Flight from Rohan RPG - The Barrow-Downs Discussion Forum

piosenniel · 07-15-2003, 02:14 AM

Envinyatar’s post

‘Osric! Lend me a hand here, man! I can’t lift these wheels myself.”

The bright midmorning sun blazed down on the square before the smithy, throwing the shadow of the straining man into stark relief against the packed earth. Aldwulf wiped his forearm along his brow and looked up, frowning, for the whereabouts of his younger brother. He was nowhere to be seen, and Aldwulf grew increasingly irritated at being left to wrestle the huge oak wheels himself. Shirt off to catch what breeze he could, sweat glistened on the straining muscles of his arms as he fought to pull the cumbersome wheel from the flat wagon’s bed and stand it on its rim to be rolled into the smithy.

They had come to the outskirts of Edoras, the city proper, to have the great wheels of the hay wagon rebanded by the blacksmith. As was usual, Osric had seen a group of his acquaintances and gone running off to see them, promising his older brother he would only be a moment. Moments stretched into quarters and halves of the hour, and still no sign of him. Aldwulf commandeered the smithy’s boy to give what help he could and together they got the two wheels into the blacksmith’s shop.

It was late afternoon by the time the smith had finished and the wheels were secured in the wagon for the trip home, an hour’s ride south along the Snowbourn River . . . and still no sign of Osric. Aldwulf sat on the bench in the shade of the spreading elm, calming himself with a pipe full of Westmansweed and a pint of local ale brought out by the smithy’s daughter.

A fair one, that one is! he could hear his mother saying, and her father’s only child. She’ll bring a large endowment into the marriage she makes. And the forge along with her when the smith looks to hanging up his hammer! he could hear his father chime in. He ran his pipe-stem along his bottom lip, watching her as she smiled at him, then hurried away. Pretty enough, he thought to himself, idly, wondering how she would fare away from the city, on their farm.

His thoughts were cut off with the hurried arrival of his prodigal sibling. Words of remonstrance were on Aldwulf’s lips until he noted the paleness of his brother’s face and his wide eyes. ‘Sit down,’ he said to the out of breath Osric, pulling the younger man down beside him. ‘Tell me what’s gotten you so upset.’

Over the next few moments, Osric delivered the news he had learned from Brytta just previous to his returning to Aldwulf and the wagon. A murder had been committed – old Folca had been killed, and Heldór stood accused of it. He had been arrested by the city guard and thrown into the dungeon to await execution.

Aldwulf’s face was grim as he listened to the news of his friend. ‘This cannot be!’ he said in a low voice. ‘Heldór is no craven to have murdered an unarmed old man, and one who had spent time in the service of the King.’

‘Brytta shares your faith in his brother, Aldwulf.’ Osric looked about for any unwelcome listeners. ‘He has asked me to tell you he would like to meet with you tonight . . . to discuss the situation. The White Horse – he said you would know the table.’

Aldwulf rubbed his chin, thinking quickly. He bade his brother take the wagon back to the farm. ‘Tell them nothing of what you have just told me, Osric. Just say that I met some old friends, with much new to catch up on. Tell them I will return soon, and not to worry.’ He clapped his brother on the shoulder. ‘Make it convincing.’

He saw his brother off, and sat for a long time, thinking, on the bench beneath the elm. When the sun had set, he stood and tapped his cold pipe out against the trunk of the tree. Placing it in the pouch that hung from his belt, he drew his cloak on and made his way quickly to the Inn.

There in the dark, back corner sat Brytta, his hands cupping a pint of ale – gazing into it as if to discern the course of events he was about to set in motion. Aldwulf advanced toward the table, and catching Brytta’s eye, nodded briefly to him.

‘I’m here,’ he said in a low voice, leaning across the table as he sat down. ‘Heldór – what are we to do for him . . .?’

