Scarburg Meadhall

[Firefoot]

The animal pens seemed terribly unimportant at the moment. Why did Eodwine keep going on about them now? There would be plenty of time tomorrow for the animal pens. What time of day was it getting to be anyhow? Surely dinnertime must be drawing near by now - except Léof wasn’t hungry, now that he thought of it. Thirsty, though. Or not so thirsty… the ale just felt good. He took another long gulp.

Rowenna was approaching the table. When had she left in the first place? Eodwine was standing. They had just sat down! Now he was talking: "I suppose we ought to get back to the animal pens, then, if we can get Léof out of his ale cup!" So soon? Best to finish quickly then. He threw back what was left in the cup – surprisingly little, only a couple mouthfuls, and pushed himself to his feet. Or tried to. How had his legs gotten so shaky? And why was his head swimming so? He gripped the table until the world steadied out. “I’m comin’,” he said. “Though I don’t see what’s the big hurry… Good stuff, this. Woulda had some long before now if I’d known that.” Were they listening? It was suddenly very important to him that they understood this. “M’ pa drank something awful. Never thought anything he liked could be good. ’Specially not ale, made him terrible. Worse to m’ sister, though.”

[Gwathagor]

The fellow who had just stood up looked as if he was about to pitch over onto the ground, and Crabannan nearly rushed over to hold him up, when the drunk man caught himself on the table, and held on for dear life. Crabannan smirked. The Rohirrim certainly liked their ale...though, from the look and sound of things, this man was unfamiliar with the drink. He shook his head. Eorling ale was as potent as any he had ever tasted.

Crabannan looked from the drunk man to the others and back again. Ah, awkward, he thought. Fate must have a sense of humor. He smiled a crooked grin and wondered if he would be acknowledged. Perhaps this wasn't a good time. Perhaps they hadn't even heard him...and then he could just slip away unnoticed.

Besides the drunk fellow and the man who he though must be the eorl, there were three others about the table, standing and sitting. With nothing better to do, he now took the time to look them over.

One (Harreld) was very tall - taller than all the others. He wore a smith's apron and though he seemed reserved, his size and obvious strength gave him an intimidating appearance. Crabannan chuckled. He looks like the big cook I fought in East Emnet, he thought, remembering the kitchen knife in his leg and the cook unconscious on the floor.

There was another, lesser in height than the smith, but with broader shoulders - and this fellow, Crabannan realized, bore a remarkable resemblance Javan. This, of course, was Thornden, and Crabannan correctly surmised that he was Javan's brother.

The third was a woman. He found himself staring a bit, for she was beautiful. Indeed, extraordinarily so. A trifle showy, Crabannan mused. Still, she must have a very happy husband - perhaps even one of these fellows here. The thought made him glance about to make sure he was not receiving any glares.

This all passed through his mind in a matter of seconds, as he absently shifted his weight from foot to foot, trying to make up his mind whether to stay and see this meeting through, or to stroll off while he still had the chance.

[littlemanpoet]

Eodwine was about to answer the newcomer when Léof struggled up and started trying to make words come out of his shambling lips. Poor boy was babbling, he'd quaffed so quickly from his ale cup.

"Javan?" Eodwine replied. "He is with Garstan and the boys making more tents. But I do not know you, nor do these others. I am Eodwine, Eorl of the Middle Emnet and lord of Scarburg, ruin that it is. This is Harreld our smith, this is Léof our ostler, and this is Rowenna, one of our serving wenches. How are you called and where do you come from?"

[Thinlómien]

“You always get in trouble. I don’t want to be in trouble with you by disobeying. We already are in trouble for fighting.”
“I do not always get in trouble! Take it back!”

Javan was eyeing Garmund fiercely. Cnebba stepped to stand side by side with his friend.

