Hard Winters RPG

[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?”

[Inziladun]

Finally the journey was at an end.
The creaking caravan came to a halt in the muddy track, and people were running to meet it. Ladavan saw gaunt faces with hungry eyes looking at the horses and wagons, some with joy etched on their features, others with blankness, as if they did not trust their own sight. He had heard talk of the dearth the freezing season had visited upon this part of the country, of course.
For the moment, though, it was still hard to envy them; Ladavan's thoughts returned again to the previous night, when they'd been stopped, preparing for the last stage of the ride.
He had been stooped over, looking at his horse's hoof, when suddenly something bumped him firmly, knocking him to the ground.
He'd rolled over and looked up to see a large, yellow-haired man about his own age, gazing down at him.
'Oh, sorry' he said, with a mocking look on his unpleasant face.
Ladavan stood and looked around. There was no reason the man could have done that by accident.
'Skûdthu viaren!' The curse escaped Ladavan's lips before he could stop it.
The man stepped closer and Ladavan tensed, waiting for a drawn blade. But the man only smiled thinly.
'I know little of your tongue, Dunlending. But that is no matter. I give you advice. It is not by right you stand here in Rohan, but by the mercy of King Éomer, and behind him, the Lord of Mundburg. But you would do well to remember this: not all here are as merciful as kings, nor as forgetful of the past.'
He had then stalked away without a look back.
Ladavan had since in turn been angered over the incident and worried, wondering if more of the same would come.

But now someone did approach him. This was a younger man, though. He wore the same look of hunger and weariness as the others streaming in to meet the caravan. He spoke.
'I am Léof, the ostler here. Can I take your horse, or show you where he will be stabled?'
The was no sign of hostility here, but it was still better to be cautious.
'You may do both,' Ladavan said. 'And there are things a stranger needs to know in a new place. Perhaps you could talk of them as well.'