Scarburg Meadhall

[Groin Redbeard]

Everything had happened so fast, the reality of what had happened took a brief moment to register in Erbrand's head. Traveller's neck was bent and his nostrils flared as he struggled to catch his wind. For a moment Erbrand forgot all about the winning and leapt from Traveller's back. He cursed himself as he felt his horses chest heave in and out.

"You're selfish, selfish, Erbrand!" he muttered to himself over and over again. Speed was not the poor beasts purpose in life, it was in strength that Traveller would succeed, and in spite of this Erbrand made his horse do what was not intended of him, the selfish want of winning was on the top of his list and as a consequence had nearly broken his horse. Traveller lifted his head slightly and turned as he felt Erbrand run his fingers through his mane and rub his neck; he knew that touch. It was the touch that his master gave him at the end of a day of pulling wagons and hauling goods to and fro, it was the touch he got just before offered a carrot or a precious lump of sugar. Erbrand lifted his horses sunken head and looked him squarely in the eye as if he were examining him.

"We sure showed them, didn't we boy?" but Traveller payed no attention and instead started biting at Erbrand's sleeves to see if he had some hidden treat. A crooked smile crept across Erbrand's face as Traveller shook his mane and stood up to his full height. It would take more than one race to keep him down.

"Leof," Erbrand cried out as the boy dismounted, "well done, I have never seen a horse run so fast or ridden so admirably. Very well done!" Erbrand smiled and gave a playful wink as he shook Leof's hand.

Back across the Scar he led Traveller, back to the stables where he would be safe from wondering. He noticed that Horse was already put in his stall, though it looked quite refreshed for being in a race. With a farewell pat on the back Erbrand left Traveller to munch on his carrot. Crabannan was just crawling into his tent as Erbrand walked by, he had an urge to taunt his rival after he had lost in the race, but decided against it, Crabannan had a temper to match his own. Instead he raced by with the satisfaction of beating him when it came to handling horses, but the real contest that he anticipated to have with Crabannan was still to come: the quarterstaff fight. Though he was hesitant to enter the contest, he wanted desperately to beat Crabannan at his own game, or at least show his worth in a fight.

[Firefoot]

She had done it! Æthel had done it! Léof had known she could, of course, but that did not detract from his pleasure now. As he eased her down from the gallop he observed her carefully and was pleased to note that her gait was steady if perhaps less spirited than normal, and she still held her head high. Any race would take its toll, but she was scarcely tired. He circled her back around, dismounting when he neared the finish line again.

Made slightly effusive by his victory, Léof cried to Eodwine, “Good race, my lord!”

“And to you, Léof,” returned the Eorl, but Léof thought he seemed a bit distracted, and was immediately put in mind of Rowenna and Saeryn, who had not returned for the race. A shame, that – Saeryn’s mare would have put in a good bid for the win. But it was not his affair – if they had more pressing matters to attend to (and they certainly did, by the tone and volume of their earlier conversation with Eodwine in the stables), it was their business.

He hung around a little while longer, accepting the congratulations of the various hall folk. Soon, however, preparations began for the next event, and he had a hot and sweaty horse to attend to. He took Æthel and another horse as well (he could walk out two horses just as well as one; not all the riders need take their own horses back) and headed back to the stables, whistling a cheerful tune as he went.

[littlemanpoet]

He was genuenely happy for Léof. The lad had run a good race. He said so, too. Then he turned to Flíthaf, who looked him in the eye restlessly, hardly any sign of tiredness in him. If anything, it appeared that the stallion was ready for more.

"Maybe later today, my lad," Eodwine said, caressing Flíhaf's cheek. "I reckon that I owe you more time than I've given you of late, and for that I'm truly sorry. You and I shall make up for it on the morrow."

He turned to Léof and asked if his ostler could take care of Flíthaf, for he had a rather irksome matter on his mind. Léof did so willingly, and Eodwine thanked him, then walked off at a good pace toward the entrance to Scarburg. He got as far as the road just beyond the entrance where he saw something that made his eyes open wide and his jaw drop.

