The White Horse Inn, Act III

[Bêthberry]

Ruthven barely had time to see a familiar face saunter in and grab a mug of mead from the shelf outside the kitchen--for who was taking orders at a time like this?--before she watched, stunned, as this Rand fellow threw off the assault. He was a big 'un and it would take more than her potion to bring him down.

She called out to Eodwine, "'Ware, Messenger. Watch him, as very soon he will start to show certain effects from mybrand of fighting."

The twins, a pile of arms and legs all akimbo, looked over at Ruthven with disgust and surprise mingled on their faces, a guffaw ready to echo 'round the hall despite their close encounter with the floor. Degas held Saeryn and both looked with undisguised perplexion upon the rag lady. Gudryn quavered with fear and confusion. Eodwine, much miffed with the intrusion upon his heroic stance, yelled out, "By ogre and boggart, what do you mean, woman? Are ye daft?"

Ruthven chuckled and pointed back towards the brigand.

A huge whelt was forming on his forehead where Falco had landed the blow, and a cut, small but bleeding freely, had been opened. Rand had tried to lift his hand and sleeve to wipe away the blood from his eyes and found his arm was not obeying his command. Instead, it hung at his side, stiff. Not even his fingers could he move or bend, and he began to stagger over to the one side. With his other, unaffected hand, he lifted his arm to inspect the hand. But he misjudged the paralysis and instead swatted his own face with his stiff hand, wiping the fingers all the same in the bleeding wound. He dropped his useless arm and roared even louder, as if sound could be a weapon.

"There's monkshood for you," quietly remarked Ruthven. "And if there's any of that ale left on your hand, you've just rubbed it into the wound. But watch him, Eodwine, for he will be unbalanced now and his movements hard to predict."

Eodwine looked over at Ruthven with a nod. "Remind me to offer to do some weeding for you later, in thanks."

"'Tis Bethberry's garden, not mine. You can thank her. Now, carry on, Eorlingas."

[bilbo_baggins]

Oin got up from his corner and helped the man Eodwine carry the twitching Rand over to a bench by the door, where they could take care of him later.

"What is your name, lad?" Oin asked the man of Rohan. "And what was this lump of garbage after?"

"Oh, he was just making trouble," he replied, "and my name's Eodwine. Yours, master Dwarf?"

"Oin. I am working with my distant cousin, Gimli, in the Glittering Caves. He sent me here on an errand to the King."

"I see."

----

Oin was very glad that he had seen the old lady, (Ruthy, wasn't it? or Ruthen?) and hoped that he would have a good time in Edoras.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Saeryn clung to Degas as she caught her breath, watching helplessly as the brigand fell to the floor. She stifled a cry when he reached up but breathed a sigh of relief when the old woman's words proved true. As Eodwine and the newcomer moved Rand's nearly stationary form out of the way, none too carefully, she observed, she calmed.

Degas held his sister close, marvelling that she should not know his face. He looked into eyes matching his own and kept her within his grasp as the fight died before them. His bandaged hands trembled as his rage grew at his own inability to protect the woman-folk. When all was safe, or as safe as could be, he led his twin to an empty seat and sat her down, kneeling before her.

"My lady," he said patiently, "do you know my face?" She shook her head, clutching her aching ribs. In all the fuss, her bandages had come loose. They would need rebinding before she turned in for the night. "Lady Saeryn, I am your brother, Degas of the Folde. Our brother Fenrir rules the land. Our sister..." he stopped, looking around helplessly. Saeryn looked at him in complete disbelief.

"Sir, I do not know what tale you tell, but it is certainly not one of mine. I am no more a lady of the Mark than I am a dancing bear."

Degas' eyes grew wet as he looked around for aid. Most of the group tried valiantly to pretend they could not hear the painful exchange. None knew if the lady would ever regain her memory, but certainly right now she could not be pressed. It would never do for her to deny her history as it was obvious she would.

Sitting down in the Inn that truly looked so comfortable, Nolin Silverfist glanced around to see what was what. He was here on an errand of another sort than those who would traverse here. Catching runaways was truly a difficult task.

Finding an undrunk mug of beer, Nolin slowly sipped and began to search the Inn for the one he had to find.

After a few sweeps, where he found nothing but a drunken vagabond on some chairs by the door, and a tearful couple trying to work some sort of painful business out, he decided that he didn't need to hurry. Time will tell with all things, as his father Thranu would say.

He sat down on a bench to wait.

[Bêthberry]

The Innkeeper came running into the Mead Hall, breathless from her efforts to secure the other areas of the White Horse. What she found in the great room was cause for mixed feelings.

It was a tableaux of sorts. In the foreground at centre stage stood Eodwine and the brigand Rand, Eodwine still with his hand on his sword and the brigand frozen in a pose of fury, anger, and unbelief. Garreth and Harreld lay spread at their feet, a sort of carpet defense. To the left, a tender aside of brother and sister. Tears were not enough here to help Saeryn recover her memory. Behind Eodwine stood Gudryn, her hands spread forth as if to grab hold of the man who had sworn to protect her. In her eyes was a wild panic, as if she would flee if she could only find the courage to force her feet to move.

The background told a different tale. There was Ruthven, watching Rand with a certain smug satisfaction spread over her face. She seemed to be watching a dwarf who had walked away from Eodwine and taken a back seat to the adventure. Bethberry thought the dwarf looked familiar but she couldn't be sure as she always found dwarven beards confoundedly like camoflauge. Once or twice she had even mistaken a female for a male dwarf, but that was another story long ago. Then there was a complete stranger sipping beer on the bench. Who are these people to help themselves to the Horse's tipple? she asked herself.

Each person seemed to hold the pose long enough for her to survey the scene and then a sudden bustle of conversation broke forth.

[littlemanpoet]

Eodwine

Eodwine let go of Rand and turned around, finding Gudryn right behind him looking for all the world like she was ready to run.

"You are safe, Gudryn, as I promised. I will not leave you. Are you well?"

Gudryn's wide eyes took Eodwine in, as if she was desperate to believe his promise. Finally, she nodded once, blinking. "Yes, I am well."

Eodwine put away his sword and gathered her in his arms.

Falco

Falco moved to Harreld and Garreth. "Up, you two louts! Someone must bring word to the guard."

Garreth coughed and rubbed his forehead. "Then get yourself to them. Ow! I have a headache."

Harreld eyed his twin brother. "Your head's too hard, Garreth."

"Me! It's you as always has been the hard headed one!"

Falco threw up his hands. "Useless!" He turned to Eodwine. "Master Eodwine, I go to the guards of the Golden Hall!"

Eodwine nodded, rocking Gudryn in his arms, toussling her hair, something new in his eyes the hobbit had not seen before. As Falco dashed out the front door to the Common Room, he gave brief thought to what it was, and decided that the Eorlinga had been counting time for many years, at loose ends, as it were, and had finally discovered something - someone - worth tying down the tent-ropes for. Maybe even laying new foundations. It was something worth thinking about. For himself, Falco wanted a wife before a daughter, let Eodwine do it the other way around if he liked.

[Bêthberry]

'Ware!' cried out Ruthven. She was the only one still watching Rand.

He had lumbered up and was swaying but had reached out and grabbed Eodwine's sword with his one free hand while Eodwine was holding Gudryn.

Pitching and yawing wildly the brigand looked like a ship tossed up and down by a wild wind atop rolling waves. He didn't seem to know where he was aiming his swings, but swing the sword and his arm he nevertheless did. A lock of Gudryn's hair was sliced and fell to the floor, but miraculously her neck went unscathed. Was a battle still to be played out?