Hard Winters RPG

[Legate of Amon Lanc]

Pain throbbed in Hilderinc's right arm as he got himself up. Next to him, Ledwyn broke out in utter distress. His mood dropped too as he saw the potatoes, the precious food, suddenly roll in the mud. But he wanted to reach out and calm the woman down, and then the wound betrayed him again.

"Calm down, it is noth-" he started, but again came a sudden throb of pain, so strong that it actually made his sight go black for a while. More instinctively than wittingly, he suppressed a scream that came out only as a soft groan. The arm kept doing this to him from time to time since it had healed, but usually not so badly, and not in front of so many people. Not that Hilderinc was in a state to analyse. His only thoughts were just that it hurt a lot, and that he wished it would not, not now of all times, and he could not think of anything else. While he saw some of the other bystanders dive for the spilled potatoes, all he could do for the moment was to clench his fist, close his eyes and grit his teeth.

[littlemanpoet]

Rowenna passed between the paddocks. As she turned toward the Meadhall she saw a wagon and many folk, more than lived here. Who had come? Bringing wares for sale?

A woman ran into a man; she fell and her potatoes scattered over the ground. Quickly a small group gathered to help. Starting toward them. It was her wont to see the exceptions and differences, and so her eye was drawn to a man stooping down away from the group to pick up a potato here, a potato there, staying back from the knot of folk around the woman. If she did not know better, she would have thought it was Nydfara.

She came closer. It was Nydfara! Her heartbeat quickened. An image played in her head of herself running to him and jumping into his arms, welcoming him home. She would do no such thing, of course. Her legs felt weak. He was alive. He seemed well enough.

Four years gone, and suddenly here. No word, but why would there be? Who was she to him that he would send word? Yet there was anger in her that he should have been gone and never a word for four years. And this anger ran alongside that old familiar excitement, that quickening in her of senses and feeling and heartbeat that none but he could work in her.

She started to walk again, her legs feeling oddly unsure still, until she came near the group. She looked to make sure that they were doing all that must be done for the fallen woman before she turned to him, and stopped.

"I greet you, Nydfara. It has been years. Who brings this food?"

[Thinlómien]

This visit, it seemed, was starting even more confusing than she had thought. Fréa and Caranthir were nowhere to help her, and the poor waif that had welcomed her and blabbered to her in the riders' tongue was gone too, only she had crashed into a man carrying a sack of potatoes, and they had both fallen on the ground and the potatoes had spread all over the yard. People were diving in after them, picking them from the mud, polishing them with their hems and gathering them.

Brith watched it all unfold like in a dream. She could have cried for the poor people and their precious potatoes, but there was something hilarious about it all too. Quickly, she looked down to hide her smile. She didn't want to seem malicious.

On the ground by the wheel lay a perfect yellow potato, covered in mud. No one seemed to have noticed it. Brith slid down from the wagon and made a face when the mud made a soft splash under her boots and the hem of her gown became spotted with brown and grey. Clothes can be washed, she reminded herself, and picked up the potato. Gently, she scarped the mud off with her sleeve. She looked up. The man who had fallen was now talking to another man, younger and more handsome. They looked over at her. She wondered if they thought she was trying to steal their potatoes. The handsome man slapped the muddy one on the shoulder, and the muddy one approached her.

Brith held out her hand with the potato on it. "Greetings," she said with her best Rohirric. "You want this?"

[Legate of Amon Lanc]

Hilderinc looked down at the potato in the foreign woman's manicured hand. She indeed did not look like just anybody, and judging from the manner of her speech, she came probably from Gondor, if not Mundburg itself.

"Thank you, my lady," he replied in the language of the Mark. It seemed to him she might want to speak it, perhaps to show her skill the way some nobles liked to, since she first talked to him in that language. He almost reached out for the potato with his left hand, out of fear his right arm might betray him again, but then it occured to him the foreign lady might see it as bad manners, and he instead took the potato in his right hand.

And it slipped from his fingers.

Any other man in Hilderinc's place would have flushed bright red, but the only thing that might have betrayed the soldier's emotions were his eyes. Both him and the woman just stood there frozen; then, after what seemed like long awkward silence, she bent down and picked up the potato again. Wiping it into her already dirty sleeve, she handed it back to Hilderinc.