Saeryn and Rowenna were walking slowly back toward him, Saeryn leading her mount by the reins, and they were talking and smiling, and even laughing! His heart lifted and his eyes moistened. He had desired Saeryn in marriage for months now, and had been kindly disposed toward Rowenna ever since her rescue - though he had not liked some things about her attitude; but now he suddenly came to love them both. Saeryn he wanted for his wife; Rowenna his heart held like a father. It was strange that they were both the same age, but there the similarities largely ended.

They had not seen him. This was not a time to intrude. He turned back to Scarburg, no longer feeling burdened. "Flíthaf, I'm sorry I was so heavy on your back; perhaps we would have won. No matter! The foot races are next!" Eodwine trotted back to the Scar where they were soon to begin.

There he found Lithor readying the other runners: Erbrand, Osmund, Degas, and Matrim, as well as Garmund, Cnebba, and Javan. They would all run together, but the boys were to be given a first place for themselves no matter which man won the race.

"Friends," Eodwine said loudly, "I am willing to wager one copper that Osmund will win the short race. Who will take my wager?"

[Nogrod]

Garstan and Stigend were following the competants getting ready from close up. There they were the two proud fathers looking at the same time both hilarious and a bit uneasy. The cause for their confusion was with the relations between the boys, to be exact the relations of all the three boys. They just both hoped the games might do the trick... but it might turn into a disaster as well for even if the archery-practise had kind of turned the relations for better it had also opened new shifting alliances and that was clearly a sign of things not yet being quite settled.

Stigend glanced at Garstan who tried a smile but failed miserably and ended up frowning lightly looking Stigend back into the eye. Stigend was just about to open his mouth when lord Eodwine called for his bet on Osmund.

The two were silent for a moment eyeing each other as if asking whether they should call for a bet in the kid-run. Slowly they both nodded in refusal and turned back to follow the preparation for the run. Stigend realised his heart was pumping hard. He felt the pulse in his forehead.

~*~

Cnebba was drawing breath slowly and filled his lungs feeling how he grew in size and stature with all the air inside him. Then he made a small pause full of air and then let it flow out like a long awaited relief. He eyed every now and then Javan beside him and Garmund behind Javan. They both seemed focused even though it was at least once or twice he caught Garmund glancing towards Javan and him. He would have to show those two... and he realised the two others were thinking exactly the same. At least Garmund was. And Cnebba was sure Javan was too even if he didn't show it.

Cnebba saw his dad and Garstan in the crowd watching him and Garmund getting ready for the race. Stigend smiled to him encouragingly when their eyes met. Cnebba smiled back hastily but felt confused.

Then he saw Leothern standing beside Garstan holding his hand and her gaze going intensively through the line of the runners. Suddenly she was looking at him. Cnebba turned away from her eyes and stared straight forwards to the track in front of him like if he hadn't noticed her looking at him. He pulled in some air and tried to look as confident as he could not daring to glance sideways...

[Groin Redbeard]

"My lord you are confident today," Lithor said merrily as he overheard the eorl's bet, "but you forget that you are racing as well, or is that why you made the bet?" Lithor grinned at his little joke.

The two boys were getting ready for the race. Cnebba, Javan, and Garmund were at the starting line all fidgety and looking nervous. Lithor walked over and said a few private words of encouragement, trying to ease their nerves, and then in a loud clear voice addressed the crowd.

