In the mud, and the dirt, and the gore and blood of the Field of Celebrant was where the foundations had been laid for the formation of the Kingdom of Rohan - with the mounted Northmen coming into the rear of the Easterling host and breaking them, engaging in a hunt that saw almost every one of the Balchoth run down and slain, the lands of Calenardhon given unto the Éothéod by Cirion of Gondor. Here it was that this otherwise unsettled folk were to establish their domain, commanded by King Eorl and allied for time immemorial to the Stewards and southern realm of Gondor.

It was also here that a meeting was to take place - a council if you will - of Dwarves and Men and Elves, each drawn to the same place by letters hastily written in a well-practiced hand, the written words warning of a doom that could not be avoided; some mocked it as nothing more than the ravings of some maddened scholar, but others...those that knew of such things...refrained from mockery and instead sent their finest to the Rohirric capital of Aldburg. There were others, those who could not comprehend what the mentioned 'Anvil' was or could be, the letter merely stating that it was an object of great power and to cross into Calenardhon with all speed lest evil overtake the will and machinations of good men.

Aldburg itself was no more than a large motte-and-bailey construct - a large hillock with the lower level surrounded by a towering palisade of wooden stakes and a firmly built gatehouse, the inhabitants of these lower levels living in simple houses of wattle-and-daub with thatched roofs and, oddest of all, each one having a stable where at least one horse seemed to be kept. As one moved through the simple houses, past the smithy and the tavern, they came to a second, sturdier, gatehouse topped by a walkway from where golden-haired and blue-eyed warriors in burnished and tall helms gazed down at any who approached; past the gate and within the uppermost ring was built the only stone building within the capital, the kings own hall and residence.

Inside the building sat Eorl upon his throne, a long hall laid out before him and a high roof above him, a long table covered in simple wooden vessels and utensils seemingly already prepared for company that the King believed would soon arrive. Through those thick wooden doors they would come, whoever they might be, into his prescence and that of the roaring hearth not too far away. Here is where he would be, and here is where he would meet them.

@Sigurd@BCTheEntity@DrunkasaurusRex@Vor@POOHEAD189@Winston Smith@Andromedai

Deleted

A yawning girl sat and whistled, sharpening an ancient hoe and clearing it of rust that clung to it with desperation. The water on her washed face was yet to dry, and as drops of it fell on the ground she couldn't tell them apart from the morning drizzle that had begun. Of course it rusts, when we leave it here out in the rain all the time. Then you clean it, Éolan. Always you. With this stupid stone. Thunderheads gathered in the sky far above and soundless lightning from far away flashed on the silver of the sharpened edge of the tool in her hands. Having run her fingertip over it, she let it rest on the bench and picked up the bucket.

At the well she tied a rope to the handle and let it drop to a muffled thud. Flowers first. Then the chickens. Get some milk for the cat too. Mustn't forget to bake bread. She walked clumsily back bearing water in the bucket trying to walk on thicker grass and avoid muddying her dress. A rattle of a carriage and a hyah! of the driver came down the road from the direction of the village. This far from the centre? Must be looking for us or the neighbours. Eggs, most likely. She hurried to meet the guest. She knew the man, Theoden, a known customer of her family. Poor man. Recently widowed. You can see it in his eyes and hear it in his voice. ”Mister, good morning,” she said realising it was not so good. ”Have you come for the usual?”
”Good morning, my dear, good morning. Actually no, no I haven't. I come to deliver rather than to take this time. Oh, stay there, I'll come to you. This bloody road is just mud ankle-deep.” He got off his carriage and the rain worsened, plastering his thin grey hair on his forehead. ”Here you are,” he said and produced from his shirt a parchment of sorts, with a stamp signaling importance.
A letter? ”What is this?” she asked.
”No idea, dear. A man came last night, said couldn't find the one he's supposed to give it to. Said your name and I knew what to do. Offered to bring it to you for him, so here I am. Would've done it last night, but this darn back of mine was not cooperating.”
”A mistake, surely. Who'd write to me?”
”That looks like it came from Aldburg, I'd say. Judging from the stamp.”
”But I know no one there...” The horse on the stamp. Something official?
”Seems like someone there knows you, huh? He-he.”
”The one who brought it. What did he look like?”
”Oh.. He was, er... A soldierly fellow. Helmet, sword and all.”
”A king's man, then?”
”Might be, been a while since I saw them soldiers. Yes, yes. Could be. Who else would have such gears, yes?”
”Thank you for bringing it to me.”
”My pleasure, dear. Well, I'll be on my way now. Got a shop to run! Take care!”
”I shall. You too.”
He got on the carriage, turned it and waved a goodbye, leaving her staring at the paper in the rain.

---

Next day dawn found her looking at the palisade of the capital from a nearby hillock. She'd reached the place riding with the merchants from her village. Their shapes could still be seen to her right albeit faint in the distance, but yet she did not move from the spot where she'd left them. An apple in her hand, half-bitten, fell down. ”Now you're all nasty, look at you,” she said and picked it up. The dirt did not stop her from eating it, for that was the only breakfast she had, and a rub on her sleeve did the trick. As she looked at the town, she wondered whether or not it was rude of her to leave her home, seeing how tired and spent her mother was from all the work around the homestead. Her father was happy to let her go, on the other hand. Of course, they thought she'd return in a few days most; so what trouble could come from it, letting the girl stretch her legs a little? He knows what it's like. To be here, on the grass, in the wind. He rode. Before his hand was taken. Kind-hearted man, my father. Wants me to feel what he hasn't for a long time. And it's my fault. Of course, he wouldn't let her go without his old gear. The road is dangerous. Wrapped in a woolen cloak, a bag of clothes and some armor over her shoulder, and a hidden sword hanging at her side, she went on towards the gate, clutching a letter in her hand that she couldn't read.

---

When she reached the market she realised she was frightened by the crowd, but the fear was exciting. She felt infantile again, thrown in the world of most interesting design. Her attention was caught by a couple of men playing some sort of guessing game with mugs and a pebble, rapidly moving them across a wooded plank on the ground and making the observers guess under which one the pebble was. The big drunken man who'd agreed to play with them was mocked by the gathered bunch, both for the foolish intoxicated demeanour of his and all the money he'd lost to the swindlers. The chickens and the pigs sounded all around her, dogs barked, people yelled, and smells of mud, meat, and spices mingled in the air. The drunkard shouted and cursed before falling face down in the mud, unconscious. His foes, the ones who'd robbed him, disappeared into a tavern across the road, laughing at the fool whose money they were about to spend. On drink and more games. Pitiful life, day to day, stealing and spending.

The sign above the entrance showed an eight-legged horse, but it was the odor of ale and cheap cooked meals that read ''tavern'' for the illiterates like Éolan. Once inside, she looked around for a while, not sure what to do. A lame woman with a broom went by, swiping around. In the dust rising around her feet and the dirty kind of light that went through the windows and came from candles, she saw an empty table at the back that she soon took, far away from the couple of thieves who'd now teased the gimp. Waiting, she sat and ran her eyes over the scribbles on the latter amazed by the intricacies of the written word and bothered by the emptiness in her stomach.

