Æthelmund of Slower Days

[Shivased]

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Near the exit of the Cavalry Courtyard stands The Æthelmund, the final hope of any thirsty Rider. Far more solid than in the past, the Cavalry's pub greets new arrivals with the warm light of lanterns flickering by the door. As you step in, welcoming the cool air of the inside in the hot summer's evening, you are welcomed by the familiar sights and smells, mostly the loud laughter of dryhtgumas relaxing after a long day. A group in the corner is particularly loud, standing in a circle around a poor new dryht, looking desperately at the large mug in front of him. In the fireplace a huge fire roars, warming the pub against the cold of late winter outside. A large slab of wood is hung above it, replacing those that have come before it. On it are carved the words "Where the foundation is strong, the Spirit lives forever."

Cavalry business in the Mark has been slow, with little to do outside of patrols and maintenance-type duties. With no good fights or battles to be had, soldiers are becoming restless and bored, which is a perfect excuse to open the old pub for some fun and relaxation! Much to the relief of many a Dryht, the sign banning all weapons has been removed from the door, though Sceo looks warily at each new person who walks in. Sceohund waits by the bar, with a dubious look on his face and a scowl for everyone who comes in. He clearly isn't eager for a pub full of bored warriors. Hanging behind him on the wall is a menu, familiar to all but the newest trainees..

[br]
Oromë’s Bletsung, this red wine is truly a blessing, a real nectar of the Gods.
Hwitsceo, a fluffy concoction of clear filtered ale mixed with just a touch of white clover honey topped with mounds of sweetened whipped cream.
Glavrol, a fine and delicious wine that won’t make you drunk, but will cause you to babble nonsense should you drink too much
WildeBur, (Wild Boar) the drink is fairly basic, consisting of a mixture of honey ale, stirred in with some fresh cream, and fruit juice, usually from a cherry, but can be substituted with any fresh fruit. The appearance is rather red and frothy, invigorating the onlooker with a thirst for the hunt, and the mead has a kick like an angered boar, yet the fruit gives a mellow finish, the end of the hunt.
Readsteda, (Red Stallion) It has a strong amount of Ale and a few shots of some other Rohirrim Ingredients for extra energy. It can be added to almost any Rohirric Drink or juice.
Faestbrand “because that’s what it’ll feel like going down your throat.” A mix of whiskey, ale, a little splash of beer and a little splash of a dark elixir for taste.
Stout Halbert, a delicious dark beer introduced to us by our very own Blædtunge.
Mearas Blod, a thick, potent and dark red drink with a kick; made from a variety of dark-red berries growing in swampy places
Green Rider’s Ale, foreigner’s stereotypical drink of the Mark. Pale ale, smooth and mild but has an unexpected kick at the bottom of the mug.
Mirigetunge, a type of tiny honey cake baked over the fire, and sure to go well with any drink.
Gedwol, a dish of salmon grilled in a sauce reminiscent of barbecue with a hint of lilac. It goes well with a foaming tankard of 1420 malt.
Stelitunge, a cake mixed with a little honey, a bit of ale, lemon, and some extra strong something or other
Hefonciese, a soft-crust goat’s cheese, nice and creamy.
Wisedreda se Remy, “The wise strength of Remy“ the name needs no explanation...all who attempt to tackle this sandwich shall feel the wind of Remy beneath their wings, and the whisper of his voice in their ears, and may they remember better days, and look forward to Remy’s return... (THE premiere dish of the house!)
Badger Burger, the return of an old favorite. Badger meat cooked on a stick and slapped between two small round loaves of bread. You’ll have to do your own roasting by the way.
The Marshal’s Malt Whiskey, in memory of all the Marshals who've drunk here before, a bitter drink that brings fire to your belly, much like the Marshals of the cavalry.


And for all the newest Dryhtguma‘s, or an newly promoted marshal, a drink that reflects the rigors of your recent training: Bilewitdox...roughly translated, it means "The Dusk of Innocence". A perfect drink for a newly initiated, it’s first filled with a light ale, said to symbolize the innocence of the young trainee. Then, the mixer will take the sap from a beech tree aged exactly 2 weeks, and fermented with sour lemons, and pour this into the light ale. The horrible strength and acidity of this sap signifies the new life of a hardened veteran warrior, the bittersweet life of a Dryhtguma. (Compliments of Sicilius ~ Or BLAME Sicilius, whatever the case!)

Welcome to the Elite Cavalry’s pub. I don't think you can burn this one down, but then again, we can never be sure until we try, can we? (This does NOT mean you, Egeslic!) Now for the few rules we must have, even when relaxing:

1.) Stay in character and be creative. Order a drink, it is a pub after all, but try not drinking it all alone in some corner unless absolutely necessary. By all means, try singing, too, we are always up for a good song, but remember to credit it if it is not your creation.
2.) Stick to the general Plaza rules. Most of all, this includes no spamming or OOC chatting.
3.) Only members of the Cavalry post in here, please -- trainees are included as members, for pub purposes.
4.) Have fun!