"People, people, settle down, the foot races are about to begin!"

~~~~

Erbrand

He was near when the eorl mad the proposal. At first Erbrand payed no attention to the friendly bet, he never gambled, money was hard to come by for him and he had not made any here in Scarburg. Yet something seemed to wrench at his insides as he walked by, in an indirect manner Eodwine had challenged him, and every other man who was running; his honor was on the line. With a smirk on his face he spun around and headed back to the eorl.

"Lord Eodwine, I'll accept your bet. Which shall it be, the sprint and the distance run?"

[littlemanpoet]

"The sprint this time!" Eodwine grinned. "I don't think I'll bet on Osmund for the longer run."

"We'll see about that!" cried Osmund.

There was a good round of laughter and then they quieted as the runners got into position. Lithor again explained how it would go. The red flag had been moved, and Wilcred had volunteered to stand at the flag to declare the two winners.

"Go!" yelled Lithor. Degas got the best start, and Eodwine did well too. Matrim and Erbrand started a half step behind them, with Osmund in between. Cnebba and Javan got off like two peas in a pod, but Garmund stumbled before he could get going.

They covered the first fifty feet in seconds. Eodwine and Degas were neck and neck, Osmund one foot behind, and Erbrand and Matrim a foot behind them. Six feet back from them ran Javan; a full running stride behind him was Cnebba, and Garmund brought up the rear, but he had been gaining on Cnebba.

Matrim quickened his pace and caught up to Eodwine after another fifty feet. Degas had fallen a foot back, tied with Erbrand. Osmund was now a half stride behind them. Back ten feet ran Javan. A full running stride back was Cnebba, but Garmund was now tied with him.

They neared the flag. Matrim was moving ahead. Degas was pulling even with Eodwine again, and Erbrand stayed just a head behind. Osmund was falling back almost a full stride. Javan was still ahead of the other boys but Garmund had passed Cnebba, who had fallen farther behind.

Matrim crossed the finish line first, almost a full stride ahead of Eodwine and Degas, who finished tied. Erbrand was just a lean behind, and Osmund brought up the rear of the men. Javan crossed the line six feet behind Osmund, Garmund three feet behind him, and Cnebba three feet later yet.

All of the runners were bent over their knees, breathing heavily. "I owe you a copper, Erbrand!" Eodwine said. "Osmund! Were you trying," he puffed, "to lose me my coin?!?"

[Folwren]

It was a strange feeling, to win a race but in reality come in behind all the men. Javan had held some scrap of hope that he might be able to come in somewhere among the older people. No such luck. He was pleased, though, despite that, and he grinned as he panted for breath, his hands on his knees. He glanced sidelong at Garmund and Cnebba and then stood up to go over and speak with them. A pain in his side halted him momentarily and with his hand clasped about it to cinch the pain, he went over to them.

“Man, Garmund, you nearly had me, I swear!” he said cheerfully. He did not speak as though he were boasting or gloating over the fact that Garmund hadn’t beaten him. “You both ran very well. I’ll wager that in the longer race, you may have a chance of winning even against me!” Although he said it, he hoped that neither of them did win. He did not know how he would feel to lose against Garmund who was three years younger than he.

“Do you know if we’re running the next race immediately?” he asked after a slight pause. He glanced around towards the men. They were still panting and laughing at some apparent joke amongst them and no one had heard his question, except the two other boys.

[littlemanpoet]

Lithor looked carefully at each pair to make sure they were properly tied and no one having an undue advantage. When he came to Degas he stopped and rubbed his chin.

“Well now, my lord, I fear that you do not qualify as three legs. The little one is going to have to have at least a leg free, even if it never touches the ground.”

“I'm afraid, my friend,” said Eodwine, standing next to Degas, “that Lithor has a point.”

“What say the rest of you runners?” asked Lithor.

[Folwren]

Javan and Wilcred were bound together at the ankles. Javan was just standing up from finishing the knot, clinging to Wilcred to keep his balance, when his attention was caught by the question rising from the far end of the line.

“What’s wrong - what is it?” he asked. Wilcred shook his head. Thornden, passing them as he walked along down the line to get to the other side of the racing field, explained.

“Degas and Léoðern are not tied to Lithor’s satisfaction.”

