Elendor
Weaving words: honour won and wind-runners wakened
A young apprentice bard is embarrassed to find the hero of his song present in person. And Hraefengar Scop sings of the forming of the first horse at the world's dawning.
Sort Date: no date set
Location: The Sleeping Stallion Inn
Game Date: Monday of July 16, 3045
IC Time: Early evening
Description: ************************************************************
The Sleeping Stallion Inn
The common room of the Sleeping Stallion Inn is a crowded bustling place. The rohirrim flock to this inn in droves, coming here to savor the fine ales brewed by the barkeep Vhran, and also to sup on the tantalizing fare he and his family provide. The tables are arranged hapazardly around the room, with no real pattern emerging. The walls are decorated with many fine tapestries and paintings, mostly dealing with life in the Mark, and the horses which the rohirrim worship above all else.
Table code is in effect here. Type thelp for table commands.
Obvious exits:
Stairs Up leads to The Sleeping Stallion Inn: Second Floor.
Street leads to The Marshal Square.
Real time is: Thu Nov 27 03:25:17 2008 - Rohan weather is: Clear
Elendor time is: Dusk <20:15:51 > on Monday of July 16, 3045
The Moon is: full
It is early evening - past the hour for a family supper, yet not late enough to have drawn in those seeking an evening's carousing. Outside, another day is drawing to a close, and the swollen sun sinks to its rest amidst a bed of tattered scarlet and yellow cloud-ribbons. Dusk is falling, and soon the Stallion will be bustling - now, however, it is 'quiet', as much as a well-loved inn ever can be. Patrons sip at their mead and ale, and talk amongst themselves. A few have turned on their stools to listen to a young talumirage, sandy-haired, who strums quietly on a lap-harp as he comes to the end of what seems to be drinking song.
".. golden, glistening bright
So lest your sense and steps both fail,
Stay away from amber ale!"
The youth grins as scattered applause rises, but then his face grows serious once more - nervous, almost. "Another? I have," he hesitates, "a song I have been working on. It tells of a joust."
[Theoden(#15851)]
A man comes into the inn, slipping in as much as one can, and he pauses for a moment, cocking his head at the song. A smile crosses his lips, and Hraefengar lowers his head, remaining silent as he threads his way through the tables, his wolfhound at his side. He takes a seat not far from the youth, then leans back and stretches out his legs, preparing for to listen to the song.
"How about Raedwulf's ride?" one old fellow quavers, but another, more burly man stares him down. "No, lets have the other. I'm /sick/ of hearing the same old junk night after night."
Clearing his throat nervously, the youth interjects quickly, "The joust, then," and bends his head to pluck a few strings on his harp, checking their tuning. Distracted as he is, he does not glance up at the new arrival ... not yet. Satisfied with his instrument at last, he gives a little bow and half-closes his eyes as he begins to pluck out a melody: it starts in the usual way, with the steady rhythm of hoofbeats, but every now and then a foreign, rather more exotic, snatch of tune creeps in. "Hearken, friends. I tell now of a joust that took place in the far-off Stoninglands."
'See them stand where sea-mists swirl,
Come to join the joust this day.
Jostling horses, high in spirits,
Eager men, in armour burnished.
Bold and brave and bright are all,
Who will win and who will fall?
[Theoden(#15851)]
The scop closes his eyes, settling in the high-backed seat, leaning against it. Perhaps it might seem he sleeps, but his expression belies that, for it shifts with the singing, as though indeed he listens. His foot moves up and down just a fraction to the beat, and his right hand on the arm of the chair moves, his fingers fluttering as though they pluck harpstrings. His left hand remains limp in his lap.
As the first stanza comes to an end, the young singer risks a quick glance at his audience. No objections there: he continues, getting into his stride now.
"Fearless Feohelm, first to ride,
Faldweld's son, with spear-tip shining.
Azrubar his adverse is,
Silver-white, with sea-hawk helm.