"Here, your..." She paused, apparently in search for words.

"Potato," Hilderinc finished for her.

"Potato," she repeated.

"Thank you." This time he reached for it with his left hand and put the potato into his belt pouch. He looked back at her. "Would you prefer if we speak the Common tongue, my lady?"

The look on her face made him reevaluate his impression that she might be one of the nobles interested in showing their knowledge of foreign languages.

"Yes, please."

He bowed his head slightly. "Then let me welcome you here in Scarburg, my lady. My name is Hilderinc. I can show you around. It is a humble place, especially now after the hard winter, but I am sure we will find you a place where you'll feel comfortable. I can take you to meet lady Saeryn, I am sure she will be happy to welcome you. If she is not too busy," he added after a short pause. He hoped the new guest would not see it as insult that the lady of the house might not have time to see her immediately, but she did not really give that kind of impression, and it was more than clear that Scarburg was now in commotion.

[Thinlómien]

"Then let me welcome you here in Scarburg, my lady. My name is Hilderinc. I can show you around. It is a humble place, especially now after the hard winter, but I am sure we will find you a place where you'll feel comfortable. I can take you to meet lady Saeryn, I am sure she will be happy to welcome you. If she is not too busy."

Brith smiled. It had been a relief that the grim mud-covered man spoke Westron, and spoke it remarkably eloquently at that. And now he was being most helpful.

"I would indeed love to meet with the Lady, but I am sure she has more pressing matters at hand at this very moment. I am pleased to wait."

She paused. The man was looking at her, his expression unreadable. "Oh," she said. "How silly of me. I'm pleased to meet you, Hilderinc. My name is Brith - well, my name is Brithiel really but no one ever calls me that, not even my mother called me that - and I am a seamstress."

He nodded at her politely. "Then maybe I can show you around first, Lady Brith."

"Thank you," she said. "I'm hoping to stay for a while."

He did not ask more, but instead led her out of the worst of the commotion. He pointed out the stables and the sheds, then took her for a short tour of the Hall itself. His way to put things was short and informative, if not military. He had the gait and the scars of a soldier too, but he didn't talk more about himself. Brith wondered why he wore his hair short unlike virtually all other knights of Rohan, but she did not ask. Even though he was curt, he was polite, and that put her at ease. He reminded her of some of the dúnedain of the North in his grimness.

She made some small talk as they walked, commenting on the excellent workmanship of the buildings. Many of them were clearly recently constructed, and even though they bore signs of being taken apart after that, the solid groundwork was there. She had seen much shoddier work in many places in Arnor. Still, the state of disrepair was very evident.

"You will have a busy summer ahead of you. So many things to make this place fit for an Eorl." She cast a quick glance at her companion to see if he had taken her remark the wrong way. She hadn't meant to think out loud.

[Thinlómien]

Eodwine had left and Wilheard went back for Bolt. He had left his mare's reins to a soldier that had come with him from Edoras, alongside with the instructions to hold her until he'd come to collect and stable her. Wilheard could see Bolt was uneasy, shifting her weight and tossing her head. The man handed the reins to Wilheard with a sour look.

"Your mare has a foul temper, sir. She bit me," the man said.
Wilheard stroked Bolt's muscular neck. She was much more at ease already. "I am not surprised," Wilheard said. "She doesn't like strangers." He scratched Bolt's forehead affectionately. "Oh, and you're dismissed," he added without even glancing at the soldier.
Muttering something under his breath, the man hurried away.

"Let's take you to the stables. You need a rest," Wilheard told Bolt and started leading her towards the stables. He didn't need a guide - after all, he had lived in Scarburg for a time, even though it had been years ago. It felt like it had been in a different life. He knew he had been to Scarburg only half a year ago, but all his memories of that time seemed to be coated in a thick dark grey fog. He remembered Bolt kicking a hole into her stall, he remembered a girl chasing a crow across the yard, and he vaguely remembered a lecture from his father about drinking, but that was all. He had been numb and miserable. Well, truth be told, he was still a little numb and miserable, but he had horses and people to look after.

