine, that was for sure, and probably none of his lackies, either. Trystan grinned to himself suddenly, remembering Garwine’s face as he had tactfully paused just outside the privies, safely out of stinking distance. He didn’t even come in, where I’ve spent my morning practically up to my elbows in…well. He snorted derisively at Garwine’s words: “Carry the filth out a back door. And be discreet…”

Still, he was almost done now: say one more trip, maybe two at a push, and the whole arduous task would be finished. Trystan stabbed his shovel into the ground, although his venom was now fading, as he leant back against the shade of a nearby tree, although as a gentle breeze ruffled it’s branches, even the tree seemed to recoil from the stench which pervaded the boy’s very being. He smiled at the thought, reaching into his back pocket for his pipeweed…and cursed viciously when he found the pocket empty. He must have dropped it! Somewhere between here and the privies back up at the Eorling Mead Hall – either that, or… Trystan glanced distastefully towards the peacefully steaming Ravine into which he had been slogging waste all morning. Attached as he was to his pipeweed, he sure as knives wasn’t going after anything in there.

Although if he hadn’t dropped it around the Mead Hall, it could be anywhere between here and, well, Dol Amroth for all he knew. And going back in that direction any time soon was about as appealing a prospect as diving headfirst into the Ravine.

The youth settled back into the tree, his skinny shoulderblades digging into the trunk, loosening his shirt a button or two further, having already removed his jerkin. Yes, perspiring in the heat, doing the filthy oddjobs of some pompous Lord in what constituted to his first day of honest hard work in memory, and stinking, frankly, of everything that had passed through the bowels of the honourable denizens of the Mead Hall in gods only know how long…well, it could be worse. He could be hot, tired, stinking and being chased the authorities of Dol Amroth, not to mention a hardened thug who wanted to kill him, preferably via as much pain as possible.

Oh wait – that was the current situation.

Trystan closed his eyes wearily for just a second, but all he could see imprinted on his eyelids was that house, dark, gloomy, the dust motes still spinning in the air where the old woman’s scream had disturbed it. Her scream and her fall…

He started up, his eyes wide. No. No, he wouldn’t – couldn’t – dwell on those thoughts for any longer. Groaning softly, he fell forward to his knees, then struggled up to his feet, grabbing the shovel and buckets and started the long trudge back up to the Mead Hall. Trystan would never be the lacky or minion of anyone who judged themselves superior, but currently, he could do with a little protection – and with not making any more enemies…

[Formendacil]

The council, or meeting, or whatever it was, that Eodwine had been holding with regards to the expansion had broken up, and the various members gone seperate ways. Having come to terms, if not quite forgiveness, with Degas, Náin decided there was no time quite like the present, and that he ought to go seek out Saeryn, and apologize to her. He was aware that he was leaving Eodwine, who had been most rude to and who he was consequently dreading the most, to last. He found, however, that he was well able to explain it away to himself. And he'd apologize to Eodwine come the end of the day, one way or another.

As he sought up and down the Mead Hall for Saeryn, unaware of wither she had gone, Náin thought to himself about his "apology" to Degas. Forgiveness had rather been unforthcoming, but Náin wasn't so much concerned about forgiveness as about his own apology. To have done the right thing to try and rectify the situation on his part, that was the important thing. If Degas harboured a grudge, that was his affair. His affair- and it meant that Náin didn't feel particularly bad about the fact that he didn't care too much for the young noble.

Before his rambling mind could finish it's trail of though, Náin crossed the partially-reconstructed Great Hall for the third time, just in time to catch sight of Saeryn exiting by the opposite door. He sprinted the length of the hall, soon catching her up. Saeryn appeared to be on a errand, or mission, or something with a purpose anyway, to judge by the covered basket in her hands. She seemed to notice Náin behind her, and sped up her walk a trifle, so as to avoid the Dwarf.

"Lady Saeryn!" Náin called out. "I would have a word with you, if you would find it in your heart to listen."

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Saeryn stopped, sighing, and turned around. She had been unable to find Degas and cared for little more just then than to do so. He wasn't at the Hall. Still. She knew she ought to have brought a companion, more specifically a male companion, as the afternoon was getting later and this was no quick trip to market, but she had not dared to ask. She knew that none of the menfolk of the Hall would, or even really could, decline her request for accompaniment, but she also knew that few in the Hall truly liked Degas, and that they all had their own business to which to attend. She had hoped to slip away unnoticed.

"My good fellow," she murmered with nothing but politeness. "'tis not my heart that listens, but my ears. If you speak loudly enough, I have no choice in the matter, as we both know. I am sorry... that was unkind and helped nobody. But as you would have it, Nain, I will listen freely, if you will make haste, as I must find my brother. Or, if you would, you may speak and we will seek him together, giving you more time to relate your errand even as I complete mine."

[Formendacil]

"You are unaccompanied?" Náin did not need an answer, for it was plain. Saeryn was quite alone. This was rather improper, he considered. At least for a human woman. Among Dwarves, such an issue would not be worried about, but among humans, propriety was a good deal more serious- if only because human females were more likely to fall prey to their male counterparts than Dwarven females would.

"It would be shameful of me to refuse," he said slowly, a bit uncomfortable about acting as an escort, and even more uncomfortable with the idea of searching for Degas.

"Good," said Saeryn, and she started moving again. Náin hastened to keep up, muttering under his breath about humans and their long legs.

"What I was meaning to speak to you about," Náin said as he caught up, "was about my behaviour last night. There was no excuse for my actions, and I would have your forgiveness for my insult and intrusion."

[JennyHallu]

"An Eorlinga's word is of more worth than what his purse holds."

Marenil snorted, unable to help himself, raising himself up in preparation for searching for some luncheon. "Forgive me, lord," he said, using his Eorl's shoulder as a prop for a moment, "but you strike me as a very idealistic man for one of your years. Remember, young man: an Eorl's word carries no more value than any other man's. Think of Sorn!" Marenil was a bit snappish, and he saw the insult on the younger man's face before he really thought about his words. He fell silent for a moment, and when he spoke again his words were calmer and more careful, if no less harsh.

"Lord, a man of your fief will, if he has sense, lay less trust in your word than in any other. If any other man betrays him, his case can be brought before you for justice. Not so if you betray him. I said before, look at Sorn. Not to compare yourself with him, but you must recognize that there are terrible men in positions of power. Horrible men. And they get away with it, sometimes for years, sometimes for life if they're canny enough not to try anything big enough it cannot be ignored, as Sorn did in his insanity. Your word, begging your pardon, my lord, means nothing. Only your actions bear any weight.

"And thus to gain respect and trust, you must build a household that is self-sufficient, that produces enough and to spare. You need to be wealthy, but not ostentatiously so. Because if it is clear to your people that you are not avaricious, but are successful enough by your own work to have little need of theirs, then they can begin to trust your interests lie truly with your own.

"I refuse to operate your household at a loss, and as soon as I get things in order, I shall refuse to make use of the taxes you receive for the upkeep of your house.

"But for now, there's more than enough to keep me busy, and I won't lecture you again for a while."

With a chuckle, Marenil walked toward the kitchen, intent on finding Frodides, with what kindred spirit he had struck up an immediate friendship. She'd find him something to munch on, and they could sit and commiserate about the quirks of their employer.