The Eorlingas

The Reeve nodded, keeping his eyes on the war-band, and giving not a speck of glance to the Witan at his flank. "You fought in the siege in Stangard ...or so is supposed. You haven't shown the courage to stand and protect till death as in ways of our kin...''

Régnwald let his eyes wander about the faces for a moment, he eyed first Zaiweyn, then the pair he met, and soon around his comrades until Niehstu spoke with fatigue of recent days, "I do not accept that, my Lord, Still my war-band holds no such judgment by our king or marshall." He threw the titles as weapons, eyes narrowing a fraction to show the crows’ feet that clung to their edges. ''I only offer for myself that I have done no wrongs in your land save ride across them and seek to protect your folk, and thus lay myself at your mercy.''

Within the large Mead-hall, all the members of the Witan have gathered: Mægisterwigend Gyric, serving as a Captain of Wildermore's éored, Seaxwyrd son of Radwine, a son to a renown warrior, standing at Thrymm's place, Ethelmund, the Quartermaster of Forlaw, Thane of Scylfig, Cynegar, a friend and cousin to the Reeven, Frambald, Thane of Dunfast, Aldwin, uncle of the Former Thane of Byre Tor and last Leofholm, master healer of Forlaw.

FORLAW / Outside the Reeve's Hall / DUSK
 

The winter air bit deep in the cliff-side burgh, but stout walls and warm hearths did something to keep the west's harsh winds at bay. Folk busied themselves with everyday labour, logs were split, cattle driven and linen washed even in times of strife. The leader of the war-band sat, gazing at his armoured feet that swayed slightly from the edge of the stone fence.

'Gydgar, where are the rest?' soon he demanded.

​Hondscioh nodded at Egilfrid and looked between Erlene and the Eorling horse-tamer ''Yer woman knows where to find ya.'' and advanced a few strides to shake hands with him, though his eyes soundlessly wandering around the ring to find his horse.

FORLAW VILLAGE / REFUGEE CAMP -- EVENING

Hondscioh, with a few drinks in him emerged from the smoky inn, sucking the fresher air, traded a look with Régnwald who seemed lost... and a little drunk.

''I brought ye mead... It appears you won't step in that inn, it smells horse-shit -- like Stelimund, that old man.''

Across the weak fire, Régnwald looked over at Hondscioh, smiled, but 'twas wearied and bittersweet.

The winter air bit deep in the cliffside burgh, but stout walls and warm hearths did something to keep the west's harsh winds at bay. Folk busied themselves with everyday labour: the logs were split, cattle driven and linen washed even in times of strife. The man named Hondscioh walked onward with heavy steps, eyes watching the scop-maiden on the wood terrace in silent curiousity.