"Yes you do!" he interrupted. "Garmund was right to say that. You burned the stables."
Cnebba's tone was accusing, and there was a dark edge to it. He had noticed that his family's old horse, Snowstreak, had been grumpier and more easily scared after the fire. (His mother would have been surprised and proud had she known her son had noticed such thing. Cnebba, however, had kept the notion to himself.)

"And you always disobey Lord Eodwine. Like that when we arrived," Garmund added.
His tone was rather dark too. He and Cnebba had always been behaving themselves, if not well, then at least not badly either. Javan always caused trouble but he was never punished seriously, or so it seemed to the younger boys. They had talked about it with each other, and both of them thought it was quite unfair.

"And you broke my nose," Cnebba finished defiantly.
He was sure it was broken as there was blood coming out of it. (Only a little now, though, he had to admit.) Where was the healer, anyway?

[Folwren]

"And you always disobey Lord Eodwine. Like that day when we arrived."

They were taking a set against him. That much was clear. Both of them disliked him and believed he was good for nothing. The accusations stung, and he needed badly to protect himself. He saw only two options: retreat or fight. Retreating seemed out of the question. That would seem as though he agreed with them, that he was giving up, defeated.

“And you broke my nose.”

Cnebba added this as an extra proof that Javan was not a good boy. It was merely annoying and childish and it gave Javan possibly another option of escape.

“I did not almost break your nose. You’re just a big baby. I might not have been perfectly behaved in the past, but at least I’m not a wimp when it comes down to it. Now you two just shut up about the stables – it was an accident and I shouldn’t have to keep explaining myself – and I don’t always disobey Eodwine! Do you understand?” Those words seemed very grown up and mature to Javan and he was rather proud of himself of having been able to use the phrase to some younger than himself.

[Gwathagor]

So this was the eorl after all. Crabannan stood taller and narrowed his eyes a bit as he examined the man Eodwine more closely. He seemed fair and good, but Crabannan had suffered too much at the hands of first impressions as a to say more than:

"My name is Crabannan. I am a traveler from the north, and I happened upon your village early this morning."

The rest he held back: whence he came, whither he went, what he had done. All the things that made him truly himself he kept hidden as a rule. His naivety and credulity as a young man had earned him, among other things, a term of service in the Gondorian Long Guard, the misunderstanding of a variety of legal magistrates, and the enmity of an assortment of jealous, burly husbands whose existence had taken him rather by surprise. As a result, he had learned caution, even distrust, always keeping the world at arm's length, and relying on his wits and fists to keep himself alive.

Crabannan nodded to Harreld, glanced at Rowenna, and smirked at Leof. Then he turned back to Eodwine, and paused.

"I may stay some time. Just to rest, before I continue on to Edoras. But I'd like to work for my meals, if I could. I'm master of no trade - unless you count soldiering - but I've worked at many since I left home, and could likely lend a hand here and there."

Afraid of babbling, he promptly closed his mouth, and stood waiting for a response - tall, dark, and aloof, and more than a little enigmatic.

[littlemanpoet]

The man left much unexplained, but there was time. It would be best to have a trusted man near this stranger as often as possible, until they knew him better.

"You are welcome to stay with us for a time, Crabannan," Eodwine replied, "and from what I can see here, not much has been done getting the tents readied for use. It would help us greatly if you could lend Garstan the stoneshaper a hand with the tents .... and the boys, including Javan."

Crabannan thanked him and walked off.

As Eodwine and the others made their way back to the fence posts and rope and animals, he wondered how Dan was faring in the swamp. He had been gone all morning. But he was of the Pukel men, so maybe it was their way to take the whole day and come back with an answer in the evening. Eodwine told himself to have patience. He also wondered how the hunting party was doing, and how Stigend and his group was doing with the trees. He did not know whether Frodides had given them food for mid-day or if they were coming back for their food, and had not thought to ask her. There was much to do, and Eodwine decided that the matter was something that neither Stigend nor Frodides was likely to overlook, so he let the matter rest.