Sea-Knight's strength succeeds this day-
Thrice his thrusts do Feohelm sway.
Once again, the youth looks to the onlookers between the verses, and he continues to do so as he sings.
"Here is Hraefengar, Hrothgar's son
Battle-marked his battered mail.
Dark-haired Dal-
The music falters suddenly, as Beorhtgar's gaze focuses on one particular face. His own face reddens, and although his fingers continue their strumming it is several heartbeats before the words come back to him. There a slight tremor in his voice.
"Dark-haired Dalras does him face,
Lord Ivor, his lance-arm steady.
Five times Hraefengar finds his mark,
Gold and green prevails o'er dark.
[Theoden(#15851)]
But Hraefengar smiles, and he inclines his head in encouragement, opening his eyes and regarding the younger man with sympathy in his eyes. He lifts his hand and motions for Beorhtgar to go on, then bends to scratch behind the wolfhound's ears before settling again.
Perhaps the youth needs to catch his breath, for a full verse is plucked out on harpstrings alone before he continues his tale. Smile or no, he does not quite meet Hraefengar's eyes, and when he sings again, his gaze is pointedly fixed on a faded tapestry of Eorl high above the onlookers. The music quickens its pace ...
"The final challenge swiftly starts,
Hooves drum heavy on hard ground.
Azrubar sways, yet stays his seat.
Hraefengar laughs, his lance unbroken.
Truly, 'tis a glorious sight,
The match between these men of might.
Beorhtgar's hand strikes full chords now, reminiscent of the strident martial trumpets of the Stoninglands. They also perhaps help to cover the fact that here the words are at their weakest.
"Again they charge, again they clash:
Second lance sends Scop a-swaying
Third throws Sea-knight to the ground,
Fourth arrives, and Hraefengar reels.
Lances splintered, shield-arms shaken
On they ride, no rest is taken.
[Theoden(#15851)]
The wolfhound yawns, stretches, then flops onto her side, resting against the chair-leg. Hraefengar straightens, and, for the lad's sake, perhaps, he also does not look at him, but instead fixes his gaze upon the same tapestry. His eyes flicker, as perhaps he recalls that day, that joust. A soft sigh escapes him, and he rubs at his left shoulder.
"Now the final flag has fallen:
As coursing flame the Sea-Knight charges,
Hraefengar lifts his lance to meet him,
Strong as Helm, the heavy-handed.
Down goes Azrubar! Down he falls,
From his head the hawk-helm rolls.
The joust is ended, all is done,
Hraefengar has high honour won.
Hrothgar's son has shown true skill,
Spear and shield have served him well.
Sea-Hawk knight was fierce in fray,
Yet raven humbled hawk this day.
A final, triumphant swept chord brings the epic tale to an end, and Beohrtgar brings his gaze back to his listeners, relief writ plain across his flushed face. Before any applause can begin, he addresses the Stallion's patrons again, this time with the spoken word.
"Good men and woman of Edoras, we look now upon a living legend. Hail to Hraefengar, Hrothgar's son, hero of the joust!"
[Theoden(#15851)]
The scop seems to drift with the song, smiling fondly at the words, at the memory. "Raven humbled hawk... yes..." Then his eyes open wide as the talumirage speaks, and he flushes scarlet, bowing his head as eyes turn upon him. He clears his throat, then reaches for the tankard that has been brought to him. He rises slowly, lifting the cup. "Hail to the weaver of words, who has unlocked his word-hoard so well unto you," he calls, then drinks, seating himself again, thoroughly embarrassed.
As the patrons turn to toast Hraefengar, Beorhtgar lets his breath out in a sigh of relief and mops surreptitiously at his brow. When the scop returns the favour, the young talumirage is clearly equally embarrassed, for his features redden a little more and his head dips as he takes the applause. "I am but a student in the skills of song and story," he mumbles. "I have shared my silver, but here sits one whose speech is spun gold. Will you sing for us, Hraefengar Scop?"
