Hard Winters RPG

[Firefoot]

It was with considerable trepidation that Scyld now returned to Scarburg. It had been just over four years since he left. He’d never meant to be gone so long, but one thing had led to another, and before he knew it, the time was just gone. His errand had seemed so urgent at the time. He fingered the letter in his pocket absently. It was a bit worn around the edges, for he had handled if often, wondering what would happen when (or if, he had eventually began to think) he would give it to the Eorl. Linduial, once he had finally found her, had been happy enough to write it for him. She had even offered to come herself, saying it would not be far out of her way the next time she came to Rohan. He had declined; he needed her testimony, but he did not need her to fight his battles for him. He would handle this on his own terms.

He had read the letter, before Linduial sealed it. “Don’t you trust me, even now?” she had asked. And he had mocked her for her trusting nature, to hide the shame he felt – shame which only grew after he read her words. The letter was an even more generous depiction of his nature than he thought he deserved. It did not hide the fact that he had aided in the kidnapping, but it emphasized the small ways he had helped her and his role in her escape.

“Thank you,” he’d said, and meant it.

“It is the least I could do, after how you helped me and after how far you came to find me. Will you stay long?”

He told her no, for though he was loath to begin already the long journey back (it had taken him nearly two months to get there, and truly had he recently told Rowenna that he did not fancy living out of doors), his task was achieved and he had nothing further to gain there in Dol Amroth.

Linduial had protested, saying that she herself intended to return to Rohan at the end of the summer, that he might travel with her, as part of her guard if he wished. He had laughed, less meanly than he once would have but not without scorn. “Perhaps the purses of Gondorian noble ladies run deep, but mine do not: I fear I cannot afford to stay so long without occupation. And you choose a poor man for your guard: a poorer swordsman you are unlikely to meet.”

“I have seen you throw a knife,” retorted Linduial, “and half the point of a guard is to dissuade bandits from attacking in the first place, so that they do not have to be fought. As for work…” she paused, and a light jumped into her eyes. “There is an envoy here, from Harad, recently arrived, seeking a trade treaty. It is a good offer, but we think they may be trying to trick us in some way. You are skilled at finding information out, I think – if you would see if anything might be found out from the sailors that came with the envoy, I would be grateful, and would pay you well for it.” He had tried to protest, but Linduial’s mind was made up and he was swept along by her plan. In the end, after talking to, eavesdropping on, and a couple times sneaking into the rooms of the Haradrim, he had been able to place a tip to Linduial that Dol Amroth stood to profit far less from the treaty than the Haradrim would have them believe, and the terms had been renegotiated.

Thus did Scyld spend the better part of a year in his journey to Dol Amroth and back. In that time, he had thought long on the letter from his brother, and eventually curiosity had overcome his bitterness. Upon his return to Rohan he did not go to Scarburg but followed the directions in Bedric’s letter, thinking to spend perhaps a few days or weeks there before bearing Linduial’s letter to Scarburg.

He’d realized, as he walked the last couple miles to his brother’s house, that he had no idea what he would say. Would they even be recognizable to each other? He asked for directions from a couple men he met along the road, and they pointed him toward a snugly built cottage with a smithy nearby. It was nearing dinner and the smithy seemed quiet, so he walked directly up to the cottage and knocked at the door. A young blonde girl, not even waist high, answered. “Who are you?” she asked, staring up at him with large blue eyes.

“Well,” said Scyld, who had never been comfortable around children, “I think I’m your uncle.”

She frowned at him, clearly not sure whether to believe this outrageous claim. A man came up behind her, and Scyld felt a jolt of recognition. His features had aged, but certainly this was his brother. “Who’s here, Agnes?” he asked.

“He says he’s my uncle,” said the girl – Agnes. She continued to talk but now Bedric’s attention turned sharply to Scyld, a disbelieving look on his face.

“Hello, Bedric,” said Scyld, a bit stiffly. “I got your letter, though it took some time getting to me.”