[Pele Alarion]

Hadassa

Supposedly one had to get used to the rigours of cavalry work, training, fighting... Well, there had not been any fighting, and Hadassa supposed it was a good thing, though it rather made her feel that her only purpose now was mucking out stables. And that was what she had done, almost all day long, until her shoulders and arms felt like falling off. At least she did not have to shovel mud from one corner of the courtyard to another...

Tired and somewhat hungry she was, and that was a good enough reason for her to wander towards Aethelmund in search of something edible, and maybe some company, if there was any to be found. Hadassa had been rather careful to avoid any pubs for a good long while until she was satisfied that people had gotten used to her presence and there was no danger of anyone taking her for an enemy, but finally here she was.

Her hand rested on the door handle for a brief while, as she looked back over her shoulder, and then she stepped inside to meet the warmth of the room that greeted her.

"Good evening!" she greeted Sceo officially, raising her hands as if to show that she had made it a point to not take any weapons with her. Slowly she approached to take a look at the menu and see what she could get from the available offer.

[Akhenanat]

As Andrādan made his way into the pub, he was reminded why he’d avoided it for so long. It was a sad reflection of what it had been in the glory days, when men and women would pile in after a battle and drink themselves into a frenzy. Now, instead of raucous recollections of heroic battles or bloviating accounts of ancient stories, there was silence, heavy and thick with age. Instead of calls for more ale, instead of arm wrestling, instead of life, there was this sad imitation of life. Peace time was not good for him, nor was it good for the Æthelmund. Now amount of lantern light was going to make it feel less lonely and empty.

It was all some cosmic joke, he assumed as he crossed the threshold and into the pub. Everyone in Rohan longed for peace and prosperity, everyone longed for sunny days and bountiful harvests. But not him. He wanted war. He wanted fighting, violence, a mission, a purpose. In peace, there was no life for the old dryhtguma. His fingers itched to hold a sword, his legs longed to run into battle, to fight, to kill. This, this new existence was a painful one. Andrādan was wasted in peace. He’d loved fighting since he was old enough to form a fist. Some called him a menace, others called him a necessity. The old marshal, though, had called him a tool. He was her tool still, though he was beginning to feel old and rusted with disuse. He was the one she went to when things needed doing, things that might have seemed unsavory or immoral to the rest of the Cavalry. It seemed, sometimes, that he alone remembered what it meant to be loyal. All those riders that returned to the fields after the war, returned to fat wives and chubby sons, what did they know of loyalty.

He'd received a mission though. Finally! It came by way of a sign left on his door, one of the old signs his former marshal used when she was in need of discretion. The sign led him to an abandoned house in the upper districts. There’d he’d found a letter behind a stone in the fireplace. A mission, finally, a mission. He was to track someone down, a deserter, a coward who absconded from her duties in the middle of the night. He enjoyed hunting. The small home he kept on the outer edges of Edoras was a tribute to his nimrodic prowess. He was good at bringing back deserters too. He reveled in that sort of hunt. The note had only give him a name and her offense though. He knew nothing of this “Walpurga” and without something to go on, he would flounder. The mission was secret, otherwise he’d have just appeared in the Dragon Room and asked. If the marshal, disgraced and on the lam, had entrusted him with this mission, he was sure to not let her down.

The Æthelmund was the place to start. Someone in here was bound to have heard of her and give him something. Whoever this woman was and wherever she’d run to, there was no place she could go that he wouldn’t find her.

He ordered a Mearas Blod, returning the dismissive glare from the bartender, and turned to look at the sad state of affairs. There was only one person inside. He sneered. A Dunlander. Were the marshals so desperate from men and women to fight they’d brought in their enemies to bolster their ranks? How well did that work for the Númenóreans? Maybe he should try and recruit some uruks and see if there was a place for them? Still, he was on the hunt for information, and he couldn’t afford to be picky about where that information came from.

“Can’t decide what to drink?” he asked with an insincere smile. “I’d go for the Mearas Blod myself, or maybe your lot needs something tamer, Glavrol is nice too.”

[Silky Gooseness]

Eadflæda

There was a bright spot of colour burning over the tops of her high cheekbones, rendering her freckles a vivid gold against her reddened skin. Eadflæda swallowed it down, tilted her chin defiantly. Nobody had noticed, obviously. She had merely pushed the door open with such… confidence… that it had rebounded and struck her upon the nose. It could, obviously, have happened to anyone, and she was perfectly within her rights to be here. She tossed her head so that her mane of hair swung brilliantly in the dull half-light straggling feebly through the panes. At least she always had incredible hair. That could never be denied.

Eadflæda strode righteously up to the bar and smiled a smile of blinding whiteness at Sceohund, who doubtless thought of her still as a wretched brat too young to hold a dinner-knife. “Hwitsceo, please,” she announced (she could do with the sugar). The smile thinned but did not falter as she assessed the stranger beside her, surreptitiously. It was possible he was a Rohir she’d never met before, but his sneering demeanour felt odd. And how dare he speak so rudely to Hadassa?

“What’s so tame about us lot?” she rejoined sharply, before she quite had time to think about it.

