Ethel came to me one merry morn in spring, as many flowers had started blossoming, and the golden sun gently warmed the frosted grass. Tall tales she had heard from Thilwend, the esteemed sergeant of the guard, and to me Ethel asked if I would gather more stories from those that still remembered, as she had always loved listening to my tales of yore.
Historic moments quickly turn to tales, and tales turn to legends. Legends then turn to myth, and even as the myths still linger in memory, few remember how it actually happened. By telling the stories and singing the songs of our past, we pass on history to each new generation. Every story, no matter how outrageously embellished over the ages, always begins somewhere. There is an inherent truth that spawns a good story and survives through the ages, and there certainly was no shortage of tall tales from Bancross.
Being bred and born in the town, sergeant Thilwend knew the old songs and tales by heart and had heard them all since first she would understand the spoken word, as she shared blood with many of the people of legends. One moon-lit evening I walked the paths of Bancross together with the hardy sergeant, taking to heart her every word and laid them all to memory, until at last we stopped at the Roaring Dragon to wet our whistles with a cold, foaming brew.
She had begun by telling the story of how Bancross came to be.
As Aldburg had been built by Eorl, and Meduseld by his son Brego, so had the man named Banred built a meadhall upon the rubble of old Calenardhon some years later, in the times of Helm Hammerhand. There upon a rocky hill, overlooking the river in a landscape dominated by vast fields and grasslands, still stood the crumbled ruins of an ancient tower, overgrown by trees and vines, and its history forgotten by all.
Scattered around the hill were a number of other ruins and rubble, and in the air there was a strange, uncanny sensation of unexplained dread that seemed to smother the spirits of any who ventured there. The people whispered of seeing mist-veiled shadows at night, and hearing strange voices in the wind that spoke in unknown tongues, of things long forgotten. Yes, there was something about the area that seemed to call out to everyone to stay away, and leave the place in peace.
Yet, Banred persisted in his pursuit with a determined heart and unconquered spirit, and from the ruins he and his followers gathered stone and gravel, and soon there stood a great hall in its place. Parts of the main tower still survive to this day, and much like the town of Snowbourn to the east, many of the wooden houses now rest on ancient foundations of stone, and some are even built around crumbled walls.
As the river was deep and often overflowed in spring, so did Banred also seek a way to make passing easier for all who ventured north from Edoras. With rock and stone he raised the riverbed to the south of the hill, and people started to call it Banred’s Crossing. The name stuck, and as language and names always evolve, the small town was soon to be called Bancross by the ones who dwelled there. And so it came to be, how the little town got its name as we know it today.
Thilwend further told me of the guard’s barracks, where now captain Denholm holds power, and how it was purposefully built between a tall cliff and the rubble of another small keep of stone, where it overlooks the fields to the east and south. Banred also laid the main road and built the main gates below the barracks, to control the flow of visitors with their carts and wagons. Next to the barracks is a narrow gorge cut by nature’s power, lined with sharp rocks and slippery boulders, which is known as Banna’s Stand.
It was here that Banna the shield-maiden, eldest daughter of Banred, once stood tall and proud with a long spear and a red shield in hand, slaying many dunlendings as they had attempted to sneak through the gorge during a battle, and she alone had foreseen it, while many claimed the gorge was unpassable. Some say that her long red hair flowed like fiery flames in her unbridled rage, and that her valour turned the tide of battle that day.
“Beware the flame-witch!”, the dunlendings cried loudly as they fled across the field, or so it was told. Her bravery won the day, and her legacy can be found in various places in Bancross, as the tale of her bravery was woven into song, and her likeness woven on grand tapestries.
And I could not help but notice the great pride and honor upon Thilwend’s face as she told of Banna, her ancestor. Aye, the hardy sergeant is indeed a true daughter of Bancross, and shares blood with its very founder. She ran her fingers through her own red hair, and said that she hoped she’d be remembered just as fondly one day.
“Sergeant Thilwend”, I proclaimed, “you are already a living legend in Bancross!”
In that moment she knew what was coming, and I in turn told a story that she knew all too well, and I could see her cheeks redden with pride and amusement as she let me continue. For it was she that hunted and landed the killing blow upon a wayward drake that had come down from the mountains one winter, hungry and bewildered, and hunting for livestock. I held up my hand towards the mounted drake-skull on the wall, and I told her in vivid colours how the story was once told to me, and how the townsfolk got together and renamed the tavern in her honor, from the Roaring Bull to the Roaring Dragon. Yet I somewhat held back my weaving of words, for in her eyes I saw the proud yet humble shield-maiden who only did her duty, or so she believed. Still, true valor is to be remembered and celebrated by the living, not only after they have passed.
For hours we spoke and laughed and shared many ales and tales, until at last we parted that night, with the promise of many more to follow.