Then Bedric laughed, a joyful booming noise. “Come in, then! I couldn’t decide if you’d never gotten the letter, or if you just wanted nothing to do with us. Agnes, he most certainly is your uncle – this is your Uncle Scyld.” And then there were introductions all around: to Bedric’s wife and three other children – two older than Agnes and one a babe scarcely walking. They had just been sitting down to dinner and a seventh place was quickly prepared. Much of the meal revolved around the children, helping them with their meals and listening to their chatter, for which Scyld was grateful – a bit of time for him to watch the family without answering any difficult questions. Afterwards came the cleaning up, and just when Scyld thought the time might be coming for more serious conversation, Agnes approached him. “Can you tell a story?” she asked.

“Agnes, honey, I’m sure your uncle is tired from his trip - ” Bedric started to say, but Scyld made the quick decision that dealing with the child was immensely preferable than trying to explain himself.

“That’s alright,” he said. “Storytime, it is.”

With a delighted squeal, Agnes hauled herself up into his lap. Startled, he tried to figure out where to put his arms – having been the youngest of his siblings, he’d never held a child before. He did not notice the twitch of amusement on Bedric’s face. He thought of a story that his father had used to tell him, when he was a child. He began clumsily, but soon the rhythms of the tale began to come back to him. By the end of it, she had fallen asleep in his arms, and his heart was won.

Maybe that’s when his decision was made, that he would stay longer than just a few days – that his family was worth getting to know.

He started trying to find ways to help out during the days. He was worthless as an assistant in the smithy, but his oldest sibling, Aelfred, was a leatherworker, and Scyld found that the work intrigued him. Without formal arrangement, he began spending more of his time there, helping as he could. Learning a trade was an opportunity he’d never had while with Sorn, and he was pleasantly surprised to find how satisfying it was: he could easily lose himself in the tasks of piecing together the leather or detailing an intricate design. Aelfred, serious and quiet, was a patient teacher and seemed to appreciate Scyld’s companionship. They rarely talked except of their work, which suited Scyld as he began to lose his fear of prying and uncomfortable questions.

He continued to stay with Bedric, and it was not long before a glimmer of the easy rapport they had shared as boys began to return. Scyld told him as few details as he could manage about his life with Sorn, and eventually Bedric stopped asking, content to share the present rather than dwell in the past.

Adney, Scyld’s oldest sister, he saw seldom, for she had married a farmer who lived some ways away, but Gytha, the younger of his sisters but still three years his elder, seemed to see and understand him most clearly. He caught her, sometimes, looking at him intently. It made him uncomfortable: not the fact of her attention, but what she might see in him. She never pressed him, but it was she who came to him nearly three years after he had come to them, and said: “I still wonder, sometimes, that you are here with us and not dead, and I would be glad to have you with us until we all grow old and have grandchildren about us. But I sense there is still something you are searching for, some healing you have not yet found. I thought, when you came to us, that it was your family that you had been missing, but now I think it was not so – not wholly. If you know what it is you are missing, and where you might find it, you should go to it.”

She had smiled at him, but he had only nodded thoughtfully back. When he had gone there and then decided to stay, he had tried to put thoughts of Sorn and Scarburg out of his mind, to see if perhaps this was the place where he was meant to be. Then, unbidden, thought of Rowenna come to mind, and he thought of Linduial’s letter unopened, and he knew Gytha had seen more clearly than he himself.

Three years among his siblings, and still he had never told them. He was grateful to them, thirsty for the kind of simple joy they found in life together. He wanted to share it – to anyone who did not know him well, it would seem that he did. Still, there was a barrier between him and them. At first he had simply not wanted to explain to them his life with Sorn, and why he had stayed when his ten years were up, and how he had gotten mixed up with Linduial’s kidnapping. Then after a time, he had wished to, but had not known how. How could they understand? He did not know which he desired less: their pity, or their spite. Either they would somehow try to explain it away, say it wasn’t his fault, or they would hate him for it. He could imagine their revulsion as they tried to hide it, wishing that they had not invited him into their homes. He could not stand the thought, and would not take that chance.