Despite his imprisonment, forcible nudity, distinct lack of sustenance, and upcoming execution, Saptheth found he could not abandon physical training outright. It would be an insult to his past. And so, attached to the walls of a dank, festering dungeon somewhere in a gleaming white city with no name he knew of, he'd figured out a way to grasp his hands around the short lengths of chain between his wrist manacles and the wall mounts, and used them as handholds to lift his body weight from the ground many times each day. Not particularly far, as his feet were also chained to the floor, but enough to satisfy his need to move around, whilst no guards were looking in on him. Realistically, he refused to believe that he might break the mounts from their positions by doing this, for they were sturdy, lodged into well-maintained bricks, but as anyone who has been imprisoned can tell you, a desire for freedom implants fragments of hope where there is otherwise none, and every so often, he would have a moment where his heart exclaimed "those chains just loosened a bit more", only to be quelled by his head's response of "do not fool yourself, for you are surely doomed".

Naturally, whenever guards were present, to feed him the gruel that apparently kept people alive in that place and to exchange the pan left beneath him to capture his waste- and it was never less than three guards at a time, at least one with a crossbow aimed at his head whilst the others held him in place and forced the thin liquid into his mouth- he remained as sullen an individual as he ever had been since his desertion, since he'd found himself alone in enemy territory with no guarantee that he'd be alive at the end of a day, or indeed at the beginning of a day. In a way, he considered this lack of collapse a form of rebellion, as if to say "though you have tried to humiliate me, see how I remain as true as steel, unperturbed by your actions and intentions". A rebellion with no purpose, of course, but satisfying in a small way nonetheless. In the Golden Serpent's mind, it proved the superiority of a Balchothi heart over that of a mere Gondorian, even though the Westrons held physical power over him.

Even so, he was quite surprised by the abrupt presence, the day before his assumed death, of the warden of the prison himself - a man in his late middle age, of some bulk both muscle and fat, perhaps an ex-soldier who had let himself go in recent years judging by the beer gut, dressed in clothing designating his role as glorified guard supervisor, albeit over a certain amount of chainmail and leather for self-protection. Naturally, he was accompanied by about eight other guards- at least those visible through the bars of his cell- in various states of fitness, two of whom held crossbows in hand, and at least three others with such weapons around their belts. Should luck avail him, Saptheth wondered if he'd succeed in snatching one of the weapons and putting a bolt through the warden's skull before being killed himself. Perhaps they would make good clubs. For the time being, however, he could only glare at the man as he unlocked the cell's door, and all nine men poured into the cell, arrayed with the main antagonist himself at the center of the pack, just meters away from Saptheth's nude and bedraggled form.

Silence reigned for a time, the Easterling glaring at the calm prison chief as he in turn gazed over Saptheth's form, calm and seemingly smug, if the smirk on his face and the hands laid casually behind his back were any indication. At last, however, the warden spoke. 'Today is your lucky day, Golden Serpent, much as I'd rather it weren't,' he proclaimed, drawing from behind him some form of rolled-up note. A letter, it seemed, going by the quality of the parchment, and the broken seal on each end of the document. A surprisingly detailed seal, at that. 'I don't suppose you can read, at least in the tongue of civilised men?'

'As acid is to wood and silk alike,' Saptheth stated bluntly, 'so is your foul language to my ears and eyes.' In truth, he had a little bit of competency in reading some of the languages of the Westlands, necessary as it was for figuring out some less specific job postings, but he found he was nowhere near perfect when it came to speaking more complex words, never mind reading formal missives. Still, with another smug grin, the warden waved his meatshields forward, four of whom took hold each of Saptheth's arms and legs, two working to remove the bolts that chained the Balchothi to the walls and floor only to force a burlap robe over his body and attach new manacles chaining wrist to wrist and ankle to ankle, and the two crossbowmen remaining where they were, all as the warden unrolled the manuscript and began to speak. Much of it was worded in ways that Saptheth barely understood - aside from the initial capitulations about "His Majesty King Eorl, Monarch and Ruler of the Nation of Rohan", equivalent to a greeting from Balchothi's supposed ruler under the Necromancer, the only thing he really figured out were the words pertaining to the reason for his sudden "freedom": the King of Rohan, it seemed, had specifically asked that "the Golden Serpent who hails from across the Sea of Rhûn be escorted to Aldburg, there to function in service of the Kingdom of Rohan until further notice."

And to Saptheth, that meant being pressganged into the service of a nation he explicitly considered his enemy. If luck was availing him, it was certainly being quite counter-intuitive about it.

---

He'd struggled, yelled and screamed in the tongue of Balthoth, kicked, punched, flailed, even attempted to bite, but nothing had given him the opening needed to ensure his escape. Instead, he had been flung into the back of a wooden wagon, the door promptly closed, barred, and locked tight - a minor improvement from his previous cell, if only because he could move around it, but a mobile cell nonetheless. Since then, he'd exercised with pushups, situps, and squats rather than mere pullups, as his manacles allowed, and the passage of time had been marked in essentially the same barely-cognizant manner as before, with a daily visit from maniple guards to supply meagre nutrition and change his bedpan. The biggest difference was how his cell jostled about during its journey - an issue when the bedpan contained fluids, but otherwise tolerable.

He knew not how many days had passed before the journey came to its end, but eventually, he was retrieved from his containment once again. This time, he appeared to be within the walls of a round castle, just outside its keep, though he was led into that building soon enough, and escorted to a room that seemingly contained little furnishment. Shortly after his arrival and the removal of manacles, the best possible scenario occurred: his equipment, slightly under-maintained but nonetheless fully functional, was taken into the room with him. O, what luck! And yet, it meant naught - the number of crossbowmen accompanying him had more than doubled since his last movement from cell to cell, and skilled as he was, he could not kill so many men arranged separately across the room without mortal wounds being dealt by those infernal bows. He was told to get changed into his gear by one of them men, and though he attempted to taunt them for their perversions, the only response he got was 'No funny business, Easterling. Get changed.'

Alas, he had no choice but to nudify himself once again before a swarm of guards. For the last time, he hoped. Either way, he equipped himself, all weaponry present and correct save his lost mount, and all armour and clothing in place to defend himself adequately - though perhaps not sufficiently, against so many bolts. Immediately afterward, he was taken by both arms, and pulled rather than escorted through the keep again, out of his chains and back in his usual clothing, yet no freer than he had been the day before. Twists and turns were made, past paintings that suggested a surprisingly high culture for such a cowardly, heathenistic society, and the large group ultimately found itself before two overly-large wooden doors. Whoever lay beyond those, then, would be the one who had called Saptheth from the brink of death, only to ensure he would work as a lapdog of sorts... perhaps a worse outcome than simple death after all.

Two guards pushed the doors open and announced the arrival of the Golden Serpent, and at crossbow point, he was brought in before the King of Rohan.

The Daystar was setting in the West when Coleman finally crested the last hill separating him from Aldburg. The lay of the land had tricked him. When he’d glimpsed the town through the morning mist he’d though that it would take him no more than a couple of hours to reach it. Instead, he had spent the entire day following the meandering path as it winded through the countryside. Cole wasn’t surprised at this point - it was yet another stark reminder that he was way in over his head. You’ve gone and done it now, Cole! - he could almost hear his mother’s words and, for once, he was in complete agreement. The time for turning back had long since past, however.

He dismounted from the chestnut mare with a wince and took the reins in hand, leading it towards the gates looming before him. Like most untrained riders, Cole had assumed that spending days in the saddle couldn’t possibly be that hard. The harsh truth had been revealed to him the very next morning after he had acquired the horse. His thighs has been throbbing so much that he could barley muster the strength to stand up and relieve himself. Cole was never a man to shy away from adversity and so over these past few weeks he had willed himself to get in that saddle no matter how much it hurt. He’d made progress and could now direct the beast in a given direction successfully most of the time, the fear of falling off had also faded. Wish I could say the same thing about this damned pain…

A feathered bed was the only image occupying Cole’s mind as he made the last few strides towards the wooden palisade circling Aldburg. Well, that and a growing sense of disappointment, which he tried to suppress. The lands of the horse-lords were all that he had imagined and more, true enough, especially the horses! He’d always thought that old Ferny had a huge number of them in his farm north of Bree, but this…this was something else entirely. For days now he’d seen thousands of the animals grazing in the lush fields and was starting to suspect that there more horses in these lands than there were people.

