Windswept in the Wold

Players: Faelwine, Deorlic, Belfast, Theoden.

Tiar Forod crossroads

A crossroads makes its mark here in the northern reaches of the Mark. Two roads meet, mate, then go their ways: north to south, east to west. North traces the eastern edge of Fangorn, that ominous verge of dark trees and tales west cages the forest, trapping it behind the boundaries of manmade travel. East spins long and slim into the vast plains of the Wold, the rich grassland that is pasture for the Riddermark's treasured horses.

And upon the road there can be seen horses and riders a small group of them, no more than five. Soon, all but one of the horse and riders break and head westwards at good spead while the lone rider heads towards the encampment. Soon the horse can be heard and soon enough the horse and rider come to a stop not far from Faelwine and the horses. The rider is silent for a few moments before he speaks.

"Whose encampment is this upon the plains, if you do not mind my asking. Has the Mark gone to battle?" The words carry with them a faint trace of a soft, regional accent no doubt.

As the woman looks up and turns towards the voice, the rampant stallion brooched upon her cloak glints dully copper in the grey light: the badge of an eoscealc. "Good day," she greets, one rose-gold brow arching slightly. Her gaze flickers towards the largest pavillion in the camp, a little far off, yes, but outside of it banners of a white horse upon green field can be seen flying.

"This is the camp of Theoden Cyning, and those who follow him on Progress," she answers, looking back to the rider, blinking a little as though suprised it was neither obvious or known. Yet her voice is polite, and she, too carries an accent, though of one raised in the vales of the Eastemnet, should that be recognisable to the rider. Then, she adds, with the flicker of a smile, "Nay, we have not gone to battle. Would not be wise to bring women, children, and other common folk were it so."

The eyes of the rider narrow a moment before he nods his head slightly. "I see." That is all he says for a moment, eyes flicking about the encampent the words are more uttered than spoken, as if to himself. "How long has this Progress been in progression?" The eyes of the rider turn back to Faelwine, eyebrow arched slightly.

"That would be true, but they could have been moving to some safehold." The man shrugs his shoulders slightly. "It matters little, however."

From behind in the camp, a hammer strikes down on the last edge of an unfinished piece of red hot iron. Belfast, the blacksmith holds up the forged object, a horseshoe, to inspect his work and finding a flaw, he hammers it once more into the hefty anvil. With that final fix, he dips the metal in the hlaf-filled water bucket by his feet, grabbing a moise towel to wipe his sweaty palms upon. With slow interest he looks outside his make shift workshop, a stranger upon the road it seemed. Perhaps there was news from up ahead...

Soon enough, the blacksmith focused his attention on his job once more. He pulled out the newest horseshoe from the water pail, and put it in the small barrel with the rest, which he carried under one arm towards the line of horses. His steps grew slower and slower as he approached his destination, and the horses- recognizing his familiar steps, whinnied as he came closer to them, some of them even lifting up their hooves as if to ask for a change of iron shoe. Belfast smiled as he approached one of the older mares, and pulling out his hammer from his belt, he proceeded in removing the first of her soles.

"It has been some weeks now, three or so, since we departed Edoras." answers the woman to the rider, settling a quieting hand upon the chestnut mare's shoulder. "And who is it who wishes to know? For word had gone ahead of the Progress, or so I thought, of the king's coming, and we have passed already through the Westfold. Strange it seems to me, that you would wonder at these things."

Hearing, perhaps, a few whinnies behind her, Faelwine half turns, craning her head to peer along the picketed horses. Spying the other man, she calls out to him, "Fair morn, blacksmith!" If the dreary weather has any effect upon Faelwine, it is not evident in her bright tone. A hand is lifted in greeting to Belfast, before looking back to the rider.

"Deorlic, of Westenhold." Is the rider's simple answer before his face seems to darken a moment. "Has it indeed? It is curious, I will admit... how far in the Westfold did it go?" Here, the eyebrow is arched slightly before Deorlic dismounts, patting his horse. "Not so strange to me..." The words seem almost muttered.

Belfast drove home the last nail in the fourth shoe as Fealwine, clandestine to Belfast, calls out. He had seen her before, but only seen, and was pleased to hear her greeting. "And a fair mornin' to you fair lady." answered the blacksmith with a pearly grin. He inspected the rest of the horses, those under his direction and care that is, and after replacing another shoe or two, rose silently and loitered a bit in the area, his interest piqued as the conversation between the eoscealc and stranger carried on...

[OOC: Belfast had to logout.]

"Westenhold.." Faelwine rolls the word over her tounge, trying to recall, but at last she shakes her head. "I have not heard of a Westenhold. To the Hornburg, and then to Dunlostir, and thence we have come." The mare heaves an exhasperated sigh, and the eoscealc bestows a gentle, placating pat upon her shoulder, before speaking to Deorlic once again with a nod, and a more friendly smile offered. "Well met, Deorlic. Faelwine, Faldweldsdohter, is my name."