He had met only one person who might understand, and knew of only one way to finally be free from his past. So, in the fall of the eighteenth year of the Fourth Age, he began to make preparations to leave and return to Scarburg. His brothers gifted him with his own set of leatherworking tools: knives, awls, needles, stamps. “Can’t have those years of learning go to waste,” Aelfred had said gruffly – like Scyld, he was uncomfortable with emotionally fraught moments.

In October he set out for Scarburg, but made it only as far as Edoras when a heavy snow fell across the land, unseasonably early. He found there also a delegation from Scarburg, and was able to find out from some soldiers he had known the news from Scarburg: the harvest destroyed and the hall in need of supplies, but the heavy snowfall preventing the delegation’s return. Scyld’s heart sank. The way back to Bedric’s cottage was likewise unpassable, so he took up lodging in Edoras, figuring that snow which had come so early would soon melt, and that he would make his way to Scarburg soon enough with the supply train. After several weeks, it became apparent that this was not to be the case, and he managed to put his newly gained skills to use, working on commission for another leatherworker in town who currently had more work than he could handle and earning enough to pay for his room and board while waiting for the weather to clear.

Over the long winter, he’d had plenty of time to think, to second-guess his decision. He supposed his welcome back to Scarburg would be lukewarm at best: he did not flatter himself that he had been well-liked. Tolerated would perhaps be a more apt description. He wondered if Rowenna had missed him; if she had been sad to see him leave, she had hidden it well. What if she had forgotten him? Or was gone? Or married? As the winter wore on, new worries began to set in as well. How low on food supplies was the Hall? Had they run out? Were they dying? Thus with great anxiety he had joined the supply train when the weather broke and the great thaw began. What would he find, when he reached the Scarburg?

He paid little heed to the other members of the caravan as he drove one of the carts (Sorn had had a cart much like it, once, that he had had Scyld drive now and again). He made polite conversation as necessary, introducing himself once again as Nydfara to those he did not know (he had resumed use of this name in Edoras over the winter). It would not do to begin using his right name until he should present his letter to the Eorl. Slowly they rolled into sight of Scarburg, and Scyld felt his anxiety rising further. He took deep, steadying breaths and allowed a placid smirk to creep onto his face. He belonged here, he told himself. Let no one doubt it.

[littlemanpoet]

All the folk of Scarburg streamed out of the hall and outbuildings at the call. Eodwine stood in the thawing muck, a heavy cloak wrapped around his thinned frame, his bony hand holding it tight around his throat. Maybe it was not so cold as it was, maybe the frost was gone from the air, but the cold was in his bones even yet.

"Well met! Is that Wilheard?"

"Aye, it is I, eorl Eodwine."

"You have brought many -" mouths to feed, was his first thought, but if they brought food and new clothing and aught else, then maybe these brought more than they would take. "-many folk! All are welcome! Come! There is a fire in the hearth, and warmth enough within. Did you by chance bring wood? We have little left."

[Firefoot]

Léof leaned against the fence, taking a break for a moment to watch the horses freshly released into the pasture. He found it necessary to take breaks frequently, these days: the effects of constant hunger taking their toll on him. He had always been thin, and though he had gained a few inches in height and his shoulders had broadened out since he had taken up his position at the Meadhall five years ago, he still did not have much in reserve to sustain him through these weeks of hunger. He’d found that keeping busy distracted him from his hunger, but that he was also losing the stamina to work for extended periods of time.

Finally, finally, it was warming up though, and he thought the horses were nearly as ready for spring as he was. He smiled as a pair of yearlings suddenly took off at a gallop, as if racing each other. He loved watching the young horses. Over the last several years, he (with plenty of help) had gotten a small breeding program started at the hall. Considering his near total lack of experience with breeding when he had gotten the whole thing started, he thought he was doing all right. With the combined knowledge of those at the Hall and some local horsemen who were friendly and generous with their advice, Léof had learned an enormous amount and was becoming ever more self-assured of his skills.

