Daurrie, the youngest of the sons of Gurni, had once more forgotten to pick up the order of fresh cheese that was awaiting them at the markets of Bree. Lunch was served and the young Silvan handed over the rest of the tavern business to Dal, hoping to be able to rush to Bree and pick up the forgotten crate before the inn would close for the day. He would be gone but for half a day and they were not expecting any more than the usual stream of patrons this evening, so it should have been no difficult task to keep everything under control. This was not how the day would play out, however.
The inn stood silent and grim upon his return. In the main hall, it was Dal and Thinthil that crept about, their faces masks of tension that the walls of the inn were dripping with.
Another bearing the name of Amalanthian had arrived.
It took some explaining, such words found Galtharian confused and lost. After all, Cedmon never mentioned any of his kin, not that Gal ever asked him of it... It was a mutual understanding that whatever was leftover of their lives outside of Bree would not be mentioned or inquired upon. Still, finding that there was one of Cedmon’s own blood right here, in Bree, found the young Silvan battling with the surprise and shock that so plainly rested on his expression.
Still, perhaps, it was not so odd that Galtharian felt such shock overtake him. Cedmon spoke nothing of himself or his personal matters, that was true, yet this did not mean that Galtharian knew naught of them. Veiled by a silence that would settle into the inn each night and having made sure that Aearrien resumed her spot from which she guarded entry to the inn, Galtharian spent many a countless hour sifting through each word Cedmon left behind, written in discarded letters and secret journals, fueled by one single purpose - finding what is this grand and terrible threat that marched towards Bree seeking to bring forth the destruction of the Windswept.
The work brought the young Silvan no joy, he found no satisfaction in learning about Cedmon’s life what Cedmon himself had not wished to share with him and many a time he found himself yearning to stop, to accept that the many cryptic and mysterious warnings Cedmon spoke were naught but ramblings of one whose grief turned to madness. But now, sitting before Dal and Thinthil as they delivered news of this supposed brother of Cedmon’s it was no time to think of such things. What settled now in his thoughts was but a simple thing - not once did Galtharian lay eyes upon a single word written about Cedmon’s family. There was mention of the family of Cedmon’s once promised, this he found, and thus to them Galtharian did send word of Cedmon’s passing. To Cedmon’s own, having never learned before this very moment that they were upon his shore, he did not.
As the ringing of shock lessened in his ears, the horrible realization slowly settled upon Galtharian’s clouded mind - if one truly came to these lands, to the place that Cedmon named his home and dwelling, into the tavern that was built where Cedmon once laid his bed and kept his treasured books… if one arrived claiming to be of Cedmon’s own blood they would find nothing. They would find indifference from the many that so clearly despised Cedmon while calling his home their own and they would find news that was buried under the snows of the past winter - Cedmon had passed.
What did not help Galtharian face the wave of familiar grief that washed over him once more, leaving him powerless, was what he learned of the manner in which this brother of Cedmon’s was informed of his brother’s passing.
“Bugger’s dead.”
Were Dal not standing before the Silvan with an expression that could not deny his guilt in this whole ordeal, Galtharian would have jumped to immediately defend that dwarf against Thinthil’s accusation. After all, no matter what the Man said about the events that unfolded that very afternoon away from Gatharian’s eyes, there would have been no way that Dalbran Gurrnison, the kindest and most understanding of any that call the Hammer and Harp their home would spit such malice and such hate to one that came to them in a desperate search. Galtharian would bet his very soul on Dal’s kind heart and heaps of patience. But the dwarf stood before him and did not deny this accusation. Those were his words.
“Bugger’s dead, I said. Splattered ‘cross the pavement of Carn Dum. And if want to speak to the Wutelgi ‘bout him… ye’ll have to come back ‘nother day.”