Most of those who had been listening cheer Beorhtgar as good-naturedly as they had Hraefengar. There's always one, though ... Into the silence that follows rises a quavering voice: ""I want Raedwulf's ride. No more of that fancy foreign stuff."
[Theoden(#15851)]
"But that 'stuff', as you so eloquently put it, my good man," calls Hraefengar, his voice soft, yet carrying easily, "is not foreign, but our own good tradition, well-crafted and well-sung, as much as I might question the choice of hero. As for fancy, it is not frippery, but skilled weaving. So shush and drain your dregs yet again." He shakes his head, then looks to Beorhtgar. "I could sing, if it is wished, though there is naught amiss with your own voice, nor your tales."
Beorhtgar's face is still a little red, but his embarrassed must be fading, for he manages a grin. "My own voice might sound the better after a measure of mead to soothe the throat," he answers, his gaze flicking to a nearby table where an untouched mug awaits. "Besides, every talumirage tires of the sound of his own voice. Will you sing, honoured Scop? It is wished. Do you wish the harp?" He holds out the little lap-harp, though he cannot help gaze questioningly at Hraefengar's limp left arm.
Quelled once more, the querulous oldster grumbles into his mug.
[Theoden(#15851)]
"I will take the harp, and I will sing," answers Hraefengar, though there is, perhaps, a bit of wistfulness in his voice. "And then, pray, of what shall I sing? Eorl? Folcred and Fastred? Or a battle-call to arms, to hearten us? What would you hear, you, Talumirage, and the rest of you? I am your servant." He shifts in his seat, then motions the younger man to bring to him the harp.
"Raedwulf's ride," mutters the old fellow with the quavering voice. Other suggestions rise swiftly to drown him out. "A marching song," calls out one fellow with a scar across the face. "A ballad," suggests a young woman softly, her eyes shining. "Anything with a good beat to it," supplies the stout man who was thumping his mug on the table with dubious timekeeping all the way through the last song.
Beorhtgar hesitates, but as he hands the harp over to Hraefengar he answers, "I would dearly love to hear a tale of the heroes of old, the days of glory when the Mark was yet young. To such I have always been drawn.
[Theoden(#15851)]
A smile comes to Hraefengar's lips, and he bows his head. Taking the harp, he settles it into his lap, then, wincing, lifts his left hand with an effort to the strings. he plucks one, then a second, then makes a minute adjustment to the tuning-pegs. Then he lifts his head and draws a deep breath. "Heroes and ballads and legends..." He strikes a chord, then another, the cadence different, ancient. I will sing... aye..."
Hwaet! Listen. Hwaet! Hearken. Horns blow.
Can you hear their calling? Can you hear them?
Echoes sounding, echoes fading, old songs stirring.
Darkness covered dale and mountain dawn was waiting.
Stars were sprinkled, sown in blackness,
Blackness deep under night. Bema hunted.
Great the hunter, gift-giver, gold was his hair,
Strong his sword, swift in battle.
Foes they feared him, fierce and mighty.
As Hraefengar tunes the harp, Beorhtgar sinks to a nearby stool, taking a few swift swallows of his mead. At the first chord he sits up a little straighter, and as the words roll from the singer's tongue he sits with his cup forgotten in his hand, head tilted slightly as though he did indeed hear echoes.
The tavern hushes as the listeners attend as eagerly to this song as they had to the last. Even the elderly proponent of 'Raedwulf's ride' is silent, as is the enthusiastic table-drummer - fortunately, the latter is empty-handed, presumably awaiting his next mug.
[Theoden(#15851)]
Hearken! Hear his horn is sounded.
Bold the blowing, birthed are echoes
Rippling, running down rill and fold
Shadows shatter, shimmer, form.
Dreams awaken, dancing, drawn are visions
Roused from darkness, roused by horn-call, running swiftly.
