Sigurd — Roleplayer Guild

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.
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