Scarburg Meadhall

[shaggydog]

Oeric made little attempt to avoid detection as he wound his way through the muddy patches and over small hillocks of last year’s dry and matted grass. The byre was but a few minutes away, a one time winter’s shelter for the sheep he had helped tend. He hoped that the fool stuck in the bog had the sense to keep still just a bit longer, and he thought perhaps he should have made himself known before leaving to get the rope he knew to be in the tumble down shed. On the other hand, there was still a chance that one of the dark man’s own would hear him or happen upon him and then Oeric’s help would not be needed, if they knew the proper way to extract one as deeply mired as that one was. If, if, if . . .

Oeric let out a big breath of frustration. Why did these people come here, come now? Why couldn’t he have been left alone in his shame and grief? Why did that fool have to go and get himself stuck? Why had the one called Nydfara used his brain and run the other way, while he, like an idiot, had gone running straight towards discovery and his own undoing? Shaking his head in anger, Oeric none the less kept on his course and soon arrived at the shed.

It was the work of but a few seconds to enter the dim interior of the byre and fish about in the moldy hay of years past, clutching the rope in his hand and setting off once more, back the way he had come. How often since finding it had he not thought long and hard about its possible use, the one remaining cross beam of the ruined roof standing starkly silhouetted against a starlit sky, beckoning. And now it would be used to save a life instead. Even a simple mind such as Oeric’s could grasp the irony of that.

Hurrying back, his mind inventorying the scattered willow boughs he had seen littered about the copse, Oeric paused once more at the edge of the patch of scrubby trees. Straining his ears, he heard neither any sound of approaching rescue from the camp, nor did he hear any further cry from the fellow in the bog. Well, fate had decided this one it seemed. He quickly selected the boughs he would need and with no further thought for secrecy, crashed through the willows to meet that fate.

[Groin Redbeard]

The Sun was high in the sky and progress was slow. Traveler slumped and sagged as he walked behind Erbrand, his mane was damp with sweat and each breath came out in long sighs. The humans were as tired as their animals, not one of them had any rest since they set out that morning.

It was not long before Balvir found a place with shade, under a large oak tree. The hunting party unloaded their game off of their horses and let them roam free to graze, while the men drank from their water flasks. Their spirits were lifted by the needed rest and soon all four of them were laughing at hunting stories. Lithor told them about the time that he learned to shoot from horseback, shot, missed the deer, fell off the horse and broke his arm, Erbrand howled with laughter until tears came from his eyes. Now of course seeing a man fall and brake his arm would be an offal thing to behold, but everything seemed so far away right there and then, plus, Lithor told it in a most amusing way.

Soon Erbrand began asking questions of the three men’s youth and where they grew up. Lithor told him that he grew up on a farm in the West-March near the river Adorn. Matrim told Erbrand that he grew up in the town of Ethring, his father was a noble in the town. Balvir grew up in the southern ends of Gondor in Belfalast, and Erbrand listened as Balvir recounted his days in the city of Linhir looking out each morning on the Bay of Belfalas. All the while Erbrand listened with intrigue at the stories of strange places, he didn’t interrupt their accounts to ask a question, and instead he let his imagination fill in the blanks.

“Tell me,” Erbrand asked when Balvir finished speaking, “I’m new to Scarburg and I’m desperate to make sure I know who everybody is, and I was wondering if you could help me out?”

“Well the first people you’ll want to meet is Harreld,” said Lithor, “He’s a smithy you see, and a darn good one at that, he is shy around strangers, especially the lady folk, but you’ll find that out soon enough.” Lithor laughed at his own joke, and the two Gondorians laughed with him. Erbrand didn’t know what they meant, and he took it for some inside joke.

“Let’s see,” Lithor said, counting with his fingers, “There’s Stigend the carpenter and Leofric, he’s the fellow you saw at the stables this morning, he takes care of our horses back at Edoras, and Garston the stone shaper. Then for the ladies there’s Ginna, Frodides, and Kara, who all work in the kitchen.” Lithor chuckled to himself again. “And then there’s Rowenna, now you better watch yourself with her.”

“Why is that?” Erbrand asked.

“Her past has been a terrible ordeal,” Matrim chimed in, “While she was still a young woman she was abducted from her farm by brigands and has seen death come to her father and two children. Her experiences has made her awfully determined at some things and frequently causes trouble if she is to gain from it, but when you’ve been through what she has been through you can’t really hold it against her, nasty business. You just make sure you never get on her bad side.”

Erbrand solemnly nodded his head. Balvir stirred from his comfortable dormant position, his back against a tree, and got up.

“Well, let’s break it up, we should be getting back Scarburg. We’ll go round up the horses,” Balvir motioned for Matrim to follow him.

Erbrand sat for a little longer pondering the names of the occupants of Eodwine’s household. He knew that the day would be nearly gone by the time he got back to camp, no socializing today. His back was ached as he rose from his spot, Balvir and Matrim returned with the horses and he began slinging the deer over Traveler’s back.

They reached the scar around an hour later; it wasn’t long before they were back at camp. Lithor broke into a fast song that was familiar to the group and they all joined him in singing. Erbrand’s thoughts of the strangers at camp faded from his mind, he was accepted as one of the group by these three and that was all that mattered.

[Firefoot]

“Help!”