Javan leaned forward to peer down the line. His eyes stretched when he caught sight of the odd pair. “Oh for goodness’ sake!” he cried out, loud enough for Eodwine and Lithor both to hear even at their distance. “Let ‘em run like that, if they like!” And in aside to Wilcred, “Not like Degas could beat the lot of us single handedly with someone hanging on his leg...ridiculous, really...and Lithor should quit sticking his nose into all this business that doesn't really belong to him. Who put him in charge anyway?"

"Eodwine agreed with Lithor's protest," Wilcred said, matching Javan's tone of voice. "And I believe it was Eodwine who put him in charge."

[Groin Redbeard]

It took awhile for the thought of him losing to register in his mind. It vexed him to think that he had even come behind, far behind, the women. If only he could have made it over the wall faster. Erbrand didn't dwell on the thought for long, it was over, and it wouldn't do any good to brood over his loss, he was especially thankful for the contestants being so gracious and not gloating over him.

“Well done Harreld,” he said approaching the smith, “You were the toughest opponent that I have had yet.” Harreld thanked him for his praise and clasped his hand in a friendly sportsmanship manner.

Rowenna had proven tougher than Erbrand perceived her to be. She was standing with Eodwine and Saeryn, she looked anxiously at Saeryn who seemed to be hurt. Nevertheless, Erbrand approached them addressed Rowenna in a respectful tone.

“Congratulations, Rowenna, never had I seen such a race. Indeed you are made of stouter stuff than any other women that I have ever met. And you too Saeryn, although I didn’t see you finish, I heard that it was quite a site.” She smiled back but seemed to pained to speak.

“Are you alright,” Erbrand asked after a few seconds of watching her holding her side, “Did you fall and cut yourself?” He couldn’t have known how silly this might have sounded to Rowenna and Eodwine. Erbrand had not been informed of Saeryn’s injuries.

“No, I’ll be fine, I just need to rest.” she responded.

Erbrand nodded his head in agreement. Then he congratulated Eodwine on a close victory and backed away to wait for the next contest.

[Folwren]

Saeryn tried to smile and grimaced instead. How strange, that the old wound should be aching so. It was like a stitch in the side, as one gets when they run after eating, only it was worse. She relinquished her hand to Eodwine and looked back at his concerned face as he asked, “How are you really?”

“I’ll be fine,” she said honestly. “I’m sure it will pass, really. I shouldn’t have done it - it was that climbing that killed me, you know?” Her smile strengthened itself as the sharp pain began to ebb. She lightened the pressure of her arm around her waist and pressed at the scar gingerly with her fingers.

“Don’t let me keep you from the games!” she exclaimed suddenly, looking up and still seeing Eodwine’s and Rowenna’s worried faces hovering above her. “I promise I will be well. And if you keep standing about gawking, you’ll have the whole place about my ears, and then what?” She smiled, a genuine smile this time, and almost winked at Rowenna.

In all truthfulness, she was a little worried. By now, she thought, she should be quite recovered. As soon as she had come to Scarburg, they had begun tending her with the best care anyone could offer, and the wound had healed rapidly. Now it was all but a scar, with a few, superficial scabs. But on chilly nights it ached, and now, with this extra effort, it hurt, sharp and then dull and deep, and then sharp again. Although the pain was now going away and she almost felt entirely well, she could not help but wonder if trouble would continually rise from this old cut.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

As Eodwine and Rowenna moved away from Saeryn, Degas disentangled himself from Léoðern and walked toward his sister, paying little mind to the celebrations and strategizing of those around him.

He knelt beside her inconspicuously. "Are you well, Saery?"

"There is nothing a few moments of rest cannot cure," she responded, patting his arm.

"You are sure?" he asked gently, hesitantly. "The wound healed cleanly? There is no infection?"

[littlemanpoet]

"Degas", said Eodwine.

Degas, his legs crossed, his right ar resting on the back of Saeryn's chair, looked at Eodwine wtih a pleasant, absent smile on his face. "Yes, my friend?"

"You are in the spear throwing competition, are you not?"

Degas' smiled disappeared, replaced by surprise and mild consternation. "By Eorl's beard, I am!" Standing, he turned to his sister and Rowenna and gave a slight bow. "Excuse me, ladies, I go to win fame and glory."

"Are you not in this, Eodwine?" asked Saeryn.