The day was getting now and sweat dripped from Eodwine's hairline into his face and down the back of his neck, just walking. Suddenly it hit him: no one had checked the Scarburg well to see if it was good. Much mead and beer and other drink had been drunk, but with weather like this, they would need a well. Did Scarburg even have one? If so, was it any good? He turned to look at his friends.

"Has any one of you seen a well on this land?"

[Groin Redbeard]

Their breathing was heavy and fast as they tugged at reins of they tired horses. Erbrand stumbled as he pulled Traveler after him. He loved his horse but fear had taken hold of him and he constantly was looking over his shoulder expecting to see a large number of armed peasants on horseback pursuing them with speed that would soon overtake him. He glared at his tired wretched animal with impatience and yanked on reins harder. Traveler obeyed and quickened his pace, but soon stumbled and fell on his hind legs.

"Easy there, Erbrand," Balvir barked, showing the same impatience to him as he had just shown to his steed, "The camp is close by." Erbrand stopped pulling on Traveler's reins and this time waited for his mount to get back up.

Soon their heavy breathing turned to laughter as the came within plain view of the camp. They all began to shout and call at different people, some of whose names Erbrand remembered from the groups previous talk. Soon people were swarming around the four hunters asking questions, examining the quarry that they had brought back, and telling them all about the days works. Erbrand looked back across the open plains to catch a glimpse of the peasants. He breathed an uneasy sigh: they had not followed them.

"Erbrand," Erbrand quickly snapped his head at Balvir in surprise, "Unload the deer and take the hides for yourself. Lithor with take the horses back to the stables."

Erbrand nodded his head in agreement, and in thanks, and led the horses away from the group of people with Lithor, while Balvir and Matrim went off by themselves. Erbrand guessed that they went looking for Eodwine.

"Well you've done good work today," Lithor said with a friendly smile as they unloaded the horses of their burdens, "These deer will make some excellent skins for you. Not to mention good stew." Erbrand laughed at the gleam in Lithor's eyes as he mentioned food.

"Thanks, I enjoyed it a lot. I'm looking forward to more hunting trips with you."

"Oh don't you worry there will be plenty more. The Eodwine's people have healthy appetites, they will soon be needing more food." Both of them laughed at the joke as they led the horses to the stables.

Lithor unstrapped the stirrups from the horses while Erbrand gathered the bows, quivers, rope, and what arrows where left. Lithor motioned for him to leave Matrim and Balvir's longbows standing next to his. When Erbrand asked where to put his bow, Lithor laughed and told him to keep it.

"With such shooting as you have demonstrated today, you've earned it."

He thanked him and ran back to the deer, that were left piled on top of each other out of view from the camp so that the people may not see the messy work that was being done. He stared at the carcasses for a minute, wishing to delay the tedious and long task of skinning the hides off of them. Finally he withdrew his long knife from its sheath and grabbed one of the dormant deer by the horns. He had just got himself situated and was about to cut into the animals flesh when a thought struck him. The Sun was sinking fast in the west, it would soon it would be dark! His snares which he had made earlier that morning weren't set in the marsh!

All other thoughts left his mind as he raced back to his tent to retrieve his snares. He flung the tent flap open, grabbed them, and raced back towards the marsh, bumping into several people on the way there. As he neared the marshes edge he tested the patches of grass to see if they would support his weight, remembering the embarrassing act earlier that morning. Suddenly another thought struck him: he desperately wanted to talk to Dan!

"So much to do and so little time," he thought to himself, "Well, nothing can be helped by worrying about it, best get these snares set first."

[Groin Redbeard]

His eyes slowly became aware of the dawn as the cock crowed and awakened Erbrand’s senses. He groaned slightly as he raised himself up and rubbed his face wearily. The days were long, but not long enough to get all of his jobs done. As well as working for lord Eodwine, Erbrand was responsible for making the saddles that were lost in the fire. He had stayed awake long into the nights tanning and hardening the many layers of leather needed for the saddles and would often be the last to go to bed.