Bright then Bema saw bold wind-runners.
Hraefengar's fingers dance over the harp, weaving the notes of the song, a whirling of wind and of hooves, a patterning of rippling notes. His jaw is tightened, and now and again a flicker of pain furrows his brows, yet he smiles as he sings.
Four legs he fashioned from the earth,
Muscles from mud then molded he,
Held high aloft the head so proud,
Fair springs flowing filled their veins-
River water. Rippling streams run so swift.
From flint and iron forged four hooves he made
The growing grass that in green waves blows,
He set to swing as silken mane and tail.
Beorhtgar's lips move slightly, as though he were committing the words to memory. His attention remains on Hraefengar, and it is not until someone nudges him that he minds the cup held part-way to his lips. Absently, he drinks.
[Theoden(#15851)]
Gleaming are the eyes of the scop, his head uplifted, as if he sees beyond the gathered folk and the walls and the city, sees the horses running, forming from the good land. His foot taps out the beat, a birthing cadence, a sacred rhythm.
Many made he, mares and stallions,
Clothed and coated in colors fair.
Dappled daylight, dun from ripe barley,
Blood and earth blended, bay he made,
From the fallow dirt, farmers' joy: brown,
Black was born from boldest nightshade,
Snow from high slopes, softest white,
From great clouds gathered storm-grey cloaks.
Starlight and sunlight and scattered moon-beams
He laid on coat and limb to light and glisten.
There are nodding heads and smiling faces amongst the listeners. The table-tapper has received a new mug of ale and takes a deep draught that leaves him with a foam-flecked mouth a couple more swallows and the mug is empty enough to thump down on the table in approximate time to each stressed syllable (alas, he drags behind the beat).
[Theoden(#15851)]
Wild and wandering, the wind arose,
Blew its breath through bone and sinew,
Stirred and strengthened straight limbs clean.
Then Bema blew a brave horn-note,
Awakened echoes in each proud steed-
Spirits fair and strong, horn-song in their hearts,
Clarion-clear, horn-calls in each voice.
Hraefengar stills the harpstrings, then, undeterred by the table-tapper, plucks a cadenced beat, as at the start of the song, a turning of the circle, no true beginning or end. His left arm quivers, but still the flowing notes are true.
Hwaet! Listen. Hwaet! Hearken. Horns and hoofbeats.
Can you hear their coming? Can you hear them?
Echoes sounding, echoes rising, old songs stirring.
The scop then lowers his head, his voice slipping into silence, and the last notes of the harp fade like echoes upon the wind.
A sigh comes from the listeners as the last notes of the harp echo into uncertain silence. Can it really be ended so soon? Beorhtgar sets his cup down slowly, carefully, shaking his head as though to clear it as his focus returns to his surroundings. Then comes firm applause accompanied, for he is still young and apt to express his enthusiasms forcefully, a wordless cheer.
Once the spell is broken, the rest of those gathered here add encouragement of their own - the mug-tapper beats his 'instrument' rapidly and loudly on the table until his neighbour takes it from him. And the querulous oldster? From him comes .. snores. His head rests peacefully on the table.
All in all, a good evening.
[Theoden(#15851)]
Hraefengar bestirs himself, and his left hand drops limply into his lap, twitching weakly. The scop sighs, and he takes a deep breath. "And so it was, and so we are," he murmurs. "Come, lad, take your harp it is a good instrument and I thank you for its use. Your voice is good, and I have enjoyed your songs."
Reluctantly, Beorhtgar rises to his feet to take the proffered harp. "Scop, I thank you for your gift of music and word. As Bema, you have fashioned form from shadow and clothed it in beauty and might." His young face is solemn, and awe echoes in his tone. "Fain would I sit and listen all evening - but alas, duty and coin would have it otherwise. Once again, my true thanks." He steps away, but it is not long before he has been inveigled by someone in the crowd into playing again, this time a merry dance. Every now and then the young talumirage murmurs a word or two to himself: 'flint forged' ... 'muscles molded' .. and there is a smile on his lips.