07-15-2003, 02:14 AM	#2
piosenniel Desultory Dwimmerlaik Join Date: Mar 2002 Location: Pickin' flowers with Bill the Cat..... Posts: 7,779	Envinyatar’s post ‘Osric! Lend me a hand here, man! I can’t lift these wheels myself.” The bright midmorning sun blazed down on the square before the smithy, throwing the shadow of the straining man into stark relief against the packed earth. Aldwulf wiped his forearm along his brow and looked up, frowning, for the whereabouts of his younger brother. He was nowhere to be seen, and Aldwulf grew increasingly irritated at being left to wrestle the huge oak wheels himself. Shirt off to catch what breeze he could, sweat glistened on the straining muscles of his arms as he fought to pull the cumbersome wheel from the flat wagon’s bed and stand it on its rim to be rolled into the smithy. They had come to the outskirts of Edoras, the city proper, to have the great wheels of the hay wagon rebanded by the blacksmith. As was usual, Osric had seen a group of his acquaintances and gone running off to see them, promising his older brother he would only be a moment. Moments stretched into quarters and halves of the hour, and still no sign of him. Aldwulf commandeered the smithy’s boy to give what help he could and together they got the two wheels into the blacksmith’s shop. It was late afternoon by the time the smith had finished and the wheels were secured in the wagon for the trip home, an hour’s ride south along the Snowbourn River . . . and still no sign of Osric. Aldwulf sat on the bench in the shade of the spreading elm, calming himself with a pipe full of Westmansweed and a pint of local ale brought out by the smithy’s daughter. A fair one, that one is! he could hear his mother saying, and her father’s only child. She’ll bring a large endowment into the marriage she makes. And the forge along with her when the smith looks to hanging up his hammer! he could hear his father chime in. He ran his pipe-stem along his bottom lip, watching her as she smiled at him, then hurried away. Pretty enough, he thought to himself, idly, wondering how she would fare away from the city, on their farm. His thoughts were cut off with the hurried arrival of his prodigal sibling. Words of remonstrance were on Aldwulf’s lips until he noted the paleness of his brother’s face and his wide eyes. ‘Sit down,’ he said to the out of breath Osric, pulling the younger man down beside him. ‘Tell me what’s gotten you so upset.’ Over the next few moments, Osric delivered the news he had learned from Brytta just previous to his returning to Aldwulf and the wagon. A murder had been committed – old Folca had been killed, and Heldór stood accused of it. He had been arrested by the city guard and thrown into the dungeon to await execution. Aldwulf’s face was grim as he listened to the news of his friend. ‘This cannot be!’ he said in a low voice. ‘Heldór is no craven to have murdered an unarmed old man, and one who had spent time in the service of the King.’ ‘Brytta shares your faith in his brother, Aldwulf.’ Osric looked about for any unwelcome listeners. ‘He has asked me to tell you he would like to meet with you tonight . . . to discuss the situation. The White Horse – he said you would know the table.’ Aldwulf rubbed his chin, thinking quickly. He bade his brother take the wagon back to the farm. ‘Tell them nothing of what you have just told me, Osric. Just say that I met some old friends, with much new to catch up on. Tell them I will return soon, and not to worry.’ He clapped his brother on the shoulder. ‘Make it convincing.’ He saw his brother off, and sat for a long time, thinking, on the bench beneath the elm. When the sun had set, he stood and tapped his cold pipe out against the trunk of the tree. Placing it in the pouch that hung from his belt, he drew his cloak on and made his way quickly to the Inn. There in the dark, back corner sat Brytta, his hands cupping a pint of ale – gazing into it as if to discern the course of events he was about to set in motion. Aldwulf advanced toward the table, and catching Brytta’s eye, nodded briefly to him. ‘I’m here,’ he said in a low voice, leaning across the table as he sat down. ‘Heldór – what are we to do for him . . .?’ __________________ Eldest, that’s what I am . . . I knew the dark under the stars when it was fearless - before the Dark Lord came from Outside.