His first thought had actually been to breed Æthel, in large part because a foal might be worth good money. He had no coin for a stud fee, but instead had offered a share of the foal. That colt had been sold nearly three years ago, as a yearling, and had fetched quite a good price, leaving Léof’s pockets heavier than they’d ever been. One of the yearlings out there in the paddock now, in fact, was Æthel’s second foal, a lovely bay filly. Too thin, though – all the horses were, after this winter. One of the pregnant mares had lost her foal, and he was afraid that the others that would be born this spring and summer would be under-sized. Still, the horses were in better shape than their human counterparts: the first two harvests of hay had been unaffected, and since Athanar had left with most of his folk and their horses, there were sufficiently few horses that Léof had been able to make the hay last through the winter with the horses on reduced rations. He had estimated that he had less than a fortnight’s worth of hay left in the stable when the weather had finally broken earlier this week, rapidly melting the snow. The pastures were a soggy mess, and the grass was yellowed and sad-looking, but he thought it would provide ample nourishment to supplement the dwindling hay until more could be gotten.

Behind him, one of the children shrieked, startling him out of his reverie. He turned around and thought he saw in the distance a train of carts. His stomach twisted – could it be that finally they would have food again? He scarcely dared to hope, but made his way over to the front yard of the Hall to find out.

There were several carts, piled high with all sorts of supplies. He wondered how soon there might be food set out to eat. As he walked up, folk were already beginning to unload the carts. He realized with an unhappy start that attached to those carts were horses, all needing care and stabling. He hoped these newcomers were in a helpful sort of mood, because even the thought of handling all these new horses exhausted him. Nevertheless, he approached the nearest cart to get started.

[Inziladun]

It was an odd place to be, Ladavan thought.

He was riding an old grey horse that seemed not at all pleased to be bearing his weight for so long a time, slender though Ladavan was. Carts, wagons, and other horses filled out a long, dusty, and hard-bitten caravan that wound its slow, plodding way toward Scarburg Meadhall.

Most of his fellow travelers were, judging from the gold that adorned their heads, of the Horse-lords that until recent years Ladavan had been taught were bitter enemies.
The Great War had changed much, though. Ladavan had been on the wrong side of the conflict, though even now he remembered the enthralling speeches given by the lord Saruman to him and so many others of his people; words that spoke to their hearts. Saruman had railed against the wrongs done to the men of Dunland by the Strawheads over the years, in which they had been aided by the Men From the Sea. The latter were hated scarcely more than the Horse-lords, for it was by their hands that Men of Ladavan's race had been driven from their ancestral homes.
These memories Saruman had fiercely rekindled, saying he had the power to slay and drive away all the invaders, and great reward would come to those who would join his forces.
Thus, Ladavan was brought into war. His older brother Meryk, too, had volunteered. And both had found themselves fighting against the hated Men of Rohan.
At first, they had confidence in victory, though Ladavan and many others had not liked being near the filthy, violent creatures called Orcs that made the most part of Saruman's troop count.
Defeat had come so quickly to them though that Ladavan still did not know how it had happened. Their assault on the fortress where the Strawhead king was said to be, had been broken by some strange force of trees that walked, and Ladavan had fled in terror before them. It was the next day that he found Saruman's armies shattered, and he himself taken to a camp for those like him, where he expected to be killed by the enemy.
To his surprise, all his people had been released, on the condition that they first help to repair damage done to Rohan during the fighting. Ladavan had been amazed to find Meryk during that time, for he had thought him likely dead.
Meryk, though, would not return to Dunland. He had said he had news that there was a refuge in the North, up the ancient road past Tharbad, where Men could have plenty and rule lesser folk. He was setting forth with some dozen companions, and left as soon as the Rohirrim let them free.

Ladavan shook his head at the memories. Now he was going toward a new future. He had tried to go back to the old life in Dunland, but his parents were gone, no one knew where, Nor were they the only disappearances. Ladavan had known that even as some of his race had served Saruman as fighters, others, too old or unable to war, had gone to Isengard to serve as laborers and food-tillers. After Saruman was beaten and had left his old dwelling, Ladavan had gone there and found it changed greatly. The walls and mighty gate were in ruins, and fearful tree-men too like those that had menaced him at the Rohirrim's fortress had stalked the area. Ladavan saw no hope in searching, for no Men seemed to remain.
Dunland had been uninviting and dreary with so many gone, and he had been encouraged by the mercy of the Rohirrim toward defeated enemies. He thought to make a life in a new place, free from old hurts and grievances.