The Sleeping Stallion Inn
The common room of the Sleeping Stallion Inn is a crowded bustling place. The rohirrim flock to this inn in droves, coming here to savor the fine ales brewed by the barkeep Vhran, and also to sup on the tantalizing fare he and his family provide. The tables are arranged hapazardly around the room, with no real pattern emerging. The walls are decorated with many fine tapestries and paintings, mostly dealing with life in the Mark, and the horses which the rohirrim worship above all else.
Table code is in effect here. Type thelp for table commands.
Obvious exits:
Stairs Up leads to The Sleeping Stallion Inn: Second Floor.
Street leads to The Marshal Square.
Real time is: Thu Nov 27 03:25:17 2008 - Rohan weather is: Clear
Elendor time is: Dusk <20:15:51 > on Monday of July 16, 3045
The Moon is: full
It is early evening - past the hour for a family supper, yet not late enough to have drawn in those seeking an evening's carousing. Outside, another day is drawing to a close, and the swollen sun sinks to its rest amidst a bed of tattered scarlet and yellow cloud-ribbons. Dusk is falling, and soon the Stallion will be bustling - now, however, it is 'quiet', as much as a well-loved inn ever can be. Patrons sip at their mead and ale, and talk amongst themselves. A few have turned on their stools to listen to a young talumirage, sandy-haired, who strums quietly on a lap-harp as he comes to the end of what seems to be drinking song.
".. golden, glistening bright
So lest your sense and steps both fail,
Stay away from amber ale!"
The youth grins as scattered applause rises, but then his face grows serious once more - nervous, almost. "Another? I have," he hesitates, "a song I have been working on. It tells of a joust."
[Theoden(#15851)]
A man comes into the inn, slipping in as much as one can, and he pauses for a moment, cocking his head at the song. A smile crosses his lips, and Hraefengar lowers his head, remaining silent as he threads his way through the tables, his wolfhound at his side. He takes a seat not far from the youth, then leans back and stretches out his legs, preparing for to listen to the song.
"How about Raedwulf's ride?" one old fellow quavers, but another, more burly man stares him down. "No, lets have the other. I'm /sick/ of hearing the same old junk night after night."
Clearing his throat nervously, the youth interjects quickly, "The joust, then," and bends his head to pluck a few strings on his harp, checking their tuning. Distracted as he is, he does not glance up at the new arrival ... not yet. Satisfied with his instrument at last, he gives a little bow and half-closes his eyes as he begins to pluck out a melody: it starts in the usual way, with the steady rhythm of hoofbeats, but every now and then a foreign, rather more exotic, snatch of tune creeps in. "Hearken, friends. I tell now of a joust that took place in the far-off Stoninglands."
'See them stand where sea-mists swirl,
Come to join the joust this day.
Jostling horses, high in spirits,
Eager men, in armour burnished.
Bold and brave and bright are all,
Who will win and who will fall?
[Theoden(#15851)]
The scop closes his eyes, settling in the high-backed seat, leaning against it. Perhaps it might seem he sleeps, but his expression belies that, for it shifts with the singing, as though indeed he listens. His foot moves up and down just a fraction to the beat, and his right hand on the arm of the chair moves, his fingers fluttering as though they pluck harpstrings. His left hand remains limp in his lap.
As the first stanza comes to an end, the young singer risks a quick glance at his audience. No objections there: he continues, getting into his stride now.
"Fearless Feohelm, first to ride,
Faldweld's son, with spear-tip shining.
Azrubar his adverse is,
Silver-white, with sea-hawk helm.
Sea-Knight's strength succeeds this day-
Thrice his thrusts do Feohelm sway.
Once again, the youth looks to the onlookers between the verses, and he continues to do so as he sings.
"Here is Hraefengar, Hrothgar's son
Battle-marked his battered mail.