Despite all that he had hoped that Aldburg would be somewhat more majestic, like those cities in the tales. Its walls seemed strong and the growing number of lights illuminating the darkening town pointed at a large number of inhabitants, but when all was said and done, a town like this would not appear out of place in Bree-land. Bree had a lot more stone houses for one and he was starting to doubt that the local taverns would be able to rival the hospitality of the Prancing Pony.

Cole drew up to a pair of guards, who moved to block his way. Now, these men were not something he would see in the land of his birth. They were armed with spears and had swords at their hips, their bodies were covered in chain and shields were slung across their backs. Fair eyes and hair were half-hidden beneath their helms, but all it took was a glance to notice their grim, hard features. Real warriors, not like Captain Thistlewool with his beer-gut back home. Tall and proud they stood, towering over Cole.

“What brings you here, stranger?” one of them asked in a mangled form of the Common Speech.

“A letter” Cole took the parchment from a pocket and lifted it up before the guard.

The guard, an older man, took the letter from Cole with his rough hands and examined it. Cole suspected that the man couldn’t read, especially since it was written in Westron, but he made a valiant effort. Eventually he returned it and narrowed his eyes at Cole.

“And where do you hail from?” he asked “You do not strike me as a son of Gondor and speak like no man I’ve ever met.”

“From the north,” Cole told them, “I received the King’s message and travelled south by the Greenway, before passing through the land of hills and valleys, which you call Dunland.”

The older guard nodded at his companion.

“Take him to Leofric.”

Cole followed the younger man into the city without uttering a word. Sometimes it was better to keep one’s mouth shut. As they walked up the dirt road leading to the castle on the hill Cole’s eyes darted back and forth, taking in all that they could. From what he’d heard and seen, it became apparent that Rohan was a young kingdom and so was Aldburg. The simple houses of the locals were recently built and the smell of freshly-cut wood was prevalent everywhere. People, tall and blonde-haired like the guards, went about their chores and paid him little heed. All around them he could hear the sounds of life – a child’s laughter, a woman arguing with her husband, the smith’s measured strikes and the ever-present neighing of horses. Aldburg seemed a vibrant town, something which Bree could never boast of being.

It didn’t take them long to reach an imposing gatehouse, manned by gold-haired warriors with polished helms and stony eyes. They passed under the gates and into the courtyard of the King’s hall where another man stood waiting. Like the rest of the soldiers, he had an imposing figure and scars hiding under his greying beard. Cole’s eyes were drawn to white horse that adorned his green surcoat, a mark which was worn by the rest of the guards here he now realised. These were no doubt the King’s Men, he thought, suppressing a shiver. And the old fellow was no doubt a noble. Cole had never seen a man of such high lineage in all his life!

“So you are the ranger that the Lord of the Éothéod summoned?” the man’s low voice pulled him back to the present.

“Aye, that I am.”

It was an outright lie, but he hoped it didn’t show on his face.

“I find that strange,” the noble responded slowly. Compared to the other guards his words were almost comprehensible “for we were told to await the coming of a grey-eyed man, tall of stature and with black hair.”

Cole did his best to keep his mouth from dropping. That was the exact description of the dead man he had come across a day’s travel south of Bree! How could they have known? He was certain that whoever had sent the message was not familiar with the man’s features.

“I have the letter, here…” Cole began, trying to keep his voice from falling,

Leofric snatched the paper and gave it a quick glance, as if he knew what was written there. Come to think of it, it was very likely that he did – another thing which Cole had managed to overlook.

“Yes, I know of this letter and that is what concerns me.” In a few quick strides he got close to Cole, his voice taking on a threatening edge “How did a vagabond like you come across it?”

Suddenly a pair of guards moved up behind him and caught him by the arms. One of them kicked the legs from under him and they pushed him towards the dusty ground.

“Th-they sent me!” he tried to explain “The Rangers couldn’t spare the men, so they sent me instead! I-“ he broke off as one of the men forcefully twisted his shoulder, producing a sharp cry, followed by a sullen silence.

The captain of these men, for that is what he must have been, paced quietly, moving up to inspect Cole’s mare.

“Béma!” he exclaimed “What have you done to this animal? Have your kin no knowledge of how to treat a horse?!”

“I…found her on the road. I am no rider…” another lie, well at least the part about not being a rider was true.

“We see” one of the guards managed to say in Westron, struggling to form the words correctly. A roar of laughter followed, before their leader silenced them.

“Perhaps what you say is true,” the greying man spoke after a while, “Perhaps it is not. Eorl has strange guests of late and I fear that not all of you are to be trusted. Either way, it is not for me to decide.”

He then said something to his men in the stern language of the horse-lords. They hoisted Cole like a sack and began half-dragging, half-pulling him towards the stone keep. As he expected, they brought him to the dungeons and not the comfortable room he had been imagining less than an hour ago. Nothing had gone as planned and this was the greatest setback he had suffered so far. On the bright side, at least he had finally arrived.

Cole tried to exchange words with his two captors, but apart from a curt reply in Rohirric he received nothing else. A strange language these people had, the scholar in Cole noted, some of the sounds were so familiar, but they were arranged in such a way that made no sense to his mind. Not long after he found himself shoved into a cell and had to surrender his equipment, namely his weapons, though they allowed him to keep his clothes at least.

One of the guards returned after some time with a bowl of soup, yesterday’s bread and a battered wooden cup filled with water. He threw Cole a blanket afterwards, then told him to await the coming of dawn when he would meet the King. Cole heard the distant sound of a closing door and was left in the silence of the darkened dungeon. There didn’t seem to be any other prisoners from what he could see, though he couldn’t see much admittedly - the only illumination came in the form of a thin shaft of moonlight shining from a window high on the wall of his cell.

Come on, Cole…it’s not that bad. You have a bed and food, and they even threw in some water!

Eating his food in silence, he charted the long journey which had taken him here. Many long weeks had been spent on the road and his secret constantly weighed him down. Now the very first men he met had revealed that secret in a manner of moments. It made him feel both humiliated and angry at the same time! Why had he spent so many hours and sleepless nights worrying over it?

When he was done with his meagre supper Cole made himself comfortable on the cot located next to the cold wall. The blanket had the distinctive smell of horse, which was present everywhere in Aldburg, but it was warm and would do for the night. The cot itself was quite comfy as well. After what seemed like an Age spent sleeping under the stars it felt better than his bed at home.

Exhaustion set in almost instantly and before long any thoughts of Eorl or his mysterious summons were cast aside and replaced by the calmness of sleep.

Season: Autumn, Time of Day:: Late Afternoon, Weather: Stormy.

Storms of terrifying ferocity had been slowly gathering force, before lashing the outer folds of the embryonic kingdom with gales, rains and even floods that old and wise folk in the villages and hamlets claimed to be 'unnatural'. It was one such storm that reached the Rohirric capital at the very same time as the Golden Serpent (@BCTheEntity) and his retinue of guards requested entry into the presence of their war-leader and monarch, sheets of ice-cold water slanting downward and hammering at those that did not swiftly seek shelter. Those patrolling the walls retreated to the warmth and dryness of their gatehouses and towers, while the stout doors of the great hall were swung open to allow the entry of a slightly bedraggled yet resplendent serpent into the very same room as the King - numerous weapons capable of firing bolts with great rapidity trained on him at all times, of course.

