[@Sigurd][@POOHEAD189][@Vor][@BCTheEntity][@DrunkasaurusRex]

The day had started out so well, so [i]normal[/i], 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."


[hr]


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 [i]twang[/i] 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 [b]are all here[/b], 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.