Dark-haired Dal-
The music falters suddenly, as Beorhtgar's gaze focuses on one particular face. His own face reddens, and although his fingers continue their strumming it is several heartbeats before the words come back to him. There a slight tremor in his voice.
"Dark-haired Dalras does him face,
Lord Ivor, his lance-arm steady.
Five times Hraefengar finds his mark,
Gold and green prevails o'er dark.
[Theoden(#15851)]
But Hraefengar smiles, and he inclines his head in encouragement, opening his eyes and regarding the younger man with sympathy in his eyes. He lifts his hand and motions for Beorhtgar to go on, then bends to scratch behind the wolfhound's ears before settling again.
Perhaps the youth needs to catch his breath, for a full verse is plucked out on harpstrings alone before he continues his tale. Smile or no, he does not quite meet Hraefengar's eyes, and when he sings again, his gaze is pointedly fixed on a faded tapestry of Eorl high above the onlookers. The music quickens its pace ...
"The final challenge swiftly starts,
Hooves drum heavy on hard ground.
Azrubar sways, yet stays his seat.
Hraefengar laughs, his lance unbroken.
Truly, 'tis a glorious sight,
The match between these men of might.
Beorhtgar's hand strikes full chords now, reminiscent of the strident martial trumpets of the Stoninglands. They also perhaps help to cover the fact that here the words are at their weakest.
"Again they charge, again they clash:
Second lance sends Scop a-swaying
Third throws Sea-knight to the ground,
Fourth arrives, and Hraefengar reels.
Lances splintered, shield-arms shaken
On they ride, no rest is taken.
[Theoden(#15851)]
The wolfhound yawns, stretches, then flops onto her side, resting against the chair-leg. Hraefengar straightens, and, for the lad's sake, perhaps, he also does not look at him, but instead fixes his gaze upon the same tapestry. His eyes flicker, as perhaps he recalls that day, that joust. A soft sigh escapes him, and he rubs at his left shoulder.
"Now the final flag has fallen:
As coursing flame the Sea-Knight charges,
Hraefengar lifts his lance to meet him,
Strong as Helm, the heavy-handed.
Down goes Azrubar! Down he falls,
From his head the hawk-helm rolls.
The joust is ended, all is done,
Hraefengar has high honour won.
Hrothgar's son has shown true skill,
Spear and shield have served him well.
Sea-Hawk knight was fierce in fray,
Yet raven humbled hawk this day.
A final, triumphant swept chord brings the epic tale to an end, and Beohrtgar brings his gaze back to his listeners, relief writ plain across his flushed face. Before any applause can begin, he addresses the Stallion's patrons again, this time with the spoken word.
"Good men and woman of Edoras, we look now upon a living legend. Hail to Hraefengar, Hrothgar's son, hero of the joust!"
[Theoden(#15851)]
The scop seems to drift with the song, smiling fondly at the words, at the memory. "Raven humbled hawk... yes..." Then his eyes open wide as the talumirage speaks, and he flushes scarlet, bowing his head as eyes turn upon him. He clears his throat, then reaches for the tankard that has been brought to him. He rises slowly, lifting the cup. "Hail to the weaver of words, who has unlocked his word-hoard so well unto you," he calls, then drinks, seating himself again, thoroughly embarrassed.
As the patrons turn to toast Hraefengar, Beorhtgar lets his breath out in a sigh of relief and mops surreptitiously at his brow. When the scop returns the favour, the young talumirage is clearly equally embarrassed, for his features redden a little more and his head dips as he takes the applause. "I am but a student in the skills of song and story," he mumbles. "I have shared my silver, but here sits one whose speech is spun gold. Will you sing for us, Hraefengar Scop?"
Most of those who had been listening cheer Beorhtgar as good-naturedly as they had Hraefengar. There's always one, though ... Into the silence that follows rises a quavering voice: ""I want Raedwulf's ride. No more of that fancy foreign stuff."