[Legate of Amon Lanc]

She had arrived to Scarburg close after the turn of the year, when one week there came a sudden relief in the form of unexpectedly beautiful weather. For three days, the sun shone, and it was only mildly cold outside. Crust had formed upon the snow and she deemed it safe to travel. She had been decided already for a while back then, the possibilities for her were only two: the other was to remain in the silent house until the last of the supplies had disappeared from the cellar, and if thaw didn't come by then, lie down next to where she had buried her husband's body. She would not let herself dwell on that, however. The only thing that had kept her going, as also the nearest neighbours went silent and there was nothing for company save the trinkets Mildric had brought from afar, was that her mind had been on the future. She had been imagining and planning what she would do once the snows melted. She would send a letter to her son, who was surely apprenticed somewhere warm and safe. Maybe he had become a blacksmith, working in a blazing forge all day, or maybe he had become a baker, pulling fresh warm loaves of bread straight from the oven. She would save her husband's feather quill for writing the letter, the colourful one he had brought from his travels in South Gondor; the rest of them she had fed to the fire already. She should also write to Mildric's firstborn, yes, she should, and settle the matters regarding the old house. It was something to occupy her mind with during the long days of the long winter, when it was not safe for her to go outside. She had decided, though, that she would not stay in the old house after the winter, there was nothing for her there. She was still young and beautiful, oh yes, the soldiers from Scarburg had been telling her that, and she could see it from the looks they gave her even without it. One in particular, Áforglaed, probably as much younger than her as she was when she had married Mildric, but strong and handsome and wonderfully amusing with his often silly behaviour. She had found herself thinking about him more and more, she knew he had not left with the rest of eorl Athanar's men in the autumn. She had not seen him since then. How was he? Was he still alive? Stefnu was convinced that he, of all, would survive the harsh winter, a healthy and strong young man. She would see him, too, once the thaw came. Or earlier. She began to think of Scarburg Mead Hall, she was certain lord Eodwine and lady Saeryn would welcome a pair of hands; it had happened in the past. And then, who knows? Soon, Stefnu's resolution gained a clear shape.

But as the winter did not cease, she had not dared to leave the house. The Mead Hall was far, and people had died for less than a few miles. Eventually, her thoughts began running in circles as the fires dimmed with the last of her husband's fine Umbarean furniture burning down, and the last of the supplies dwindled. She even drank the barrel of Bree ale Mildric had stored in their cellar a long time ago, then burned the wood. And it was then when the weather suddenly cleared for a couple of days, and she knew it was now or never.

And so I am here, she thought to herself several months later, moving around in the kitchen she had already grown fond of, even though these days there was not any real meal to cook. We have made it through the winter. It won't be long before somebody comes from the outside, to help us get back on our feet. They will bring food and other supplies. Every day, together with the other women in the kitchen, they would talk about it and look out of the windows. And one day, at last, one of the children burst into the kitchens - a poor, gaunt thing, but still with the liveliness all children possess no matter what - and shouted: "They are coming! I saw them! They are coming!" And indeed, as the women - and half of the Mead Hall - started pouring out of the doors, a man on a fine horse appeared on the road, and then another, and another, and another, and laden carts behind them.

"At last," somebody's voice escaped from behind Stefnu, and similar sighs of relief and happiness followed from all around.

"Béma bless them," Stefnu whispered. They were saved. They had food. They had wood. The last of the winter was finally over.

[Nogrod]

Stigend was pounding the sawdust with the chips and slivers of wood into a paste that would replace some of the flour in the dough the women in the kitchens would bake the bread from. He wasn’t sure how much of the actual flour there was left but he did know that Frodides asked for more of the stuff every day and the small pieces of the daily bread he had tasted less and less like bread and more and more like the dust he was pounding into a paste.

He was tired. He was so tired and weak he didn’t recognize himself any more. It was not how he felt being himself would feel like. How many days did they have left? How many days could they continue even if the weather had started warming up steadily already the last week? One, two, three days? The cold wasn't the only killer, hunger was one too. Was there a point in continuing the struggle? He thought of Garstan...