Erbrand got up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. His face looked older than it did a month ago due to the thicker beard and longer hair that he grew. The long days of strenuous work had made his body hard and strong, he was no longer the petty specimen of a man that had wondered into camp thirty days before.

He picked up his shirt and stumbled to the flap of his tent, tripping over the four unfinished saddles that he kept inside. The camp was beginning to come alive as he stood upright and breathed in the warm morning air. Yesterday had been the completion of stone shaping for the Meadhall, soon the hall would be rebuilt with the help of Garstan the stone shaper. Garstan was a hard worker; Erbrand liked this about him and admired the perfection that he had accomplished with his it. However, Garstan’s shyness, mixed along with Erbrand’s nerves, had been the cause of several short and uncomfortable conversations that never got beyond the topic of work.

After putting on his shirt, and tucking it in, he quickly walked over to the mess tent to grab an early breakfast, which he often did, before going to look at his snares in the marsh. He soon became acquainted with the kitchen women and took an instant liking to Kara who always greeted him with a quiet “hello” which he would immediately smile and respond with, “Good morning mam.”

Kara and Frodides were there when he arrived at one of the tables.

“Hello, Erbrand.”
“Good morning mam.” He replied with a grin.
Frodides put his breakfast on a platter; usually some leftovers from last night and watered oats. He didn’t want to make the ladies to get up early to cook a bigger and hotter meal for him just because he was in a hurry. In fact he rather enjoyed his morning meals. Not only because the ladies were good cooks, but also because he got all the interesting news that floating around camp. He would sometimes chuckle to himself whenever Rowenna would come by with a bit of news or some sort of prediction about some members of the camp. Matrim’s advice about Rowenna didn’t make sense to him now. She was kind and aloof, not at all what Matrim described as a ruthless turncoat who would play nasty tricks on her friends for a bit of amusement, but he could feel a great amount of bitterness bottled up in her and tried to avoid getting into a personal discussion that might uncork those emotions.

As he munched on last night’s stew and soggy oats, he saw Harreld and Dan talking. Two strong willed and gentle spirited people, he had taken an instant like to Dan since that morning he arrived, and after a couple of odd shallow conversations with Harreld, Erbrand began to find more things to talk about and soon considered Harreld as a close friend. This was very much unlike that new character, Crabannan. Much to Erbrand’s disappointment, he found out that Crabannan was not a bard but a brawler and had gotten into several frivolous, yet intense, arguments with him since his arrival. Erbrand considered him to be nothing more than a trouble maker that would sooner or later rob lord Eodwine blind and hit the road, so for the most part Erbrand kept a close eye on his things.

He hastily shoved the last spoonful of oats in his mouth and got up from the table.

“Much obliged ladies.” He said with a thankful nod and headed towards the marshes for an early look at his snares.

Sometimes if he was lucky he would find a deer, or something similar to that, grazing on the far end of the marsh. Lithor had taught him how to use the bow to the point of perfection and was now able to ride and shoot with it, as well as hit a target from one hundred paces.

As he reached inside his tent for the bow and an arrow he spotted Crabannan emerging from his tent, energetic and filled with new mischievous energy. Erbrand walked towards him, he desperately wanted to avoid a conversation that would lead into a fight but he didn't want to be rude either.

"Good morning, Crabannan," he said dryly, "I hoped that you slept well?"

[Gwathagor]

"Good morning, Crabannan," said Erbrand, "I hoped that you slept well?"

Crabannan stretched and flexed his sleepy muscles, and then knelt down beside the bucket of water that he kept outside his tent.

"Well enough, Erbrand. Well enough."