Inside the great hall the gloom that had suddenly enshrouded Aldburg was somewhat held at bay by the furnace-like hearth-pit burning away merrily, placed near the centre of the hall and burning away merrily, tapestries and trophies of war lining the hall beyond the perimeter created by the wooden arches that held up the thatched roof and partitioned the building from one end to another. As Saptheth was guided forward, each step taking him closer to a humble wooden chair upon which a man of great stature sat, he may even pick out arms and armour of his own defeated people - yet these were not grisly relics of war, but trophies taken from valiant enemies on the field and displayed as such - everything from the weaving of the tapestries to the wood-carving on the arches and the plaques upon the walls showed a culture higher than most would give the Northmen credit for.

"My King," proclaimed the foremost of the guards, foremost in both prestige and position among them, "we have bought to you the desired prisoner. Some call him the Golden Serpent, some simply call him 'scum', he has been bought here at your behest. What is to become of him?"

All this was said in the Rohirric tongue, coarse and even abrasive to some, but fluid and straightforward as well; much like the tongue of the Dwarves in those respects, Eorl the Young gazing upon the man from beyond the sea of Rhun with great fascination. Something in the way his lips twitched at the corners, his sparkling blue eyes studying the garb and even the uncovered flesh of the man before him, showed that Saptheth was there for more than just something to gawk at.

"Tell me, Easterling," spoke the King from his throne - dressed from head to toe in a regal tunic of greens, embroided as it was with golden threads, a cloak of wolf fur wrapped about his shoulders - his voice soft and mellow but edged with violence, "why do you believe you are here? I hope you have no been mistreated by the guards or my Gondorian allies?" This he asked in Westron, a tongue that neither he nor his prisoner were fluent in, but remained the most common tongue in Western Middle-Earth.

---

There were few within the Eightfold Foal, the largest and most populous tavern in all of Aldburg, that would have noticed the entry of a single newcomer. Indeed, it took a moment or three for Eōrwīga Æsctīr, known as Felafrēcne to some and personal blacksmith to the king himself, to even register in his bleary-eyed state that the figure who strode in - the sound of the beginnings of a storm following her as the door opened and shut - was not an effeminate man, but a woman in close-fitting armour! How did he know this? Well, you did not become the King's own smith and not indulge yourself once in a while...he had known many women, and being able to spot on at a distance was something he prized himself on.

After using a handful of his own straw-blonde mane to wipe away the froth of his ale from his mouth, he first followed the path of the man-woman with his eyes - taking note of the two loud-mouthed crooks with a casual glance - before following her with his limping and stattico gait over to where she sat. Just in time to find her indulged in some light reading, it seemed.

"My apologies..." he thought for a moment, "eeer, madam, may I sit here?"

Without waiting for an answer he dragged a seat from another table and placed it opposite Éolan (@Sigurd), a disarming smile playing across his features as his eyes bored into her own, "may I ask what you are reading?"

---

Was it fate that the Knight and the Criminal should meet at the same time? Was it some trick of the Valar, even of Manwe...or even Illuvatar and his divine arrangement in the heavens?

No mortal could ever say, but it was not long after Saptheth had entered the hall that the Swan Knight arrived at the gates of the keep - his distinctive dress gaining him some quite immediate respect from the men atop the battlements - rain beginning to pour from the heavens even as the incarcerated fraud (who had been thrown into the gaol the very day before) was shouted at in broken Westron to dress and follow a group of armed men back to the courtyard or the keep where Baranor had been allowed to enter and asked to dismount for his own good.

"Both of you," grunted Leofric, pointing at Baranor (@DrunkasaurusRex) and snarling at Cole (@Vor) as he was half-dragged to stand beside the far nobler specimen of Man, "follow me."

It would not take the pair long to reach the great hall, and to enter it, just long enough for the Serpent to answer the King before their arrival.

Luck seemed to have been favoruing Éolan that day instead of the swindled drunkard, for she had managed to sit herself down in that tavern just moments before them threatening clouds had their imminent release. Being close to the wall and the window, she could hear the muffled splashing of mud under quick hurrying feet outside and the crepitating of steadily multiplying raindrops falling against the windows. Hopefully someone lifts him up and carries him inside. He'll die in the rain of lung ache. Drunk idiot.

Thunder rumbled in the vault far above and its drone lingered in the air uncannily long, and spread goosebumps on Éolan's nape as some kind of a bad omen would. 'The hooves of a giant celestial horse cresting the sky, untamed and free to roam the wilderness of the void'. That's how bard Éomer sang about it, when I was a child. The thin paper in her hand bent towards her chilled breast with a quick gust of draught coming at her from the direction of the door.

A sudden shade then passed over the parchment and Éolan's still cold hands. No sooner had she raised her head than the man sat before her, an inquisitive stranger with fresh ale in his guts allowing him excessive freedom. Nevertheless, she saw not afraid, thinking he was as average a visitor of inns as she could possibly have run into: middle-aged and flirty, but harmless; a local regular of such a joint. Strong-armed, although, and with rugged permanently blackened hands. Like our village smith. Thick forearms of a hammer-wielder, a smiter of the forge. An armorer, perhaps.

"May I ask what you are reading?" he asked her as he dragged his chair closer to the table upon which drops of drink fell from his beard. The crooks laughed again at the limping woman who swiped the floors.

Well, we have that in common. If only I knew what I was reading, if I can call it reading. I don't even know what language this is writ in. I should have asked someone, maybe, despite father's warning not to show this envelope to anyone until I arrived here. To a King's man only. When the rain is stopped I will seek a guard or someone.

"Looks like you may, mister," she said. "Truth be told, it's official."

She raised the letter and displayed the seal of the King on it. I bet you can't see your own nose...

As the Golden Serpent was brought into the presence of Eorl the Young, he glanced round at the decoration of the room- surprisingly cultured, in spite of the war trophies hanging from the walls after the purge of Balchoth, and at least warm enough to fend off the chill of the storm weather beyond the keep's walls- and noted that despite the semi-legible tongue in which the guard spoke, there was definite disgust toward Saptheth specifically. This was then mirrored in the far more wieldy Westron tongue spoken by Eorl himself... a very strong man. Almost too much so to function effectively as a soldier, many Easterlings would have said, at least in the more refined styles of combat they utilised compared to the detestably crude hacking of an Endorian... "knight", he seemed to recall. Regardless, Saptheth couldn't help but scoff quietly at the king's latter question.

'I don't suppose your prisoners are often chained to the wall of their prison,' he stated bluntly, tacitly leaving out how he'd been stripped bare to boot. 'Then again, your people slaughtered mine most un... needed-ly, and given my role in your society and the position I held before then, it is only wise to take... prrre-venting actions, especially when none will protest at the resulting... at how the prisoner is treated. In fact, I believe your new realm is built on the very battlefield the Balchothi were driven from. May my kin's ghosts prevent your sleep,' he uttered, reverting to his native Balchothi tongue, a rolling language of many softer syllables and long consonants, much like the deserts his race originated from. Usually, the curse was reserved as a lethal insult to the murderer of one's family members in the course of revenge, but since Saptheth's family- and every other Balchothi- had likely been killed by this man by proxy, it seemed appropriate to wish such dread upon the ruler of Rohan.