He shook his head with a smile as he took the chair Degas had vacated. "I am sitting this one out. I shall enjoy watching this one."

Wilcred came up and sat in the chair Eodwine had vacated. "Would my lord be interested in a wager?"

"Name it, my friend!" Eodwine said.

"I will wager you two Eorls that Crabannan wins with the longest throw."

"I shall wager against Crabannan. And let it be known that I will put two of my own Eorls behind Harreld to win it!"

"Feeling generous with your gold coins today, my lord?" said Garstan, walking up from behind them, holding a pint of ale in his fist.

"We shall see whether it is generosity or greed," Eodwine laughed. "Will you take my wager, Garstan?"

"I will! And I will wager one Eorl on Dan to win the target round."

"I will take up that wager!" said Eodwine and Wilcred at once.

"I shall put one Eorl on Degas for the targets," Rowenna announced.

The men looked at her, startled. Then Eodwine grinned. "So be it!"

More wagers were set as the competitors readied themselves. They were to throw the spear three times, from the west end of Scarburg as far as they could throw toward the east wall, just inside the Scar. They drew straws. The best throw in three tries would win, plain and simple.

Erbrand was first, commenting that his luck seemed to have run out, being inexperienced with the spear and first to throw into the bargain. Throw he did. It was measured off at 74 strides. The others commented that it was not bad for the first time in yards. Crabannan, next, drew up to the line and showing fine form, threw 104 strides. Stigend threw 97 strides. Dan came next; the Eorling spear seemed heavy and unwieldy in his hand. He gave it his best first try; the spear wobbled as it flew, for 48 strides. Harreld was next. The others expected much from him for his smithiying strength of arm. He blushed and shrugged, but also allowed the praise to go to his head and threw overhard so that the spear flew too low and landed early for 77 strides. Thornden was next and with little comment, threw for 79 strides. Osmund displayed fine form and threw for 100 strides. Æthelstan did well at 103 strides. Experienced Balvir, his face a closed book of concentration, threw his spear for 110 strides. Degas came last. His arm looked a little slim and the others did not expect much from his heft. His throw flew 86 strides, better than they expected but well short of the longest strides.

Lithor marked the spots of the competitors' first throws, and they retrieved their spears for the next round. Erbrand had learned a thing or two from his first throw as well as watching the others and threw for 100 strides. Crabannan raised a brow at that, then threw for 113 strides. Stigend reached back and with a grunt threw 109. Dan, like Erbrand, had been watching the others and had noted how strength alone was only half the equation, the other half being form in throw and followthrough. He had been practicing behind the others, mirroring their throws, and now tossed for 109 strides himself, to the shock and praise of the others. Harreld, humbled by his last throw, shut out the comments of all the others, and with a face of concentration seen mostly in his smithy, gave heft: 91 strides. He shouted in frustration and paced about, paying little heed to the others' throws as he practiced his motion for the duration. Thornden threw 94 strides. Osmund was proving to be almost Crabannan's equal: 110 strides. Æthelstan threw 74, well short of his first throw. Balvir was next and bettered his previous throw by 8 strides: 108. Degas threw 94 strides.

After two rounds Crabannan had the best distance at 113 strides, followed by Osmund at 110, with Stigend and Dan close behind at 109, Balvir at 108. They all agreed that the third round promised to be quite interesting. Wiclred teased Eodwine, who was shifting uncomfortably in his chair at Harreld's difficulties.

The marks were marked and the spears were retrieved, and the third round began. Erbrand threw 80 strides. Crabannan threw 106; his previous throw of 113 would have to hold. Stigend threw 98. Dan's vast improvement from first to second throw had the leaders worried, but his third slipped from his grasp a little and he made only 68. Harreld came next, and taking a running start, tossed with all his might high and long, for 124 strides. A roar went up from the watchers; Eodwine jumped out of his chair and threw his fist in the air.

"Well done, Harreld," Crabannan said."

"My thanks, Crabannan."

Thornden threw next: 74 strides. Osmund tried Harreld's ploy of running to the line, but did not have the skill of it, and threw 98 strides. Æthelstan's throw slipped from his hand and he made 69 strides. Balvir was the picture of consistency and threw 100 strides. Degas had the last throw and tried Harreld's running ploy also, but it did not match his limited strength so well, and he made 63 yards.