He splashed the still-frigid water over his face and head and, standing up, threw back his dripping black hair and shook it, running his fingers through to keep it off his face. He looked at Erbrand and smiled his peculiar half-smile. In a way, that summed up Crabannan's relationship with many in the camp, Erbrand in particular: Crabanna was pleasant enough when he chose to be, but there was always part of him withdrawn, held back, part of himself that he never comitted. A month in the camp had improved and developed his ability for friendly interaction, but he still retained his tendency to brood, a characteristic which put many off. A little thing would throw him into deep, silent thought at a moment's notice and in that state, Crabannan was easily angered. Generally, his anger was just, but rarely was it merciful.

Crabannan swept up his short sword and began to buckle it on. He would just as soon have walked away from Erbrand without further conversation, which he knew would be forced and ingenuine (as it always was), but his marginal sense of social propriety, which he had somehow retained from his upbringing in Dale (or had the friendly and open Eorlings been rubbing off on him?), made him stay a moment longer.

"Up early today, Erbrand?" Erbrand was always up early. He said it was to check his snares (Erbrand fancied himself a hunter), but Crabannan always felt that he was more interested in spending as much time as possible with the kitchen-ladies, Kara in particular, than in the day's catch. This, at least, was Crabannan's impression, which may not have been as objective and disinterested as he like to believe...

At any rate, the catch was typically slim (a tough old buck-rabbit, a miniscule grouse, etc.), but would always be brought in with great seriousness and business-like modesty, in true Erbrand fashion. Crabannan knew that Erbrand rubbed him the wrong way and though he managed to keep his feelings hidden, he could resist pretending to take Erbrand as seriously as Erbrand took himself. The result was a series of facetious jabs. And, in turn, Crabannan had always felt the polite and proper Erbrand's subtle disapproval and dislike; for what, he couldn't say.

"How is hunting these days? Are the rabbits keeping up with you? They breed quickly, of course, but...I daresay you put a great strain on the poor mothers."

As he began to walk off towards the kitchen, where he guessed Erbrand had just come from - he was ALWAYS hanging around there, behaving obsequiously towards the cooking women - he could not resist asking: "How is Kara?"

As soon as he spoke, he knew he oughtn't to have said anything.

[Formendacil]

Though it was early enough that he was among the first to arrive at breakfast, Náin was late enough to have a properly prepared breakfast, and not to be joining Erbrand in his gruelish repast. Frodides welcomed him back with warmth. As far as the old cook was concerned, Náin was still in her good graces. Kara was elsewhere at the moment, to Náin's disappointment, but to Frodides' assurance that she'd be back any moment with whatever she had slipped out to fetch, Náin simply thanked her, but said not to worry. There would be plenty of time time to see Kara yet in the day, and Náin was firstly concerned with eating; it had been a long night and he expected that he would have much labour yet to do, and he wished to be at it as quickly as he might.

Carrying his food aimlessly towards the tables, Náin took a wrong turn, and ended up going a longer way around, and past one of the tents where too men were standing, talking.

He assumed that the two men were Rohirrim. Certainly, they weren't Gondorian, and if they were in Eodwine's retinue, that would make sense. As he approached, however, Náin had to wonder, however, because the accent of the one asking about the other's trapping didn't sound Rohirric. The Dwarf wasn't sure what it was... more northern, perhaps.

"How is Kara?"

It seemed the stranger-sounding man's question was unwelcome, from the look on the other's face, though Náin did not know why. Before the other man could answer, the Dwarf walked up beside the glowering trapper, and introduced himself.

"Náin at your service," he said, attempting a bow awkwardly, as he was still carrying his food. "In service to King Éomer of this land, at the request of King Thorin of the Lonely Mountain, and--if the Lord Eodwine does not object--the mason-advisor to project of rebuilding Scarburg."

The two men stared at him somewhat blankly, as if not quite sure what to make of him.

"And you are.... ?" Náin prompted.

[Folwren]

Javan had been up before dawn. He crept out when all was still dark and only the faintest sign of morning could be felt in the air. He gathered the arrows and the bow he used while teaching the two younger boys their lessons and went out towards the horse pasture. A twilight lay over the world when he reached the horses. He had a rope halter and with it, he caught his horse and brought him away from the herd and to the fence. There, he clambered up onto the horse's back and rode him away from the other horses.