'As for why I am here,' Saptheth continued blithely, 'I can only assume you intend for me to become your... I believe the word you use is "dog". A hired minion, beaten into submission until he does his master's bidding.' The disgust in his tone is palpable, clearly highlighting his impression of the idea. 'Understand that this will not happen, and that bringing me to you at all was... unwise.' The serpent glances round the room again, this time at the many guards aiming their crossbows in his direction.

'I could kill you, if I wanted, Eorl leader of Rohan,' he proclaims. 'It would not be difficult, despite the best efforts of the men to either side of me. For all the crossbowmen you have here, I would surely die, but from this distance, I could readily hurl my spear through your chest and your throne alike before the first bolt struck me. Indeed, I ought to do so to avenge my race and cripple your kingdom; the fact that I do not is a sign of my... forgiving? Forgiving. Yessss.' He made a light hissing noise to punctuate his final word, staring directly toward the king as a form of intimidation. In truth, the real reason he did not slay the king at that moment was twofold: it would be counterproductive after being snatched from the jaws of death, and he did not in fact believe his own declaration of ability, or at least did not think it would hold true enough to follow through on, especially as both soldiers re-tightened their grips on his forearms. He had tempted fate once already, and was only given a reprieve by the same measure; tempting it yet again would surely give it cause to retract all assistance, with the relevant consequences. No, if he ever did plan to kill Eorl, it would have to be at the moment of least risk, both to his health and to his chance of failure. For now, he could only wait to see how the man responded to his words.

Deleted

Cole kept his head low while he was escorted into the courtyard, partly because he wanted to shield his eyes from the downpour, but mostly because of the growing feeling of shame. The two guards holding him firmly by the arms said nothing as they shoved him in front of Leofric, who seemed to be in an even worse mood than before.

“Both of you follow me.”

The Bree-lander didn’t have much choice in the matter, as the silent duo forcefully pushed him onward. Cole couldn’t help but glance up at the other newcomer and had to stop himself from gasping. A stately man walked next to him, clad in gleaming chain and a blue surcoat bearing a white swan. Wings flared out from the sides of his helm, giving him an imposing appearance. Needless to say, Cole was dumbstruck. He thought that Eorl’s folk inspired awe, but this man came straight from the legends!

There was something familiar about the knight’s armour, but he couldn’t quite remember from where – he’d certainly never seen another living Man or Dwarf wearing such fine gear. Cole didn’t linger on that thought for long, however, as his eyes were drawn to the wonders of the king’s hall. Tapestries lined the walls, along with spoils of war – spears and bows and swords of kinds he’d never seen, not to mention all the foreign banners. For the first time in his journey Cole began to comprehend the vastness of it all. Did each of these flags represent a town? A kingdom? A people? How many cities and holds and lords’ halls must be out there!

Leofric’s gravelly voice whispered in his ear:

“Stand straight and do not flinch, you are in the presence of the Lord of the Riddermark!”

Cole looked up and this time he couldn’t stop himself from gasping like a hobbit who’d seen his first man-sized pint at the Prancing Pony! Atop an unassuming chair the King was seated. There was no doubt as to who this man was, Eorl’s presence seemed to fill up the entire hall and it wasn’t owed to his mountainous figure. No, there was something else. A quiet, unshakable authority which seemed to radiate from the man. The kind that only a great ruler possessed – that’s what Cole had read in his scrolls at least.

His surprise wasn’t reserved only for the king, but for the man Eorl had his eyes fixed on. Yet another thing he witnessed for the first time today, as he had never seen a man with such dusky skin before. Eorl and his men were fair of skin and hair, while this stranger was the exact opposite – everything about him was dark. Was he another prisoner, like Cole? He certainly looked the part, surrounded as he was by the king’s men.

This left a sour taste in Cole’s mouth. This outlandish man, a great warrior perhaps, warranted an entire contingent of guards, who even now had their strange, bow-like contraptions aimed at him. So many people for just one man! Meanwhile, Cole had his two dour guards and the ever-cheerful Leofric. They didn’t even reach for their weapons as they let go of Cole, considering him no threat at all.

And to think I believed that I could be useful on this quest…Cole, you fool, what madness possessed you to come here?!

While he was self-pitying himself, the knight he had walked besides introduced himself as a Man of Gondor, confirming Cole’s suspicions. So it was real! Nobody at home had believed him, but he always knew in his heart that these faraway places were not mere stories.

He felt foolish standing there, but decided not speak unless addressed. After all, he doubted that the king had any interest in him.

@Sigurd

"Looks like you may, mister," she said. "Truth be told, it's official."

Eōrwīga grinned another rather wolfish grin, sensing that there was a bit more to this than met the eye, and immediately found himself looking upon the official seal of his lord Eorl the Young. It was a distinctive crest, one that could only have been made by the wax stamp of the monarch himself, and any sign of joviality dropped right away from his face upon laying his eyes on it.

“Well now...” he mused, one hand cautiously reaching out to pluck the parchment from those slender fingers, “you were right to think so.”

As he looked upon the finely constructed lettering of his King, his eyebrows rose higher and higher until nearly disappearing into his hairline. Once finished he sat there for a moment, his own blue eyes looking back and forth between Éolan and the letter that he returned to her just as quickly.

Surely this cannot be for one such as she? He thought to himself what is my liege playing at?

“It would appear that you are in the wrong place, my young friend.” His next smile was warm and pleasant, his face losing a few years of hard earned wrinkles and grooves for but a moment, “what if I were to tell you that you should be in the big stone hall up on the hill? Does that sound like a fair proposition to you?”

---

@Vor@DrunkasaurusRex@BCTheEntity

Everything within the Hall of Eorl happened quite swiftly – threats from a steadied Easterling prisoner, the arrival of two more unknown entities led by a seemingly gruff Leofric, and now it appeared that the plainer of the pair, the one not in polished and gleaming mail, had gone into some form of shock.

After the introductions and the hissed threats had passed, the King sat for a moment upon his simple throne and gazed at the scene before him. An Easterling, a Swan Knight and a most ordinary man walk into a hall...there was surely a jest in there somewhere, but now was not the time to be thinking of such ribald things. No, now was the time to speak and to take action, now was the time to be a king.

“Baranor of Dol Amroth, rise...please,” he gestured gently with one hand for the Knight to rise, stepping from the dais on which his throne was placed and taking the few steps required to stand face-to-face with his Gondorian cousin. “You are most welcome here,” one big hand was placed upon Baranor's shoulder and a firm squeeze given, “be patient with me cousin, all will be explained soon.”

Next he moved past the agitated Serpent, ignoring him deliberately or not but neither speaking nor looking in his direction, passing somewhat provokingly close to the armoured killer to stand before Cole.

“Ah,” came the first gasp from the King's lips, “so here is our Dúnadan ally, come to me all the way from the freezing north at my behest?” One hand rose to stop Leofric from speaking then, those glacial blue eyes boring into the smaller Bree-lander with barely restrained interest, the ghost of a smile passing over the lips of the sovereign.

Leaning in close, so that only Cole could hear, the Horselord spoke in clear and precise Westron – as he had been taught by the finest tutors, yet not without a residue of his native accent lingering still – into the man’s ear, “I know who you are, and far from being my prisoner you should be commended. For it takes more than simple stupidity to ride into my keep, and more than brute courage to come before me. Be at ease.”