[Theoden(#15851)]
"But that 'stuff', as you so eloquently put it, my good man," calls Hraefengar, his voice soft, yet carrying easily, "is not foreign, but our own good tradition, well-crafted and well-sung, as much as I might question the choice of hero. As for fancy, it is not frippery, but skilled weaving. So shush and drain your dregs yet again." He shakes his head, then looks to Beorhtgar. "I could sing, if it is wished, though there is naught amiss with your own voice, nor your tales."
Beorhtgar's face is still a little red, but his embarrassed must be fading, for he manages a grin. "My own voice might sound the better after a measure of mead to soothe the throat," he answers, his gaze flicking to a nearby table where an untouched mug awaits. "Besides, every talumirage tires of the sound of his own voice. Will you sing, honoured Scop? It is wished. Do you wish the harp?" He holds out the little lap-harp, though he cannot help gaze questioningly at Hraefengar's limp left arm.
Quelled once more, the querulous oldster grumbles into his mug.
[Theoden(#15851)]
"I will take the harp, and I will sing," answers Hraefengar, though there is, perhaps, a bit of wistfulness in his voice. "And then, pray, of what shall I sing? Eorl? Folcred and Fastred? Or a battle-call to arms, to hearten us? What would you hear, you, Talumirage, and the rest of you? I am your servant." He shifts in his seat, then motions the younger man to bring to him the harp.
"Raedwulf's ride," mutters the old fellow with the quavering voice. Other suggestions rise swiftly to drown him out. "A marching song," calls out one fellow with a scar across the face. "A ballad," suggests a young woman softly, her eyes shining. "Anything with a good beat to it," supplies the stout man who was thumping his mug on the table with dubious timekeeping all the way through the last song.
Beorhtgar hesitates, but as he hands the harp over to Hraefengar he answers, "I would dearly love to hear a tale of the heroes of old, the days of glory when the Mark was yet young. To such I have always been drawn.
[Theoden(#15851)]
A smile comes to Hraefengar's lips, and he bows his head. Taking the harp, he settles it into his lap, then, wincing, lifts his left hand with an effort to the strings. he plucks one, then a second, then makes a minute adjustment to the tuning-pegs. Then he lifts his head and draws a deep breath. "Heroes and ballads and legends..." He strikes a chord, then another, the cadence different, ancient. I will sing... aye..."
Hwaet! Listen. Hwaet! Hearken. Horns blow.
Can you hear their calling? Can you hear them?
Echoes sounding, echoes fading, old songs stirring.
Darkness covered dale and mountain dawn was waiting.
Stars were sprinkled, sown in blackness,
Blackness deep under night. Bema hunted.
Great the hunter, gift-giver, gold was his hair,
Strong his sword, swift in battle.
Foes they feared him, fierce and mighty.
As Hraefengar tunes the harp, Beorhtgar sinks to a nearby stool, taking a few swift swallows of his mead. At the first chord he sits up a little straighter, and as the words roll from the singer's tongue he sits with his cup forgotten in his hand, head tilted slightly as though he did indeed hear echoes.
The tavern hushes as the listeners attend as eagerly to this song as they had to the last. Even the elderly proponent of 'Raedwulf's ride' is silent, as is the enthusiastic table-drummer - fortunately, the latter is empty-handed, presumably awaiting his next mug.
[Theoden(#15851)]
Hearken! Hear his horn is sounded.
Bold the blowing, birthed are echoes
Rippling, running down rill and fold
Shadows shatter, shimmer, form.
Dreams awaken, dancing, drawn are visions
Roused from darkness, roused by horn-call, running swiftly.
Bright then Bema saw bold wind-runners.
Hraefengar's fingers dance over the harp, weaving the notes of the song, a whirling of wind and of hooves, a patterning of rippling notes. His jaw is tightened, and now and again a flicker of pain furrows his brows, yet he smiles as he sings.