"Harreld has the longest throw!" cried Lithor

Next came the accuracy competition. Lithor set up a target with painted circles: a black dot surrounded by red then green then blue then white. It was 20 strides from the line of the throw. Lithor announced that the same order would throw this time, and the man who had the best throw in three tries would again be the winner.

Erbrand threw: he hit the green circle. Crabannan threw and yelled in frustration for his form was off; spear landed in the blue circle, just outside Erbrand's. Stigend threw and hit the white circle, the point of his spear wobbling just at the fringe of the target. Dan threw and hit the black center; a roar of appreciation went up from the watchers. Harreld hit the red just outside the black. Groans at his relative ill-fortune went up from the watchers. Thornden hit the green. Osmund missed the target, hitting the ground well short. Æthelstan hit the red, but not as close as Harreld. Balvir threw and his the black. Detgas threw and his spirit landed in the ground just at the foot of the target.

Lithor said, "Balvir and Dan are tied, so there will be a fourth round between them unless others hit the bull's eye and join for the extra round."

In the second round Erbrand missed wide. Crabannan improved, hitting the red just outside the bull's eye. Stigend also improved, hitting the green. Can hit the bull's eye again. Harreld also hit the bull's eye. Thornden his the white just a little closer than Stigend's wobbly hit from the previous round. Osmund hit the red, just outside the black. A roar went up at his vast improvement. Æthelstan hit the green, so his previous throw was slightly the better yet not good enough. Balvir threw into the green as well, but he had the solace of knowing he would be in it for the fourth round anyway. Degas threw and missed the target again. He frowned.

"Degas!" cried Rowenna. "I have coin riding on you! Hit the black!" Degas's brows rose and a smirk came to his face. But Saeryn was the one to notice the fire lit in his eyes. She smirked too, but held her peace; except that Eodwine, paying almost as much attention to her as to the spear throwing, had caught her look, and sobered.

The third round came. Erbrand threw and his over-concentration sent his spear into the ground at the base of the target. Crabannan knew that this was his last chance to join the fourth round. He threw and hit the black. He pumped his fist. Stigend threw and missed the target. Dan threw and hit the black a third time. Harreld, having already hit the black, was feeling very good, just the right blend of relaxation and concentration: he hit the black a second time. Thornden, Osmund, Æthelstan, and Balvir missed the target. Degas now had his last chance. Rowenna held her breath and clenched her fists, her knuckles white. He threw and hit the black.

"We have five throwers for the fourth round!" cried Lithor, "Crabannan, Dan, Harreld, Balvir, and Degas. The target will be moved back ten strides."

They lined up and took their turns, those who had not hit the black joining the appreciative crowd. Crabannan threw: at the longer distance he made the outer white circle. Dan was next to throw, and commented that this distance was outside anything he had tried before. He threw and hit the outside of the red; best throw so far. Harreld came next to the line. Ginna cried her encouragement. Harrreld smiled, took a breath, and threw. His spear landed on the very edge of the black. A roar of appreciation went up from the crowd. Next came Balvir. He matched Dan's throw, their spears piercieng the target mere inches apart. Last came Degas. Rowenna cried her encouragement while Saeryn merely smiled. He threw. His spaer landed in the black, just closer than Harrreld's.

Lithor shook his head. "We shall have to go a fifth round between Harreld and Degas." He moved the target back another ten strides.

Harreld came up to the line first and aimed. He threw. He missed the target wide. Degas came to the line. He aimed. He threw. Everybody held their breath as the spear flew. It seemed to be flying toward the target. It hit, on the outside of the red; not the black, but closer than further. Degas had won.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Degas shook out his arm, walking back to Rowenna, Saeryn, and Eodwine.

He bowed theatrically to Rowenna. Another time he might have hesitated, afraid of the little known woman taking his dramatics for mockery, but the laughter that lit her face made her more lovely than he had ever seen her, and he matched her with a smile.

"What think you, Rowenna?" he asked, "Will that be sufficient for now?"