Hard Winters RPG

[Firefoot]

In truth, Léof was only half-listening to Elfthain talking about his pony, though he smiled and made polite noises where suitable. At any other time he would happily have picked up this conversation. Now, a much greater part of his mind was occupied contemplating the food inside, and how much work he had yet to do in the stables. A couple hours’ worth, he thought, and his dinner would not wait that long. Best, then, to continue as he was, getting all of the horses minimally comfortable before eating his own dinner. Afterwards, he would have to finish getting the horses settled, though he had little doubt that after a good meal he would want nothing more than to sleep.

Having released their horses into the paddock (Safran to roll in the mud, and Léof’s horse to nibble at the sad grass that had spent so many months yellowing under the snow), Léof turned to Elfthain and Javan and said, “Elfthain, welcome to you and Safran both – let me know if you need anything or have any questions. Javan, I’m going to make sure all the horses are settled before eating. I’ll leave it up to you if you’d rather eat now.”

[Firefoot]

Scyld now felt fairly certain that Rowenna did not wish to talk in detail of the attack, though if that was the case it confused him that she had ever brought it up. In any case, he made up his mind to ask some questions of others – whether it was gossip or a riveting tale that he would find, he was interested either way. For now, he allowed her to change the subject to this Jian fellow.

“He is interesting, and quite different,” Rowenna said. “You might like him.”

Having met quite a number of the Haradrim in his journey to Dol Amroth, Scyld could well imagine that he must be an interesting fellow. In the tales of the Great War, the Haradrim and the Easterlings always seemed to be mentioned in the same breath, and in Scyld’s mind they were much the same. The Haradrim he had met bore little love for their northern neighbors, and Scyld had difficulty imagining any of them wishing to leave their own people to dwell among strangers.

“You will have to introduce me,” he said. They came to the last cart that still had goods on it – the unloading had gone more swiftly that Scyld had imagined, with so many hungry bodies to help carry in the food. “Our last load, I think,” he said, then let the conversation lapse as they headed back inside. He could not get a read on her – she had gone from polite reservation to laughter tinged with something deeper and back again so quickly that Scyld’s head was swimming. Inside, the kitchen was full of people jubilant over their first real meal in a long time – Scyld had never seen so many people so excited about plain porridge. Several women were still hard at work, making more porridge, cleaning dishes, and as they put their burdens down, Rowenna spoke over the noise: "I ought to help them." Scyld nodded, and she was gone, leaving him to wonder what he ought to make of their conversation.

Perhaps that sort of thinking was better done on a full stomach. Scyld helped himself to a bowl of porridge and took it out into the main hall to find someplace less crowded to sit down.

[littlemanpoet]

"Then we had better let him sleep," he replied. He made to rise, but found that he did not have the strength for it. He lay on his back and thought a moment.

"Papa, come!" Ruari whispered.

"A moment, moppet."

He rolled to his stomach, placed his hands on the bed, and pushed himself to a sitting position. He stood up, his legs feeling shaky, and made to follow his daughter, but felt as if he were on stilts that gave in the middle. Next moment he was on the floor, feeling lightheaded.

"Papa!" Her eyes had gone wide.

"Get mother, Ruari," he grunted.

[Legate of Amon Lanc]

Áforglaed almost ran into Hilderinc as the latter was washing the remaining mud off his hands by the well, his sleeves rolled up and inspecting his arm.

"You almost pushed me into the well," the older soldier commented, as Áforglaed hurried to clean the dirt from his own hands.

"There's going to be food soon," he explained, splashing half of the pail over himself. "Porridge!"
"So I heard."
Áforglaed tried to look at his reflection in the water that remained inside the bucket, but he could not really make anything out. Meanwhile, Hilderinc finished examining his arm and was rolling his sleeves back into place.

"You are behaving as if you were afraid somebody might eat everything before you come there," he observed. "Move aside a bit, there are others who have been carrying the potatoes and would like to clean themselves before they eat."

Áforglaed glanced aside and let another of the Scarburgians pick up the pail.

"And what is all that scrubbing your face for?" Hilderinc continued.

Áforglaed turned to him, startled.

"Do I have something on my face?"
"No."
"Mud?"
"I said no."

Áforglaed craned his neck in an attempt to take another glance inside the bucket, despite knowing he would not be able to see the reflection of his face, and he almost stabbed his elbow into somebody else's stomach as they tried to get some water for themselves.

Behind Áforglaed, Hilderinc shook his head.

[Folwren]

“Get mother, Ruari.”

Ruari hung back a moment, frozen in fear as she stared at Eodwine, but almost at once, her legs remembered how to move and she ran off.

She burst through the kitchen door. “Mama!” she cried, breathlessly.

Saeryn turned from the table where she had been working. Her heartbeat quickened when she saw the distress on her daughter’s face. “What is the matter, Ruari?” she asked, bending down.