Four legs he fashioned from the earth,
Muscles from mud then molded he,
Held high aloft the head so proud,
Fair springs flowing filled their veins-
River water. Rippling streams run so swift.
From flint and iron forged four hooves he made
The growing grass that in green waves blows,
He set to swing as silken mane and tail.
Beorhtgar's lips move slightly, as though he were committing the words to memory. His attention remains on Hraefengar, and it is not until someone nudges him that he minds the cup held part-way to his lips. Absently, he drinks.
[Theoden(#15851)]
Gleaming are the eyes of the scop, his head uplifted, as if he sees beyond the gathered folk and the walls and the city, sees the horses running, forming from the good land. His foot taps out the beat, a birthing cadence, a sacred rhythm.
Many made he, mares and stallions,
Clothed and coated in colors fair.
Dappled daylight, dun from ripe barley,
Blood and earth blended, bay he made,
From the fallow dirt, farmers' joy: brown,
Black was born from boldest nightshade,
Snow from high slopes, softest white,
From great clouds gathered storm-grey cloaks.
Starlight and sunlight and scattered moon-beams
He laid on coat and limb to light and glisten.
There are nodding heads and smiling faces amongst the listeners. The table-tapper has received a new mug of ale and takes a deep draught that leaves him with a foam-flecked mouth a couple more swallows and the mug is empty enough to thump down on the table in approximate time to each stressed syllable (alas, he drags behind the beat).
[Theoden(#15851)]
Wild and wandering, the wind arose,
Blew its breath through bone and sinew,
Stirred and strengthened straight limbs clean.
Then Bema blew a brave horn-note,
Awakened echoes in each proud steed-
Spirits fair and strong, horn-song in their hearts,
Clarion-clear, horn-calls in each voice.
Hraefengar stills the harpstrings, then, undeterred by the table-tapper, plucks a cadenced beat, as at the start of the song, a turning of the circle, no true beginning or end. His left arm quivers, but still the flowing notes are true.
Hwaet! Listen. Hwaet! Hearken. Horns and hoofbeats.
Can you hear their coming? Can you hear them?
Echoes sounding, echoes rising, old songs stirring.
The scop then lowers his head, his voice slipping into silence, and the last notes of the harp fade like echoes upon the wind.
A sigh comes from the listeners as the last notes of the harp echo into uncertain silence. Can it really be ended so soon? Beorhtgar sets his cup down slowly, carefully, shaking his head as though to clear it as his focus returns to his surroundings. Then comes firm applause accompanied, for he is still young and apt to express his enthusiasms forcefully, a wordless cheer.
Once the spell is broken, the rest of those gathered here add encouragement of their own - the mug-tapper beats his 'instrument' rapidly and loudly on the table until his neighbour takes it from him. And the querulous oldster? From him comes .. snores. His head rests peacefully on the table.
All in all, a good evening.
[Theoden(#15851)]
Hraefengar bestirs himself, and his left hand drops limply into his lap, twitching weakly. The scop sighs, and he takes a deep breath. "And so it was, and so we are," he murmurs. "Come, lad, take your harp it is a good instrument and I thank you for its use. Your voice is good, and I have enjoyed your songs."
Reluctantly, Beorhtgar rises to his feet to take the proffered harp. "Scop, I thank you for your gift of music and word. As Bema, you have fashioned form from shadow and clothed it in beauty and might." His young face is solemn, and awe echoes in his tone. "Fain would I sit and listen all evening - but alas, duty and coin would have it otherwise. Once again, my true thanks." He steps away, but it is not long before he has been inveigled by someone in the crowd into playing again, this time a merry dance. Every now and then the young talumirage murmurs a word or two to himself: 'flint forged' ... 'muscles molded' .. and there is a smile on his lips.
Players: Beorhtgar, Hraefengar, Barz, Fally, joust, horses
Located in: Rohirrim