Suddenly he stopped the pounding. He thought he heard voices from outside the empty workshop. Just as he straightened his aching back the door was flung wide open and Leodthern ran in with her eyes wide from excitement.

“People are coming!” she yelled, “Come and see! People!”

Before Stigend had time to even mentally react to the news, Leodthern had grabbed his hand and was pulling him determinately off from the carpenter’s bench. Without a word, in something like a dream, he threw his gloves on top of the table and followed Leodthern’s lead.

From the doorway he saw it. There was a caravan coming towards the Mead Hall and people were coming out from all the doors to greet the incomers. There was joy and excitement in the air.

Stigend had to breath in slowly and hard not to burst into tears while Leodthern was pulling him from his hand. “Come Stigend! People! Everyone’s there!”

With Leodthern yanking him forwards Stigend suddenly collapsed to the ground face on. His legs were just not carrying him anymore.

He vaguely heard Leodthern calling for help and thought he was trying to rise up himself, but only after a couple of hands took him from the armpits he came back to his senses and realised he was being lifted up. He saw Modtryth’s troubled face in front of him.

“Are you allright?” she almost whispered, worried, looking at him in the eyes.

Stigend nodded and fell down to his knees – and burst into tears of relief.

[Legate of Amon Lanc]

He felt like he had not eaten for years. Even if the snow was gone and the prospects started to look better for all of them, Hilderinc had refused to eat when he thought there were others more in need of it. There were not too many older than him left, but women and children there were. He wondered whether anybody had spotted his habit of slipping away during mealtimes whenever he could do it without being too obvious. He assumed it must have started showing in his countenance, but then again, who of them looked well anymore?

As the carts rattled into the courtyard, Hilderinc finally realised this was over. Feeling strangely light-headed, he followed the eorl and others who were with him to welcome the long-awaited caravan. He had never thought he would feel so happy to see Athanar's younger son. He had never thought he would feel so happy seeing anybody after being stuck so long in the same circle of people slowly starving to death. He caught Wilheard's eye as the young man surveyed the crowd. Hilderinc smiled and nodded, even though with his ghastly appearance it must have looked terrifying.

He figured lord Eodwine would have them help unloading the carts so that first food could be made, then the rest of the supplies could be stored and distributed in a more organised manner. He made his way closer to the caravan so that he could promptly get to work once Eodwine would issue the order. As he walked past one of the carts, he noticed another of the Scarburg soldiers, Áforglaed, already kneeling next to a small wooden box inside which a few chickens were making protesting noises, apparently unhappy about being tossed around during the long journey.

"Cluck-cluck-cluck," Áforglaed was trying to communicate with the chickens, poking his finger between the bars and removing it just in time to avoid being pecked.

"What are you doing?" Hilderinc asked. Áforglaed jumped up, looking somewhat embarassed.

"I haven't seen a chicken in a while," he said, apologizingly. Hilderinc pressed his lips together in a smile. His lips felt so thin that he was sure his teeth must be showing through. "Don't worry," he said. "Now I hope we all are going to see some every day."

"On a plate," Áforglaed added cheerfully.

"I hope we first see their eggs," Hilderinc said, but then paused and looked around as he heard lord Eodwine saying something.

"Guess we could start unloading these soon, if our stablemaster also shows up to take care of the horses," he added, looking up. Then he noticed another familiar face. "Nydfara!" The man looked older, with possibly a few more wrinkles on his forehead, but he wore the same smile Hilderinc had remembered and that he had always found slightly irksome. He also bore himself on the cart as if he had just returned from a short trip into the town, despite the fact that Hilderinc had not seen the man for what must have been - three years? Four years? There had not even been much time for them to get to know each other very closely, but Hilderinc remembered him well, just as he did all those he had met at the beginning of his stay in Scarburg. The memories of the first days were always the freshest. And now he was one of the last few of Athanar's men remaining.

"You could not have picked a better time," he said, squinting against the light as he looked up at Nydfara.

"Well you could have, a couple of weeks sooner," Áforglaed chimed in before anybody could slap him over the mouth.