Scyld reacted instinctively. Another’s plight was not his problem, unless by helping the person he might help himself. He knew neither the current situation nor identity of the endangered, he had not himself caused the problem, and he could feign ignorance later should it prove necessary. Time to be gone. He snatched his pack and sped off.

Oeric’s actions told another story. Fool. If his utmost desire was to remain unknown to the Eorl and his men, he would not run toward the cry. Oeric, Scyld judged, was conflicted, and conflicted men were the most dangerous sort, because one could never predict what they would do. Sorn had always been straightforward. So had Linduial, though Scyld still did not understand her. This Oeric, though – he did not act as he spoke. Nor had he spoken wisely if Scyld’s help was truly something he wished to gain. He had asked for Scyld to keep his secret and offered nothing in return. Whether by ignorance or unwillingness, he had proved a poor informant. And now he had proved he could not even keep his own skin safe by haring off after a cry for help.

Very soon, however, he slowed his pace as a new thought came to mind. He was ready to enter the newcomers’ camp, was he not? And how better to earn trust than to help one of their own? The plan, somewhat risky in his mind, warred with his instinct. Almost against his will he found himself stopping and turning around. He did not have to make his presence known right away. He could wait and see what Oeric made of the situation. Yes, that would suit. And if helping out seemed unprofitable, they would never need know he was there.

[littlemanpoet]

Léof had given his assent to rummaging through the ruins for makeshift fenceposts, and so the three of them, including Thornden, were busy at it. It was hard, sweaty work, for most of the time such wood was found beneath and behind other more ruinous items such as downed walls, ruined furniture, and the like.

The stables, which had been situated on the western side of the old hall, were worthless, a heap of burnt wood good for nothing but kindling for bonfires. They had greatest success on the east end where there was an upstairs crashed down upon the lower level; it was this lower level that offered the least ruinous scraps of fencepost. After more than an hour of hard, sweaty work, they decided that they had found enough of what they were looking for, and hauled their findings back toward the paddock.

They were met by an urgent and pale Rowenna. "Lord, I have something to tell you that cannot wait."

Eodwine's brow rose. "Is someone in danger?"

"Nay, no longer, though someone was indeed but had the worst of it. I found a dead body of a man in one of the sheds."

"Is every man among us accounted for?" asked Eodwine, looking around.

"This man has been there since before we arrived, I am sure, lord," Rowenna answered.

"Léof, Thornden, I think we have earned ourselves a break. Let us see this."

The three men dropped their wood in a pile and followed Rowenna back to the shed, and Rowenna opened the door wide. They peered in and found it just as she had said. After observing, with nose plugged and eyes watering, Eodwine shook his head and ruminated that they had spent an entire day and more in the place with a half eaten dead body of a man waiting in a meat curing shed. It was unthinkable except that it was so. He wished mightily that it was not.

"Well, what do you think we should do about it?" Eodwine looked around the small group. "Bury it? Burn the thing and its innard to ashes? Or," he grimaced, "I have heard tall tales that the Haradrim have been known to 'examine' such bodies for signs of how and why they died." Eodwine had smirked at his use of the foreign word.

[Firefoot]

It had been with some trepidation that Léof followed Rowenna to the shed, torn as he was between curiosity and trepidation. A brief glance, a passing whiff told him all he wanted or needed to know. Something had to be done with it (he could not think of the body as a “him”), and his first wish was that they might simply burn the entire shed with the body inside of it – but wood was too valuable, it seemed, for such a wasteful process.

Eodwine’s suggestions were far more plausible, until he mentioned the Haradrim practice. “Lord, surely not!” Léof cried out at this. He would be hard pressed to tell which was fouler, the sight or the smell of the corpse, but ‘examining’ the body as Eodwine put it defied his imagining. The thought of touching the body even enough to bury it revolted him. “Let the dead lie in peace!” Then he faltered. “Unless – you really think it might tell us something?” Of course foul play had been involved. People did not just lay down and die in abandoned sheds. “But – would any know what to look for? And who could stand the smell long enough to look? Lord – let the dead lie. Can the way he died truly be important?”

[Folwren]

Thornden stood by with almost as much disgust as Léof. Eodwine’s suggestion seemed to disturb Léof a great deal and in any other circumstances, Thornden would have grinned at his reaction.

“I think Léof may be right, although my reason for thinking so is not because of the smell. Even if we were to try to tell how he had died, what would we look for? And if we found anything more than what we already know (namely, that he was killed by someone and hidden here) what good would it do us? What could we do? We couldn’t find out who did it.

“I say we bury it and have nothing more to do with it.”

[littlemanpoet]

"Rowenna? Have you any thoughts on the matter?"

"Bury it or burn it," she said simply.

Eodwine shrugged. We can use the wood, if it is not ruined by the foulness of the corpse, so we will not burn it. Bury it we shall." But Eodwine wondered what they would find. "We will bury it up in the scar, away from our settlement. Before we begin, we will be wanting cloths for our faces and coverings for our hands. Maybe Harreld or someone has a board of good length we could lay the body on so that we need not touch it without need. Rowenna, go see Harreld and have him come too."

"Aye, lord." Rowenna hurried off while the three men stood upwind of the shed, waiting in rather keen discomfort for the task that lay ahead.