Only now did he turn to the Golden Serpent, beckoning his guards to move away – which they did with great reluctance, ever keeping their crossbows trained on the foreigner in their midst – and drawing the sword that had been concealed at his hip by the cloak he wore. It was a fine sword, perhaps the finest that a Rohirric smith had ever made, with a horse-head pommel of gold and a fine wave-like pattern running down the blade, a blade which he now turned about and placed over one forearm, offering it to the Easterling.

Looking momentarily back toward his throne he spoke a series of words in his own tongue, words which sounded coarse and halting to others, but in which a rhythm and even joy could eventually be found in listening to, before another more melodic voice spoke unseen from within the thrones surrounding shadows.

This voice spoke in perfect Balchoth, and was assuredly not human.

“The King wishes for you to take his sword and kill him,” it said with a hint of what could have been boredom, “he says that if you truly are one of your people then you will not do it; for like the Rohirrim you abide by a sense of honour, honour which should prevent you from striking down an unarmed man in his own hall.” The voice paused for a moment, as if gathering its thoughts, before going on, “he also says that you will kill him now, or you will not take the blade and shall listen to what is to be said and why you are here...it is your choice.”

Eorl locked his own eyes onto the deep and dark ones of the Serpent, nudging the hilt of the sword toward him with a sharp grunt. If Saptheth struck him down then he would surely be killed in turn, but if he did not, well, who knew what might happen?

It seemed, then, than the noose had loosened just enough that if he so wished, the Golden Serpent could take the life of another foe, though in doing so he would surely be killed, as he had no doubts of before. And the King offered his own sword to do it with! What deliciously cruel irony it would be, for a king to bring a prisoner into his midst, only to have the prisoner kill him with his own weapon. And yet, in turn, a voice called to Saptheth, an inhuman yet lilting tone- demonic, perhaps?- that claimed his lineage would be moot if he were to slay the king in such a manner, citing honour as the reason. Looking round the royal, Saptheth narrowed his eyes at the shadows, and whatever creature lurked in their depths.

'You seem to lack understanding of my people's customs, fiend,' the Golden Serpent uttered back to whatever foe hid itself from the light, replying in his native language. 'The honour of the Balchothi is reserved for worthy opponents, not the figurehead for a butcher's nation, and certainly not the murderer of the Balchothi himself. Should Eorl die by my hands, it will be most just.' Returning to a straight posture, Saptheth continued to glare into the king's eyes, taking time to assess the situation. To take the sword would be simple enough; to decapitate Eorl simpler still... indeed, a smart man would not have put himself in this situation to begin with. Then was it worth obeying the orders of a fool, Saptheth asked himself? Or would a sacrifice on the mercenary's part prove more suitable in the long run?

An answer was reached in his mind. Slowly, without breaking eye contact, Saptheth reached a hand out, but not to the weapon's hilt. Instead, he laid his palm on the flat of the blade, pressing downward to tip the weapon across the royal's arm until it fell, clattering against the floor of the keep. Though it was unlikely anyone else in the room would know the intricacies of the act, the gesture involved in tipping a weapon from the owner's hand was generally intended to turn down a duel in a somewhat offensive manner, suggesting that they were seen as very little threat. Not a lethal insult on its own- that would be completed by stamping the weapon underfoot- but nonetheless upsetting to the already-offended party, and Saptheth hoped the general impression would carry over into Westron culture.

'Know that you live not because honour demands it,' Saptheth stated dryly, 'but because you dance on the thin line between bravery and stupidity. It... amuses... me.' And, he withheld, silently murmuring the words in his head, because surely a fool like yourself will drive this nation of Rohan into the ground within your lifetime, or else die of your own accord. With that, he crossed his arms over themselves, and waited for the king's reaction- and the reactions of others in the room, in fact- to his act of disrespect.

@Jbcool@DrunkasaurusRex@Vor

@Jbcool

The biggest house she had ever seen rose on the hill before Éolan: raw majesty, grey sternness indistinguishable from the manifold clouds above and beyond it. A fair proposition indeed. The seriousness that came over the smith's face when he snatched the message from her hand was reason enough for her not to wait for the deluge to be over, but instead haste towards the king's hall immediately. He'd directed her, gave brief explanation of the contents of the message, and bade her farewell and good luck. Looking at the wet windows of the inn she felt as if she should have thanked the man properly. Thank you? I could have spared a word of kindness for the man. What got into you? You're kinder than that. He was a bit rude although. Hunger and cold, yes. That's why I acted so. Remember to seek him later and apologise. Unless he tricked me. She went on through the mud uphill.

Under her drenched cloak she was clutching the handle of the sword, just in case some sort of rascal was waiting for her. She removed the hood and swept the plastered hair off her face. It was hard to breathe, more due to excitement and apprehension than to the ascending path, and she found herself sweating even in such a cold weather. A solitary figure, save for a shivering black cat in front of one of the homes, she trudged slowly now as if to delay whatever awaited her on top of the hill. One does not so easily claim to be a king's man. There's a great punishment for such lies. He might have been honest, that blacksmith, even if he was so vague. What does the king want of me?

A thunder exploded and the cat suddenly twitched, and Éolan's heart too. She saw the flags on top of the fort jerk violently in the wind and heard the long wooden planks of the simple houses rattle under the barrage of a rather light hail that had slowly started to replace the autumnal rain. She drew nearer to the houses and walked beside them to shield her head from tiny ice beads. Almost there. Then the path turned to slippery cobblestone on both sides of which an empty area of beaten grass and wet earth spread in front of her. Forward stood the guards, clad in green wool and mail, resting on spears near the gatehouse, with faces tuned to the elements.

One of the guards raised his head tiredly and called out coarsely: "Be gone if you be a drab, or if you wish to beg, we've no money, nor food! Get lost, or I'll lock you up!"

The hospitality of our folk has somewhat lessened as of late. Éolan stood still and silent for a moment, then said: "I do no such things. Look." She took out the letter from her shirt, stretched her hand to the guardsmen, and saw that the paper was almost ruined. Shaking her hand, she said: "A letter. From the king. See?"

The loud guard nodded to his friend and the latter went on towards Éolan fixing his helmet. "Try nothing funny," he said in the voice of a youth. He's shorter than the spear he wields. He took the papers and scanned them, but his frowning brow showed that he could decipher little to nothing. "This is nonsense. Nothing can be read." he said.

"The rain! The rain ruined it, and many hands that held it. Look at the seal, the horse, it's the king's." She pointed at it with her finger. "King's blacksmith told me so, too."

"She says Eōrwīga's involved," the guard said, laughing and turning his around towards his mate. "Are you trying to sneak in with all them scoundrels king summoned to his hall? Did you steal this off a corpse on the road?"

"Enough games!" the aggressive, annoyed guard that first apprehended her yelled taking the spear in both of his hands, an action repeated by the young one holding Éolan's letter. "Move, wretch!" they both said and thrust the spearheads towards her. "Through the gatehouse, slowly!"

The King’s words still lingered in Cole’s mind, so much that he barely noticed the happenings surrounding the other prisoner. I know who you are… only a few words and yet they spoke so much. First of all, that meant that his deception, if it could even be called such, was at an end. It did not come as much of a surprise to Cole, as he had failed in deceiving the guards at the gate – what chance did he have of fooling the King himself? Secondly, his head was still very much attached to his shoulders, which meant that Eorl was either very forgiving or had further plans for him.

These musings brought him to the third point, the most important one. How exactly did Eorl know? For man who’d never seen Eriador he knew a surprising deal – of the Rangers, or Dúnedain as they called themselves in the old tongue, and he no doubt knew of Bree as well. It was downright shocking! Bree-landers spent their entire lives there and scarcely knew anything of the Watchers and here stood a man, half a world away, who knew more than Cole himself probably!