"Ah." The word is quietly uttered by Deorlic before he nods slightly. "I see. Westenhold is on the far western borders of the Mark we are... out of the way, so to speak." A few moments pause from the man before he speaks again. "Scurheorteson, am I. I have the honour of serving my Drihten as a Bodigmund, among other things."

"Bodigmund?" Faelwine arches a brow, yet nods respectfully. "What, praytell, brings Deorlic Bodigmund to the Wold? For I have seen no Drihten lords nearby in need of guarding. 'Other things', then must include reason to venture far from the dwelling of your lord, I presume."

Comes the sound of hoofbeats, and a half-dozen riders come into view, wheeling in formation as a wing of geese, hardly seeming to slow, though their speed grows less, then less, not as they turn but as they approach the camp long legs reach out, a symmetry and unison of those who have run together for some time. Then ahead leaps a white-maned horse, and on his back the king rides, laughing. They pull up near to where Faelwine and Deorlic stand, and in a fluid motion the Meara stops, and Theoden leaps down from his back, while one of his eoscealcs takes the stallion's reins. The king laughs and pats the horse's neck, shaking back his windblown hair.

"Indeed, it does. In addition to my duties as Bodigmund, I serve as a Getaleboda... amongst other things." Is the simple response of Deorlic as he shrugs his shoulders softly, though there could be a trace of a slightly lopsided smirk upon his face. "I was sent to deliver a message to someone in Mering." Any other further words are cut off by the arrival of Theoden the Bodigmund drops to a knee, head bowed and fist upon the ground. "Theoden King."

"Then you have taken a lon--" Faelwine's words to Deorlic fall short at the arrival of the king, and without hesitation, the woman's own form folds in a courtesy, her head bowed. For the white Meara and his rider, Ierrewind spares a heavy, unhappy sigh, a plaintive glance directed towards her own rider. The mare fidgets uneasily, stomping her feet in place and switching her tail, though any emotion further than irritation is witheld, albeit just below the surface.

"Oh rise, do," murmurs Theoden, gesturing up with his hand. "Good morning to you both. Faelwine eoscealc, there is a good field down in a hollow just over yon ridge that your mare might like." He eyes the impatient horse with a wary, appraising eye. "Stanbold may have need of you later his mare stumbled and he is walking her out." Then he turns to the kneeling man. "Rise."

The Bodigmund rises quietly after a few moments, bowing his head slightly to Theoden once more. "Hail, Theoden King." The words still have the soft accent of the far west of the Mark Deorlic raises a hand a moment to brush some hair from his face before it falls to his side.

Faelwine rises in time for her mare to turn her head and nip at the eoscealc's cloak. "Hush, you," she scolds gently in an undertone, reaching out a hand to stroke Ierrewinds shoulder. A smile, then, she turns towards the King. "We shall have a look there, sire, for she is indeed in need of a good run today. I see that Snowmane had such in mind, as well." Her cheerful tone would better suit a summery afternoon than such a biting, grey day. Concern, though, creases her brows momentarily at the mention of the other mare. "I could have a look at her before Ierrewind and I ride, sire, if it is needed? Might be best to be sure nothing is terribly amiss."

"He is walking her now," answers the king. "So I do not think you need worry just now. But do as you see fit I shall be glad of it." He turns then to the man, glances at him thoughtfully. "You look almost familiar," he muses, "Though I am certain I do not know you. Who are you, man of the West-mark?"

"Deorlic Bodigmund. Of Westenhold, lord." Comes the man's response. "I was returning from delivering a message to Mering, for I also serve my lord as a Getaleboda, my companions and I, when we saw your encampment here. I sent them to continue on the journey to Westenhold, while I came satisfy my curiosity."

"A long route to take from Mering, as I was going to say," remarks Faelwine with brow curiously arched towards Deorlic. "Unless Westenhold is far closer than I deem, and yet we would have had to pass it by from Dunlostir, and no word have I heard spoken of Westenhold before now." Puzzled as she sounds by this, she shrugs, and lifts her brush once more to Ierrewind's coat. The mare's tolerance for this standing and talking seems to be waning, for she tosses her head and paws the air with a foreleg, only stilling as her rider reaches a hand to her neck, breathing a quiet, "Easy, now. I have but one thing to do after this, hrm? Then we shall go."

"Whereat several cats lying slain rose up again?" asks Theoden. "I trust you are now satisfied? he glances about. "It is a circuitous route from Mering, to bring you here. Or ore the ways crosswise running fenny? I had not heard of much rain. Still..." The son of Thengel turns to look at Faelwine, and he laughs softly. Then he turns to the mare. "Ierrewind," he chides reproachfully, "be still."

The Bodigmund shrugs his shoulders slightly. "We had some freedom with our route and I had thought to travel northwards before turning west to return to Westenhold this is an area of the Mark I have seen little of. My duties are not so pressing that Dreogeth requires my presence immediately upon my duties being finished."