The sun was just beginning to rise. Javan imagined that over at the camp, people were beginning to stir. He had a little bit of time before breakfast. He strung his bow and set and arrow to the string. Today, he wanted to teach Garmund and Cnebba something new, but he had to find out for certain if he could do it.

It had been a strange and unexpected consequence for fighting...Javan still wondered why they all had decided in making him teach the two boys the skill of archery. He had been told, yes, that it would help draw them together in some sort of friendship bond, but was that really all of it?

“Well,” he said, as he knocked an arrow to the string, “p’raps it has made us friends. Some.”

It hadn’t at first, though. He thought back to the first day they had tried it. The boys had been surly and quiet and Javan himself was unhappy with the situation. Cnebba and Garmund were slow to understand what Javan thought to be the very basics. They had come within inches of fighting several times that first day, and only Thornden’s threat of a thrashing had kept Javan from starting a fight.

But, the archery sessions were short, due to so much work having to be done in Scarburg. They continued day after day and it had not been long before all three of them actually began looking forward to it. The two younger boys loved to learn, and Javan discovered new things as he taught. However, the grown-ups’ plan of them becoming good friends had not as yet seemed to work. Javan seemed only to tolerate the two younger boys, and that was all they seemed to do in return.

The arrow sped from his string. The horse stood perfectly still, not even his ear moved backwards. Javan nodded in satisfaction when the arrow struck the target and he moved his horse forward into a walk.

The boys had learned to shoot on the ground, and then they shot with horses beside them, and eventually they had learned to shoot fairly accurately sitting on their horses. Today, he had decided, they would shoot while moving.

[Folwren]

Saeryn woke from a troubling dream. For a moment, she lay on her back, her arm draped over her forehead, thinking about it. Then she drew a breath and glanced outwards. It was already light outside. She had over slept. Her conscience told her to hurry and get out there and start the day's work, but the dream had stirred something in her memory.

She got up and knelt down beside her bed where her saddle and saddle bags lived. She lifted the blankets and moved the saddle. Lying beneath them was the old scabbard which held her short sword. She picked it up and drew the sword. Although clean, the blade was dull and marred with a couple small nicks. She decided after a moment what to do, and thrust it back into its sheath.

Quickly, she dressed and went out, carrying the sword with her. She hoped no one noticed her as she carried it across camp to Harreld’s smithy. She knocked on the wooden door frame, peering through the open door. The smith turned and came forward to greet her.

“Good morning, Harreld,” she said in reply to him. “I was wondering...I don’t know if you’re able, or if you’ve ever done anything like it, but...” she pulled her sword into view and drew it from the scabbard. “This ol’ thing has seen better days, and last time it was used, it didn’t fair too well. Do you think...” she was almost afraid to ask, in case she would be disappointed. She put the sword forward a little, hilt towards Harrled. “Do you think you can sharpen it again?”

[Firefoot]

Scyld rose shortly after morning’s light and stretched, much as he had any other day the past month. A whole month – yes, it had been that long now. In commemoration he decided to take a short walk before hunting down some breakfast. Unswervingly his feet took him down to the cleared ruin of Sorn’s hall. Gone, just as it should be. In this he had not minded serving the Eorl. Erasing Sorn’s mark was a worthy purpose, and so he had willingly spent the last month working here. And still he was not entirely sure of his purpose among these people. Just what did he hope to accomplish? And to what end? He had spent nearly his whole life scheming, waiting for something better. With Sorn’s death and Linduial’s escape he had felt some temporary satisfaction, some brief but real deeper feeling. Temporary. Then he had come face to face with the reality that he was adrift in a wide world, with no one knowing of or caring about his existence. So now he was here. Working, and working hard, to help the new Eorl build his hall from the ruins of Sorn’s estate. Was this to be his purpose? Simple work to occupy his days and ensure that at those days’ ends he would have food in his stomach and a place to lay his head?