Ruari rushed to her, clinging to her arms, and beginning to cry in her alarm. “Papa fell! He tried to get up to come to eat, and he fell and can’t get up, and he sent me for you, and he’s just-”

Saeryn gently, though hastily, disengaged Ruari’s hands and silently put her to the side. Without another word, she hurried from the kitchen. She ran to the door of their room and went immediately to Eodwine’s side, grasping his arm and helping him sit up with his back to the bed.

“What have you done to yourself?” she asked, her voice trembling. “What’s the matter?”

From the bed behind them, she heard Eoghan stir and begin to whimper quietly, calling her, but she did not turn from her husband.

[littlemanpoet]

She wiped at the mugs, rehearsing what she had heard from Nydfara. A farmer he had long known asked questions of the wrong sort? And Nydfara could not hide forever because someone sooner or later was bound to find out. I left shortly after, to find Lady Linduial and ask her to write that letter for me.

Find out what? What was in the letter, no doubt. What was in the letter?

"Rowenna, if you keep wiping at that mug you'll turn it into dust!" That was an off hand comment from Saeryn.

"Oh. Sorry."

There was a long silence. What kind of skill? What did that have to do with a farmer? Who was hiding?

He'd said he wanted to leave his misdeeds behind so he could live without fear and something about a charge, then Nothing more ... what? So he came back to Scarburg and thought to stay for about three and a half years and do leatherworking and he offered his services.

"Rowenna," said Saeryn, "you have a black cloud hanging over your head. What is the matter?"

"Oh, nothing." Nothing that I can talk about.

Stay for about three and a half years. And then leave again with all his mystery and her none the wiser? What was wrong with him? Couldn't he see how cruel that was? She threw it down. And it cracked and broke. The mug she had been wiping. She stared at it. She had not meant to throw it, but she had been lost in her thought and anger at that miserable... Saeryn hurried over and knelt in front of her, picking up the pieces.

"You need a break. Go! With the state you're in."

"Fine."

She tossed her apron aside and stomped out. She would seek forgiveness later. She blew by all those seated at table with nary a look and reached the door before it could close. Who had just gone out? She had not seen anyone. Ah. There was little Ruari, holding something close to her chest.

"Hi, little Ruari. What secret treasure have you there?"

[Firefoot]

Despite her misery, Cerwyn was not quite ready to admit the foolhardiness of her plan. The trip to Edoras had been pleasant: the sun was shining warmly for the first time since last fall; they rode in the cart, which saved them from the worst of the mud; and Cerwyn had found herself enjoying the company of Everild and her son.

But she had set out from Edoras to Scarburg alone and on foot, and the rains came when she had been on the road less than a day. Mud clung to her clothes and she felt as though she would never be dry or clean again. She was also exhausted, having slept poorly the last couple nights. Still, she ought to reach Scarburg sometime today, if her information was correct. She had started travelling early that morning, finally giving up on sleep. The sooner she reached Scarburg, the sooner she could wash, eat a warm meal, and sleep in a real bed – she felt fairly certain that even if she did not find Léof, she would be offered at least that much.

Trudging along the road, she paid little attention to her surroundings, but looked up when she felt the first drop of rain on the back of her neck. It hardly mattered; more rain only meant her clothes would go back from damp to soaking – unless the lightning started. Then she would have to find cover somewhere, and she begrudged the delay. She was eager to arrive and weary of the road.

She’d thought over and over what she might say to Léof, if she found him, and imagined a hundred ways she might meet him, as well as several where she arrived at Scarburg and not found him.

She had better find him. She’d crossed half the country for him.

[Inziladun]

Leaving the stable, Ladavan found himself wondering again just what he was doing here.

He knew he wasn't the first of his people to make his way west and see how life was among their former enemies. He had even seen some persons since his arrival he thought likely were at least partly of his race.
But the encounter on the road with the stout man and the words of the other in the stable just then made him wonder if the old scars would ever be healed.

Now he was doubting the wisdom of trying to set himself as a carpenter here. Would there be any business? Would people take a look at him and decide they could find someone else? What could he do, though? He couldn't go back. There was nothing for him there, even if he managed the long road alone. What he needed was some way to prove himself, to earn trust and respect.

He had been absently walking as the thoughts passed, and when he came back to himself found he was both hungry, and very thirsty.
And there was a well, with two men standing at it, backs to him.
Ladavan made his way to it, walking close behind them. It was then that , without looking, one of the two suddenly drove his elbow at Ladavan.

"Biandur"! he said reflexively stepping back, and winced. He would have to stop speaking the old tongue in public. "I mean, watch out," he added.

[Mithalwen]

Folwren's post - Javan
Javan wanted to eat. He was as hungry as the next person. But he would not leave Leof out here working while he went in and broke his fast.

“I’ll finish the job with you,” he said. He turned to Elfthain. “You’ve come a long way and must be weary,” he said. “You ought to go in and rest. We will be in soon enough and I will come find you.” He offered Elfthain a quick, flashing smile, and then turned and hurried off to tend to the chores that could not wait until after dinner.