As if soley in defiance, Ierrewind switches her tail and shuffles her hooves, then finally, at last, falls still. Or mostly, at any rate. She reaches out her neck, and with the tip of her nose, nudges the picket-line back and forth, as it were a great harpstring. No real sound comes from it though, but it vibrates visibly along its length.

The eoscealc merely sighs, and makes use of this relative stillness to brush the last dust and dirt from the mare's girth, her lips twitching apologetically as she looks to Theoden. "Impossible, as you have said, my lord." Then, her gaze flicks to Deorlic. "Shall we find the road to Mering then littered with cats?" Her lips flicker into a playful, good humoured smile. "Though most lords would have ample servants to not miss one or three, for a time, I would hazard to guess."

"Not to miss one or three servants, or cats?" asks Theoden. "At any rate, Deorlic, your curiousity, has it been satisfied, then? For the sake of all the cats, if naught else?" His lips twitch. "You will sup with me tonight, and I will give you a message of greeting to Dreogeth. Faelwine, if your scop is well, I will have his services too. And you shall feast for it." He nods his head, then reaches out his hand to the mare. "Ho. Easy."

�

"I... am honoured, lord." The Bodigmund bows his head a moment. "Though, I would ask your leave to accompany your camp for a while she," Here, he nods towards Faelwine. "is correct: Dreogeth shall not miss me for some time. My companions will inform him of where I have gone." A brief pause, an eyebrow arched a moment before he speaks once more perhaps a hint of humour in his tone. "I am sure that the cats are safe."

With a loud snort, Ierrewind starts forward at the king's touch, her tail tucking and her haunches gathering, and her neck tensing and arching high. She looks around at him, wide-eyed and indignant, and breathes another quieter, but more drawn out snort, her nostrils flared.

"Ierrewind," Faelwine reproaches with all the enunciation of a mother calling her child's right and proper name. She steps to the chestnut's head, reaching up to take the mare by the halter, tugging gently downward. The mare does indeed lower her head, though her neck remains tense, and she moves to give her rider an impatient shove with her muzzle. A well placed hand on Faelwine's part, however, blocks this. "You knew he was there, silly creature." she murmurs firmly to Ierrewind. "No more of this, hrrm? You shall get us both sent back to Edoras, or worse." A heaved sigh, and the mare's gaze seems to soften a little.

"You have my leave, though we are going south and east, toward Mering and not away from it, then swinging back along the road to Edoras. Travel with us as long as your master will allow." Theoden nods his head, then turns his gaze to Faelwine, and his brows furrow. "A good run will help with the fidgets," he says. "And... the scop?"

The Bodigmund bows his head slightly. "Thank you, lord." A brief pause as he takes up the reins of his horse before he speaks again. "That path is fine with me it heads westwards in the end, and that will lead me back to Westenhold. Yet, I believe now I shall take some rest I have been riding for some time." A bow of the head is given to both Theoden and Faelwine before he begins to head towards the camp proper.

"Sorry, sire," Faelwine breathes, and then swallows, keeping a hold of Ierrewind. Or is it the other way around? For the mare has the eoscealc's sleeve between her teeth, and she tugs at it in a strangely affectionate, maybe even apologetic manner. "He... he will come, yes, my lord. And to partake of the feast shall be an honour, as always." A gracious nod of her head to the King, then Faelwine turns her gaze back to her horse, and shakes her head. She looks towards the bodigmund as he takes his leave, offering him a parting nod, but arching a brow and glancing back towards Theoden.

"Deorlic..." Theoden's voice is softly firm. "Before you take your leave, I would say to you to send me one of your men before the daymeal, that I may give him my message for Dreogeth. And now you may go." He glances to Faelwine, and a sympathetic smile plays on his lips. "Oh, off with you. Just one thing. Is a healer needed? I shall send my own, if so."

"If... if your healer could have a look at him, yes, he would-- well, I would greatly appreciate it, sire. And he would be the better if there was aught to that could be done to ease him. I have done all that I know, but..." Faelwine's voice trails off sadly, and she shrugs. Reaching over to where she lay Ierrewind's bridle, she lifts it up and moves to put it on the mare. No saddle is within sight, nor does the eoscealc seem to intend to use one, for once the bridle is on, she turns the mare about, standing now near the King. "As soon as we return, I shall seek out Stanbold and his mare, my lord. I do hope she is unhurt, but if something is amiss, I shall put it to rights as best I can."

"I trust you shall, eoscealc," answers Theoden with a nod. "Now go, and run free of troubling thoughts. Stanbold's mare is a gentle, patient creature, and I do not think she shall be troubled by the wait. As for your scop... leave that in my hands. Remember, supper. This evening." So saying, he turns, and makes to walk away.

"My thanks, sire," breathes the eoscealc, dipping a small courtsey. "I shall not forget." A small smile, though a little forced, and after the king has turned away, she leads in increasingly restive Ierrewind a few paces from the line of picketed horses. The mare stands, trembling with excitement barely contained, just long enough for Faelwine to spring upon her back. Then, half rearing, she takes off at a brisk canter, gaining speed as they depart from the camp.