Once more that feeling of vastness overwhelmed him. He’d always believed that the rest of the world shared the ignorance of his own people. Bree-folk knew little of the outside world and it was logical to assume that the outside world would know nothing of Bree as well. Certainly, the guards he’d met at Aldburg’s gates weren’t familiar, but they were simple men like him. Leofric and Eorl, however, knew a great deal more. Cole glanced sideways – and what of this knight from Gondor? He could only guess at the wealth of knowledge the man must possess, most of the writings Cole had seen came from that very same place.

A strange voice drew his attention to the shadows surrounding Eorl’s throne. At this point Cole found himself beyond shock - he’d seen so much in such a short span that the foreign tongue it spoke barely registered. Perhaps this was just the way things were outside of Bree-land, he thought, kings and knights, sorcerous voices and mysterious quests. Come on, Cole, you got used to Bree and you can get used to this…somehow.

Still, there was something disturbing about the unseen speaker. Cole tried to peer into the shadows but could see nothing. Was there really someone there or was it a mere trick of the light? It now occurred to him that Eorl might owe parts of his insight to this voice, whatever or whoever it was. A chill crept up his spine despite his best efforts to control himself, he tried to act as if all of this was normal, but his mind was most certainly against that idea.

Meanwhile Eorl turned his eyes back towards the dark-skinned man after the bodiless voice finished speaking, offering his blade hilt-first. The King appeared to be absolutely calm, in fact he seemed to be enjoying the entire thing. Cole could only envy his steadfastness, here he was almost trembling from some shadows and a queer voice, while the man offered his prisoner the means to kill him. Strange land this was and the people were even stranger!

And yet, he was here. The King had accepted him and there was a place for him in this quest, it seemed. That had to count for something, right?

Taking a deep breath, Cole drew himself up. Considering his modest height, it probably did not make much of a difference, but it somehow made him feel better. The tension eased from his muscles and for the first time since he arrived in Aldburg he felt at ease. Chest out, shoulders straight, hands clasped behind his back – he assumed the pose his instructors from Bree’s Watch had drilled into him. This drew a strange look from Leofric, though he quickly turned back towards his King as Eorl’s sword clattered to the ground.

The prisoner said something about bravery, stupidity and honour which, ironically, reminded Cole of the words Eorl had uttered to him just moments before. He didn’t know what to make of it – were this man’s kin enemies to Eorl and his folk? On his way here he had heard talk of a war with a great enemy, which led to the birth of Rohan itself. Was this man one such enemy and if so, why was he not dead? Eorl was indeed merciful…

There was no way to know for certain, so Cole did what a guardsman does best – he stared straight ahead and began examining a random spot on the wall, much like the two men at his sides. Well, my friends, two can play this game…

Deleted

Stout but stalwart was he, for he had walked upon the plains of this mannish land for many nights. He moved tirelessly with a sense of duty that had been carved into him from night after night hewing rock and stone for the precious minerals of Erebor. His War Mattock now across his shoulder as he made his way into the settlement, he had used it as a makeshift walking stick for most of his journey. Up ahead he glimpsed what seemed a fair and lithe lass from the race of men, who seemed to be making her way up to the very climax of the hill. That was where he was to go to as well, for where else would a King be but at the top? Of course, Dwarves saw it differently. Most Dwarven Kings would be deep within a mountain. Branack had spent enough time trading with the men from Laketown to know their general customs by now, however. As he waded up the steep hill, he sang a tune under his breath.



His words trailed off when he saw that the lass just before him was having spears leveled her way, and being spoken to in quite a harsh tone. The parchment in her hands looked much akin to the one he had received, by Aule! "Is the courtesy of this hall so lax?" he asked the guards. He produced the parchment he had received far away back in Erebor, and waved it in front of the men's faces. "Your King is an honorable one from what I have heard. Would he truly be content with his men barring the way of those he had sent for?" His voice was gruff and gave a small hint of warning. The Dwarf's meaty fist held the War Mattock's handle tightly as he glared at the men. "Out of our way, and bear no suspicion! We have been summoned. If whatever deed is to be done could have been done by you, they would not have sent for us."
@Jbcool@Sigurd

It had never occurred to her that a walking, talking, bearded rock would come to her aid — now especially in this mess she had gotten herself into, and with such an improbable punctuality and respectable presence. The arrival of the stout savior that had emerged from the damp, drizzly afternoon was a nightmarish experience for a simple lass who'd know only humanity of all the sapient races, and only the small portion of it that dwelt in the Kingdom of the Mark. Stones did not wield mattocks. Nor clothes. And they most certainly did not read or exchange messages with men. But there was one, issuing commands and reproaching her liege's guardsmen. Perhaps the Allfather still lay his fingers upon this small corner of his limitless mind. Awe seized her, and fear. She stared at the newcomer, as mute as the guards.

Is that a...? Impossible.

"A dwarf?" said one of the guards puzzled.

A dwarf. It hit her like mallet. Greedy, dirty, nasty little dwarves. From underground caverns where all the monstrosities gnaw the soil while they mine, and burn, and strike the anvil, and drool over those horrible jewels and disgusting gold and trinkets. Oh, my... She tried to swallow but her mouth was dry. No one seemed to mind the stray dog come from nowhere now scampering around their legs and whining miserably. She could swear she'd heard the dwarf chuckle under his beard. There seemed to come upon his face a leer at the possibility of a fight, and her heart beat stronger. No. It is the stories I've heard about them tricking my eyes. He seems friendly. Or at least friendlier than those other two. Give him a chance. You can always outrun him, can you not? He did help too, in a way.

"Y-yes! A dwarf! And a great, famous one, if I may add. Finest warrior of the underworld you've ever seen! Sung in many a song," she said to them, turning with haste and sudden pride and confidence in reality so fragile she thought they would collapse any second. "And he's got a letter, just like me!" With those words she walked to the dwarf, almost losing her balance to the mud twice doing it. Standing beside him, she dared not look at him, let alone touch him. Keep your hand on it at ready. Just in case. She held onto the hilt, her knuckles white.

@POOHEAD189

@Sigurd@POOHEAD189@Vor@BCTheEntity@DrunkasaurusRex

The day had started out so well, so normal, and within a matter of hours it had been turned upside down - or at least that is how it seemed to young Eckwulf; he and his companion were members of the Rohirric citizen-soldiery, not professionals such as the King's Guard, but trained well enough to ride and fight should the call to war go up from the King and his Marshals. Certainly enough to guard the gates of the hilltop keep, gates through which a number of oddities had passed this day - from a glittering Swan Knight to a ragged looking foreigner, as well as one of their blood-enemies of the Eastern lands - but what neither he nor his fellow had expected or even believed possible was for a Dwarf to come marching up the hill and threaten them with a huge mallet. A mallet and Dwarf that both looked capable of backing up their threats.

Letters were thrust into faces and shaken most ferociously, the dimmed attitude of the effeminate rider suddenly kindled by association with this apparently famous Dwarvish warrior, and Eckwulf was about to splutter back a reply when Eōrwīga himself came limping up the hill, the muck and mud turned into a quagmire by the sheets of rain beginning to fall all about them, and a grim look set upon his craggy face.

"Eckwulf, you great milksop," he yelled at the younger of the guards, "why are these bearers of our lords letters still waiting here in the wet?!"