Mithalwen's post - Elfthain

It was all very well, thought Elfthain, to tell him to go in and rest but he didn't know where "in" was other than the kitchen and he wasn't that weary anyway. The journey had been dull rather than tiring and while the heavy lifting might give him aching muscles and he was sure he would sleep well that night he felt no immediate need for slumber. What he would really like would be to get out of this wretched mailshirt. ideally to wash and to change in to fresh clothes as far as possible. However all his gear was in the stables and until he knew where he would be quartered there was no point in moving it and in the meantime the easiest way to transport the cumbersome hauberk and its gambeson was to wear it.

Finding himself at the well he drew a pail of cold clear water and washed at least the dust from Saffy's coat from his hands. Bracing himself, he raised the bucket and poured some of the well water over his lowered head. He gasped at the chill of it and felt it trickle down his neck shivering his spine. Refreshed, if resigned to the knowledge that his ablutions had merely moved rather than removed the grime he decided he might as well have a look around. The yard was a deal quieter now, the stores had been unladen, the waggons moved and most of the people seemed to have disappeared too, no doubt eager to get at the hot food. He scuffed the toe of his riding boot in the dirt and pondered. The only places he knew were the stables and kitchen and both were likely to be busy, maybe he should take a look round the other side.

[Legate of Amon Lanc]

Áforglaed realised he just elbowed somebody pretty hard and the person swore, even though he could not make out the word. "I mean, watch out!" the same voice said, and Áforglaed turned around to face a thin dark-haired older man, apparently one of those who arrived with the caravan.

"Uh, sorry," he said. "Here," he turned around, handing the pail over to the stranger. "Sorry 'bout that. I'm done washing."

"He is just not looking where he's walking," Hilderinc chimed in from behind.

"No I'm not!" Áforglaed turned his head. "Or, I mean, yes, I am looking, of course, I just did not see you," he faced the stranger again.

Behind him, Hilderinc shrugged and started walking towards the hall.

"Name's Áforglaed by the way," the young soldier offered his arm, then realised the other man's hands were still dirty, so he promptly withdrew it. "Hey," he suddenly observed, "you look quite Dunnish."

[Firefoot]

“Not yet,” Léof admitted, “but it’s only one ride. I wouldn’t want to overstep if Eodwine would rather teach Eoghan himself.”

He hoped he had not offered the boy more than he should have, but how could he resist the boy’s obvious desire to ride? It was one he understood well. One of his earliest memories was riding along on one of his father’s farm horses as his father worked the field. Not long after, Léof began to sneak out and ride those horses in the paddock, bareback and rein-less. He realized now, of course, that it hadn’t been the safest way to learn how to ride, and he would be less than pleased if any of the youngsters in the Hall were to try such antics now. He also wouldn’t want Eoghan to feel as though he needed to sneak around in order to get the chance to ride.

“Thornden is right, though,” Léof said to Eoghan. “We do need to check with your father before I take you out riding.”

[Firefoot]

Having finished his interview with Eodwine (Scyld tried not to think of it as escaping), he found himself wishing to be alone to collect his thoughts. He collected a few items from among his belongings, put on a light cloak, and left the Hall. He headed for the Scar, crossing the fields and climbing the path that was engraved into his memory, even after so many years. The trail was muddy, making the way up both slicker and more treacherous than he remembered.

The view was worth it. With all of Scarburg and the surrounding area spread out before him, he felt like he had the distance he needed to breathe freely again. Dark clouds blew visibly from the west across the sky as the wind picked up. The plains below were illuminated by a diffuse, oddly colored light where some of the sun’s rays shone dimly from the eastern sky.

Rain would come, but not yet. He sat down and drew out the small, nearly finished pouch he had filled with a handful of tools and brought from the Hall. The pouch was usable as it was: the edges were precisely stitched, the flap fastened closed with a simple button, and a pair of loops in the back allowed it to be attached to a belt or strung through with a leather thong or string for wearing over a shoulder or around the neck. It only lacked for decoration.

Scyld was pleased with his work so far, and though he did not have a particular purpose yet in mind for it, he wanted something special for the design and had so far been uninspired. It might now also be one of the first pieces of work he would have to show at Scarburg, and he wanted to make a favorable impression.

He thought for a moment, his mind somewhere between his work and his turbulent thoughts: the relief after his conversation with Eodwine, the stress of his upcoming announcement to the rest of the Hall, Rowenna’s confusing behavior. He looked out again at the land, so luminous in the face of the upcoming storm. Something clicked, and he began lightly to outline his pattern. A confusing tangle it seemed at first: a vine, continuously interwoven with itself, sprouting leaves at irregular intervals to accent the twists and loops of the stem. Slowly a sense emerged from the tangle as the design took shape.

He was so absorbed in his work that he was caught off guard by the first drop of rain. He looked up and found that it had slowly grown steadily darker without his realizing it. He hastily stowed his tools and the pouch beneath his cloak and his shirt, held against his body to keep them dry, and hurried back down the way he came, hoping to make it back to the Hall before the worst of the storm came.