No, that was for Nydfara. Nydfara might be satisfied with such a simple life, but Scyld could not be. He could not be satisfied, because he could not trust the simple pleasures such a life might afford, nor the people involved in it. This then brought him full circle to the original question: why was he here?

Consciously removing the thoughtful frown from his face and the troubling questions from his mind, he began a circuitous route back to the baker, nodding a cordial good morning to those he saw on the way. This was a remarkable skill of Nydfara’s that Scyld had not previously thought himself capable of. As ideal a servant as he always made himself seem to Sorn, his cynical sarcasm and biting wit had remained fully intact in his dealings with Sorn’s underlings, to a greater or lesser extent depending on the circumstances. Nydfara, however, was far warmer than Scyld ever had been, always ready to lend a hand, polite towards the ladies of the camp and companionable if reserved towards the men. He remained slow to talk and quick to listen, and thereby had learned much. The patterns and undercurrents in the camp were many, but as a boy avidly studying a colony of ants Scyld had come to make sense out of their actions – as much sense as people willing to serve others’ needs above their own and governed by emotion could make, that is.

Take, for example… Rowenna. The corners of Scyld’s mouth twitched upwards at the sight of the serving woman as she emerged from the curing shed with a side of meat. There was a woman with some depth to her! It was common enough knowledge (and therefore easily enough learned) how she had been ‘rescued’ (somehow the term stood out as dubious in Scyld’s mind, though he did not precisely understand why) from the outlaws and brought under Eodwine’s ‘protection’ – again, a dubious term; Scyld doubted such a woman needed much protection. Here was one who knew the ways of the world. Such similarities might have led a different man to seek alliance, but Scyld could trust no equals and would suffer no partners.

As they were headed the same direction, Scyld (or was this Nydfara speaking?) held up a hand in greeting and adjusted his course slightly to meet her. “Good morning to you,” he offered as a greeting. “Busy already, I see?” He asked, indicating her burden. Small talk, how it galled him – but Nydfara was good at small talk, even if Scyld hardly cared for the answer. It did, however, amuse him not to offer help carrying the meat – he was sure she had it well under control.

[littlemanpoet]

She glanced at Nydfara with a grin. "Yes, as always." She looked to the front again and switched the side of meat to her other hand, away from him. "And you dally before setting to your own work." It was a playful jibe.

Why was he suddenly talking to her now? What had she done to earn his notice? Did she really want it? These questions raced through her mind. But they were quickly followed by even more pressing questions: what was on his mind when he was so quiet? Where had he come from? What had he been up to in the past? She would place coin on it, had she any, that his life was not so different than hers.

"But I want to know," she continued, "why have you worked with such a will on the old ruin when most folks here like to vary what they do?"

[Folwren]

Saeryn

Saeryn shook her head. “Nothing,” she replied quickly. “Nothing at all.” And then she grinned, for some reason finding it amusing that Harreld spoke more than usual. She handed the sword to him. “I’m in no rush to have it back. I feel more relieved just knowing that you can do it, is all. You see,” she went on, explaining the other half of why she had looked surprised, “back home, when father was still there, we had a sword smith who would take care of all of our weapons, and the iron smith just did the household things that I have ever seen you work with, so I wasn’t sure if you were able.”

There was a short pause and she hoped she hadn’t offended him by even suggesting that he couldn’t do it. She looked around the tidy smithy as she thought about what he had said. Although she had said she was in no hurry to receive the sword back, she did feel anxious about knowing just when she would get it back. “How long do you think it will be before you can do it, Harreld?” she asked.

--

Thornden

Thornden stood quietly beside Eodwine until he had finished, asking as he ended, “Have you any questions for me?”

“How long will you be gone?” Thornden asked. “You speak as though you thought you would be away from some time."