There were a couple of people in the stables when Wilheard entered. He recognized the ostler Léof and greeted him curtly. Léof pointed him to a stall where to take Bolt. He was clearly used to some men preferring to seeing their horses themselves. Wilheard unsaddled Bolt and gave her water and the horse bowed down her head to drink.

Wilheard looked over his shoulder and saw a young man approaching with feed for the ill-tempered mare. Only then he realized it was not really a young man, more like an overgrown boy, and one he remembered all too well. "Javan, is it?" he asked, straightening himself to his full height. He smiled mirthlessly down at the lad, and he knew the scar made it look like a grimace. "Are you still in the habit of beating women?"

[Folwren]

Javan attended to the duties Léof gave him in a methodical way. He often helped in the stables though it was not his only job, and he knew what must be done. He noted where the men who brought their own horses stabled them and then went and fetched hay for them.

He approached the latest stalled horse, thinking more of his own upcoming supper than the one he held in his arms for the mare, when the man addressed him.

“It’s Javan, isn’t it?”

Javan stopped, the hay hanging rather limply in his hand. He raised his head and looked at the man. He knew him at once and frowned, not at all pleased to see him.

“Are you still in the habit of beating women?” Wilheard asked with an unpleasant sneer.

Javan’s lip curled with disgust, and he dropped the bundle of hay at Wilheard’s feet.

“She was more a brat than a woman,” he replied, turning on his heel.

[Folwren]

"I have kept my-" he swallowed and breathed "-my children alive."

Saeryn's eyes flashed as she took in his words and their meaning. Her hands, resting one on his shoulder and the other on his laboring chest, felt the bones beneath his rough, white shirt. "By starving yourself?" she demanded . She swallowed back the lump of fear in her throat, torn between grief and disbelieving anger. "What good would it do if you died and your children were left fatherless?" Eoghan's crying grew louder, but Saeryn still did not turn. "Why didn't you tell me? You should not have done this!"

His brow lowered in annoyance. "Your children are alive. The deed is done. Berate me if you must. Now help me not die."

Saeryn could not stop tears from escaping her eyes, but she forced her sob into a bitter laugh. "I ought to let you die, you silly old man," she said, choking again on a sob, but smiling. Thankfully he still had the will to live! She had feared he was resigned to dying. It would be the sort of heroic attitude he would take. "You've practically killed yourself already. But I'll see what can be done."

"There's a good girl. I married right. See to the boy first. I swear to you I will stay alive a few more moments. Will you bring me food here?"

Saeryn bent and kissed his head. "Of course." She helped him lean back against the bed, taking away the support of her body, and after sniffing and wiping her eyes, she stood up and turned to the bed.

"What is it, son?" she said softly. Eoghan did not answer. Her presence calmed him almost at once, and he lay back, staring forlornly up at her. She sniffed again, picking up the cup of water from the table at the bedside. "Drink. I will bring you food, too."

[Legate of Amon Lanc]

First they came one by one, but now as the word about the porridge spread, groups of starved Scarburgians were streaming into the kitchens. There was no way, Stefnu mused, for anybody to try to make any orderly meal out of this. No: now was the time to eat, only to eat, to feel the simple part of life that had for so long been denied to them. Now people just came to get their bowl of porridge, the first proper meal in weeks, and Stefnu made the special note to sprinkle a few nuts on top of every portion. It was a mere gesture, but she felt it was right.

"This meal is nothing special," she had told Modtryth, "but at the same it is special, because-" There was no need to explain further. Of course it was special, from now on, they realised how every meal was special. "It may be humble," she had continued, "but I don't feel we should hold back on making it better!"

Most people in Stefnu's place would not think of treats at this time, but she did, and she felt that was what the people of Scarburg needed. In some way, it occupied her mind even more than her own hunger. In some way, she had been thinking about this the whole winter.

She also made a mental note to talk to lady Saeryn, later. They will have to make a proper, large, celebratory feast. Later, maybe even tomorrow. To mark the end of the terrible winter once and for all, to share their joy of coming back to life and to remember those who did not. And last but not least, they would do so to thank those who brought the caravan that saved them. She was certain the Eorl or lady Saeryn would see to it, but now there was surely no hurry. Now, there were people to feed.

