Hard Winters RPG

[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.

[Firefoot]

Despite Aforglaed’s jesting tone, Scyld could see that it was the truth. “Indeed, it looks as though none of you has had a decent meal in weeks,” he said. All around him were the gaunt faces and loosely hanging clothes of those who had gone too long with too little food. There were many faces he recognized, but quite a few that he did not as well. He saw no sign yet of Rowenna, though he tried to tell himself that he was not looking for her. He did not know whether to feel relieved or worried.

He forced his mind back to the task at hand, unloading the cart. “I have mostly grain in this cart,” he told them. “Flour and oats, I think. And the chickens, but you already found those.” He hefted a flour sack over his shoulder and grabbed another with his other hand to take inside to the kitchens. Before heading inside, he added with a wry smile: “If you’re deciding over a chicken to eat first, I’d take that brown one in the far cage. Wouldn’t quiet down for a single mile of the trip here.”

Hilderinc’s welcome, such as it was, along with the obvious relief and joy of the folk at receiving supplies, had heartened him. Maybe he needn’t have worried so much, he thought, as he carried his burdens into the Hall.

[Nogrod]

Cnebba, Garmund and Leodthern were searching for any vegetation revealed under the snow that could be used as food a bit farther away from the Hall when Leodthern first heard the voices. They all heard it soon enough.

“Someone’s coming! Athanar’s coming to save us!” Leodthern shouted.

Garmund looked at her little sister in dismay. “You wish”, he snorted but turned back to gaze where the road made a turn half a mile a way. They were all tense with excitement trying to hear and see anything that would relive them from the immediate fear of a false hope. And there it was, a sound of carts wheeling slowly towards them, the muttering of voices, the slow pounding of the hooves – and they were all coming closer. It was true! Someone were coming!

Suddenly the figure of Wilheard came from behind the corner riding proudly in front of a caravan spreading behind him. The three were speechless just watching the caravan spilling out into their view cart by cart, soldier by soldier – and whoever there were riding with them.

“We must tell dad, mom… everyone!” Cnebba yelled but Garmund was not reacting. He stared at Wilheard with his eyes fixed. “Garmund!” he yelled again pushing his arm but Garmund just shook his hand away his eyes still fixed on the convoy.

“Go Leodthern, go! Tell dad, tell mom, tell everyone! I’ll bring Garmund!”

Leodthern hesitated for a moment but obeyed. She ran towards the Hall as quick as her feet were able to carry her in the slippy sleet and snow still covering most of the forest.

“Garmund. We have to go.” Cnebba told his friend in an even more commanding fashion pulling him from the sleeve when Leodthern had gone. “C’mon Garmund, we’ll got to tell them.”

Garmund wrestled his arm free from Cnebba’s grip and turned sharply towards him.

“You go if you will. I’m going to stay until they come by. I want to see them.” With that he turned away from Cnebba once more.

Cnebba was hesitating. They should do things together, like they always did. But Garmund had fixed his eyes again to Wilheard leading the train and was clearly paying no heed to him.

Cnebba looked at his friend for a moment and then sighed. “Bah”, he breathed out and turned to run after Leodthern to break the news.

Garmund’s eyes were fixed on Wilheard. When he was a child he had feared lord Athanar and especially his sons. But he was no child anymore. And Wilheard was leading a van of supplies: grim-looking, strong and muscular in his bright armour, a seasoned warrior, an eorling in his prime…

Garmund would be like him one day, he knew it now. He would not be one who suffered the cold and famine. He would be one who relieved others from it, with a sword if need be. He’d protect the weak and suffering with action, not with sheepish resignation or vain labour that wouldn’t help his dearest to live. He swore it to himself then and there, his eyes still fixed on Wilheard who was riding ever closer to him.

[Galadriel55]

Ledwyn was swept along as the people of Scarburg piled outside. “They brought the food!” she heard someone exclaim. “At last!” she responded, more to herself. They could all do well with some food. Ahead of her, Stefnu said softly in her deep voice, “Béma bless them.” That woman was odd. Ledwyn just could not understand her.

As she stepped over the threshold, Ledwyn was blinded for a moment by the bright sunlight shining right at her face. She was surprised at the warmth – she has not been outside since the snow began to melt. No, surely it was longer than that. A fortnight? Maybe even longer.

Her left foot splashed in a puddle. Oh, the muck! Of course, she thought. With this much snow in the winter, there would be flooding when it melts. She looked around regretfully at the people around her, joyfully dirtying their clothing and boots as they rushed to greet people they recognized or to unload the supplies. All of that would have to be washed. She grimaced at the thought of washing; that is how she ruined her hands. Two fortnights after the early onslaught of winter it was clear that the snows will stay until spring, and tasks that were meant for the fall were carried out in the winter cold. Knowing that it ought to be done anyways, Ledwyn did not consult with anyone but took the washing outside to clean before the winter deepened. She warmed the water beforehand, but it was not enough. She should have known beforehand that it would not work. It was plain stupid, she thought angrily. The water cooled within minutes, and at the end her hands were so numb that she could not feel them. She rubbed them by the fire afterwards, but it did not stop the blisters from appearing the next day. Most of them healed, but one of her fingers was left black and splotchy. Without thinking, she covered it with her good hand.

Ledwyn looked at the new arrivals. She noticed a young woman with elegant black hair, a lady, by the look of her, sitting on one of the wagons. Beside her, an unfamiliar man was speaking to his companion with a strange accent. Gondorian, most like. Behind them she could swear she saw a Dunlending, by the look of him. Why did all these people have to come? Not only would they have to be fed and welcomed, but they would require housing, and most of them would probably stay. Why did the people have to change so? She wished that her home would remain as it was before the winter – before the war, even. She knew that these people were not at fault, and that she should be grateful for the aid they brought, late as it came, but why did they have to change her home?

She took a hesitant step back and nearly stumbled over someone. Turning her head, she saw the people standing all around her, eagerly crowding towards the carts or carrying boxes of goods back into the Hall. She realized that it would be uncourteous and embarrassing for her to leave now. She fidgeted with frustration. If only I was more like Rowenna, she thought, I would have turned around and left right right there and then! She never cared much for what people would say, she would just do what she felt right. But another voice at the back of her head told her that Rowenna wasn’t as ungrateful and uncharitable as she was to begin with.

[Firefoot]

Realizing that the carts needed to be unloaded before the horses leading them could be led away and unhitched, Léof decided to approach one of the riders first. A couple of the riders were familiar, and but many were not, and Léof put them at the top of his priority list, since they would be least familiar with the Hall.

There was a dark-haired man dismounting from a gray horse (A Dunlending? wondered Léof, as he caught a glimpse of the man’s face. Odd, but the few he had met had been courteous enough, and he had no personal grudge against that people). Léof walked up to him and said, “I am Léof, the ostler here. Can I take your horse, or show you where he will be stabled?”