Words began to form on the lips of the more aggressive of the two, but a quick cut of a hand cut off anything he might have to say, the King's blacksmith reaching the gatehouse and gesturing toward the hall in a curt manner, "my lady, master Dwarf, if you would follow me."

---

They reached the keep and walked into the interior just in time to see the Easterling casually, some would even sat gracefully, unbalance the blade from the monarchs hand and send it clattering to the floor in a clamour that was the only noise in the keep, save for the much merrier crackling of wood in the hearth and the pitter-patter of droplets now falling upon the thatched roof in ever greater quantities.

A flash of anger finally crossed the King's face, for but a moment but most certainly there, soon concealed and replaced with a sneer that seemed to warp his handsome features into something more cruel; as a page moved from the surrounding crowd and plucked the sword from the floor, Eorl remaining stock still until the blade was back in his grasp, he gave a sharp nod and the distinct twang of a crossbow string was shortly followed by a bolt embedding itself into the earthen floor mere inches away from where the Easterling stood.

Moving with a speed that was belied by his broadness of frame and tallness of stature, Eorl moved in close and bought the horse-headed pommel of his blade down onto the triangle of space between Saptheth's neck and shoulder, drawing back just as quick so that his blade drew itself across the flesh as the Easterlings neck. Halting his movements with his blade resting against the swarthy man's neck, more than prepared to cut his head from his shoulders, Eorl's face grew grim indeed.

"You are bought into my court, given back your armour and an aspect of your dignity," he began in Westron, the blade moving ever-so-slightly so as to keep its presence obvious and uncomfortable, "yet all you do is spit venom and hate at me, a King, something I doubt even your sordid race would do in your own land." With deliberate leisure he bought his face close enough for the Balchoth to smell the reek of ale on his breath, "if you truly wish to die, here and now, then it can be arranged."

Movement from the shadows behind the carven throne drew his attention away briefly, the individual that emerged very rarely deigning to show himself to others but believing that now was the correct time to do so.

He, for it was a 'he' in spite of the somewhat androgynous aspect he projected, was taller and more slender than any man and unmistakably fair - of Elven race for certain - but not as noble and high as the Noldorian kindreds of Rivendell, or as ferocious as the Sindar of Mirkwood. No, this Elf was different, more man-like than his cousins and brethren of the West, clothed in simple robes of brown shades and with only a small dagger at his waist. It was hard for man or Dwarf to tell the difference, but to those who knew of such things it would be clear that this member of the Eldar race came not from the West but had emerged from the same lands as Saptheth - a member of the kindred known as the Avari.

"Hold your blade, King of Rohan," it stated in a muscial tone, one gesture like water running over rock causing Eorl to begrudgingly withdraw his weapon and take a step back from his prisoner, "I believe that all here would wish to know why they have been summoned, is this not so?" Those alien eyes moved from Eorl to Baranor, to Cole and Saptheth, and even roved further into the shadows near the entrance to encompass Eolan and her Dwarven companion. The words spoken in Westron were perfect, almost as if this lithe figure had soiled their own speech by using them, but that did not stop him from entering into what could have been a monologue, had it not been for the assembled crowd.

"You have all been summoned here for a reason beyond your comprehension, some should not even be here..." his eyes found Cole once more, the ghost of a smile playing across those perfect lips, "and some should hold their tongues before offending their hosts." The statement was damning, and no doubt meant for the Easterling, "but nevertheless you are all here, here for a purpose that could well help to save the lives of many...perhaps all."

Those cool eyes now went to Branack and the two humans who now came closer to the throne and the scene unfolding about it, "who here knows of the Anvil of Aule?" It was an open question, for anyone to answer, but without much belief that anyone would or could answer it.

It was the most diverse company imaginable to Eolan who now was prepared for encounters with nonhuman creatures: a dwarf, an elf, and men, all of various sorts and ranks, all gathered in the hall of her King. It had all the elements of a story or myth: a lurking mysterious person in questionable service to the throne; a foreign man dragged before a foreign king whom he was taught to hate; a clash in the hall before the high seat; a gathered company of men as different from each other as possible all linked by a quest of seeming importance. All we lack is a Holbytla. I guess you'll have to do, dwarf. She eyes went from the dwarf-saviour beside her who still made her uneasy to the swarthy man that had to come from the East and had now escaped death before her eyes, and then in sudden jerks to the tall figure in brown whose words governed the king's blade. This is a strange for you to be in, she thought to herself, bewildered. You think you've seen it all now, because you're anxious and excited by strangers? You've seen nothing compared to them. He's got more experience in his beard, and the other one, he must have crossed the desert to get here. Her green eyes lingered on the graceful sinister face of the elf. And he... Snake's eyes.

The elven face seemed to smile on the inside, and the parley continued in Westron as she grew edgy to know what they spoke of, but could only pick up every third word and her mind wandered to the elf whom she apprehensive about for reasons unknown save superstition. She knew what ''anvil'' meant from the smith her father was friends with, and deduced from the rest that it was a question to them all. Who Aule was, she did not know, but thought him another elf judging from the name. Some elven smith and his anvil? They are famous for it. Ask later, now be still. She looked around while a brief moment of silence after the question reigned in the keep. The man from the inn was there, proven true and helpful to her once more. Banners around her, and the warm hearth tempting her to warm her pale hands above the flames, silent men standing guard near the walls. It was a comfortable place to spend an evening in, with a group of exciting people telling their exciting tales over a nice dinner. She could feel her nails ache as blood started to flow warm again. Some chattering began among indistinct men around her, and she turned left and right, trying to pick up clues.

”Thank you,” she whispered to Eōrwīga in her own tongue lest she forget to do it again. ”For directions, and for what happened outside with those two. I am grateful.”
The king's smith nodded, poked her arm with his hand and motioned to her to pay attention to the king. And she did. ”You are welcome,” he whispered then behind her and cleared his throat.
The king, she noticed then to her surprise in such a peculiar situation, was more handsome than she had imagined he would be. A truly noble presence among them, powerful and towering. Is it because he is a king? Would his golden head appear different were he a commoner? With that question she puzzled herself with, the king and the anvil remained the fixed centre of her attention as she waited to see where the situation was heading.

Branack had very little understanding with all that had transpired next. He looked at the young lass from the race of Men with incredulity as she boasted of Branack's prowess. He'd certainly done his fair share of events and achievements in his life thus far, but he was no legend. Especially not this far south in the plains of this new Kingdom of Men. He was inexorably led into the King's hall, and was further out of the loop by what transpired.

An Easterling, he thought to himself. Or so he assumed. He'd never met one himself, but he'd heard the stories, for Dwarves loved nothing more than to weave fine tales. What on Middle Earth was one doing here, and why was this King threatening and being threatened by him? Then a low growl permeated from his throat (which might frighten the young lass Eolan next to him) when he saw the Elf. He knew well the tales of Nauglamír and the subsequent battles that happened, but calmed himself down when he realized that not all Elves were treacherous. The Mirkwood Elves were allies, albeit loosely.

His thoughts were shattered when he heard the noble King of Men and the Elf speak of what was most sacred to the Dwarves. "What say you?" he asked, stomping forward toward the Elf, his eyes upon the him, imploring an answer. "Why do you speak of the Maker's Anvil?" Lo, for Branack knew that his God, the Valar Aule, had forged he and his kin before all others, shaping them to resist the corruption of Morgoth and his ilk. His Anvil was a sacred item lost in myth. "I will have an answer."@BCTheEntity@Vor@Sigurd@Jbcool@DrunkasaurusRex