She smiled at the next person who came to fill their bowl, when she noticed Saeryn storming away, leaving clearly agitated Ruari behind. She did not see what happened, but she could make good enough picture of the situation.

"Excuse me," she said, handing the spoon to the next person. "I'll be right back, help yourself. Just a few spoonfuls, you can come back later for more!"

Quickly, she turned to pick up an empty bowl and walked to Ruari's side.

"Hello again!" she smiled encouragingly. "Is everything all right?"

"Papa fell," the girl said in a trembling voice. "Mama went after him, and-"

Stefnu forced herself not to betray any signs of distress herself. She stroked Ruari's head.

"I am sure she will take care of him," she said. "You can wait for them here with me. I am sure they will come soon and everything will be all right, you'll see. Perhaps you would like to have some porridge while you wait? See, I got you a bowl. What if you come sit over there with me, and you can also get some of the honey the nice boy - what was his name? - brought us."

[Inziladun]

As the man turned to him and uttered what seemed to be a genuine apology, Ladavan watched the other turn and walk away.

"Name's Áforglaed by the way", the remaining one said, extending his arm in apparent greeting. Then, withdrawing it, he added "Hey, you look quite Dunnish".

You aren't the first to notice, Ladavan thought sourly. Trying not to let his feeling show, he assumed a neutral expression and replied, "Yes, I am of that people. I have made this long journey to see what I can find here." He paused. This one looked young and rather reckless, but not necessarily hostile.

"I am a stranger here, of course. No doubt it will be some time before I learn the customs and laws. But the more I can talk to people, the more I will discover." The young man had something of a soldierly feel about him, as had his departed companion. Ladavan had the (probably) foolish beginning of an idea.

"Tell me, sir: what is your living?" he asked.

[Legate of Amon Lanc]

"Me? I am a guardsman, here. There aren't many of us, now." He made a vague nod in departing Hilderinc's direction. "Not that it's needed," he grinned. "It's been quite peaceful here, after our former eorl Athanar showed the neighbouring lords their place - I was there," he remarked, straightening himself proudly. "I also heard the local folk made quite a short work of the Easterling raiders who appeared when the rest of us soldiers were fighting out beyond the River last spring."

He surveyed the man from head to toes. "Are you a soldier? I mean, a Dunnish soldier? Man, I hope your people are not fighting ours anymore. I mean, obviously you're not, now that you are here. Right?" He grinned again, this time a bit more nervously, it started dawning on him that he had been babbling. "What is your name?" he asked quickly.

[Folwren]

The kitchen was flocked with people who had heard the summons to supper. They stood in two lines as Modtryth and Frodides ladled porridge into their bowls from the pots. Saeryn picked up two empty bowls and walked directly to the head of one line and held them out. She thought grimly about what she might say if someone questioned her right to cut to the front, but no one did, and she strode from the kitchen with two steaming bowls of porridge.

"Here we are," she said as cheerfully as she could when she came back to the room. "It's a bit hot yet. Let us pour some water into it. It will do it no harm." She poured a bit of cool water into Eoghan's bowl, while admitting to herself that water was a poor substitute for milk.

"Here, lad, sit up for me." She helped Eoghan sit up against the wall and pulled the blankets up about him under his arms. She set the bowl in his lap and put the spoon in his hand. "Eat it slowly," she instructed, leaning towards him and speaking in a low voice, so as to gain his closest attention.

"Now for you," she said, turning to Eodwine. "Do you want water in your porridge, too, or shall you eat it hot? Let's get you up on the bed, first, so you're not freezing on the ground."

[Inziladun]

He'd been right, Ladavan thought. He'd wondered if this man could give him the opening he sought, or at least point him in the right direction.
Now the man seemed wary and nervous, guessing he stood in the presence of a Dunland foreigner. Oddly, this brought amusement to Ladavan, and not bitterness.

"I am of Dunland, and I did fight in the war. And yes, I fought against you horse-people. I do not look proudly on it now, though at the time, I thought what I did was right. I am named Ladavan." He then plunged ahead.

"It is of soldiering I would speak, though. How does one gain entry to such service here?"