[Akhenanat]

He blinked. What in the—? Was that a child speaking to him? He’d been so focused on disturbing the Dunlending (though harassing might have been a better word) that he didn’t even notice that she’d entered. He blinked again. Who in all the seven hills was she? She spoke with an air of confidence and self-assuredness, and a streak of brashness that, had it been expected, might have made him smile. As it was, though, he was not expecting it so the girl’s (child’s) attitude came off as more the buzzing of a fly than an amusing trinket. This new generation was being grown differently. These children born during the last millennium, Millennials or whatever they called themselves, had very little interest in the trappings of the older days. They didn’t know the hardship his generation had faced, the worry and pain and blood. It was all fancy saddles and hip drinks with them. He scowled at the girl, or whatever she was. Who the bloody hell did she think she was? Probably the niece of some pæthfindian or someone high up.

He took a drink of his Mearas Blod, hoping that when he lowered his tankard, she’d magickally disappear back into the ether.

She did not.

She was still there, with an expression somewhere between a smirk and scowl, a smowl? He was getting too caught up in the seussical nature of this interaction. He looked at her a little more closely, was she someone he knew? Someone he ought to know? The thought was bald-faced ridiculous the instant he thought it, but that did not necessarily banish the thought.

“Tame? Us? You a Dunlending too, lass? Or do you mean people barely old enough to saddle their own horse?”

She ordered a hwitseco. Of course, she did. He rolled his eyes. “I rest my case. Aren’t you a little young to be hanging out in the Æthelmund?”

[Silky Gooseness]

Eadflæda

The stranger scowled at her, making his jowls bristle with aggressive stubble. Eadflæda examined him, fascinated: clearly he had not yet been introduced to the wonders of Rohirrim shampoo (guarantees a glossy beard, mane and tail). She smized back at him even harder. Was this flirting? No, probably not. Anyway, he was far too old, although Eadflæda, with the confidence of the young, considered herself able to charm absolutely everyone.

“Of course I’m not a Dunlending,” she said witheringly, fiddling with a bead on her leather wrist wrap, “and everyone is of age in here. Of course, some of us are of more age than others,” (a sentence not wholly grammatically correct, but which seemed suitably conclusive to Eadflæda).

The hwitsceo arrived and Eadflæda immediately swiped the cream off the top with her finger, so as to avoid the otherwise inevitable cream moustache. “What case?” she rejoined scornfully. “You too old for yummy drinks? Your loss.” She popped the cream-laden finger into her mouth and savoured it enthusiastically, shrugging a contemptuous teenage shoulder at him.

[Pele Alarion]

Hadassa


Her lack of indecision was both due to not knowing what exactly she wanted and what she could afford having spent much of her income on some new clothing and other useful items for daily living. She was distracted from her wonderings by a man who addressed her not so nicely.

Hadassa turned towards him slightly, her dark eyes narrowed, and if in particular despite his recommendations got herself a mug of WildeBur. She took a sip of the drink as Eadflaeda joined them and jumped into conversation before she had even managed to respond properly. For a moment she found herself regretting the choice of the drink when she saw the undeniably delicious hwitsceo. Perhaps she'd get one after...

Clearing her throat, Hadassa finally spoke to the man: "It would seem to me that your lot would have wisdom enough to not underestimate the folks you engage with." Her voice was tinged with a fair amount of bitterness, though otherwise fairly calm. She then cast a sideways look at Eadflaeda, eyebrow raised and a lopsided grin playing on her lips.

[Romeran]

During the great war Garberend had been to the Æthelmund, he had not strictly been 'of age' at the time. Given the circumstances certain rules had been overlooked and since he had been allowed, or really required although he had not tried to refused, to join the cavalry he had been allowed to be there. This time, Garberend was much older and yet he found himself again at the Æthelmund. It was strange walking in. During the war, when they had been allowed time to come here, the place had been loud and rowdy and full of soldiers drinking. Now it seemed quiet although not empty. Garberend began to wonder if perhaps it had been only his memory of this place or if it truly had changed so much. War time and peace time were so different, and Garberend found it strange to yearn for a time of war.

The helmet, which he had been allowed to keep as weregild from the war, he kept under his arm as he entered. Garberend's thick reddish gold beard and hair shined but the braids in his beard and hair were beginning to fray and needed to be re-done, Garberend would do that later. While he was not a vain man, as a rule, he did allow himself the vanity to care for his beard and hair, long and luscious as it was. Garberend grinned at the others in the Æthelmund, or was it a scowl, it was hard to tell underneath that beard, but the braids in his beard visible rose as the corners of his mouth moved, for whatever that was worth.

Turning to Sceohund, Garberend nodded to the barkeep who simply scowled in return, a man after his own heart. "Stout Halbert, please" he said shortly, not forgetting his manners but still placing his helmet on the bar in front of him. Garberend turned to look at the others who were there, he did not recognize any of them but the odds of him having recognized them were slim. It was surprising to him that he had been recognized by one of the guards outside the Dragon Room. It seemed to Garberend that the other man was in some sort of argument with the Dunlending and a younger woman with incredible hair, enough to rival his own. Garberend remained quiet waiting for his drink and observing the company, for now.

[Akhenanat]

Too old for— It was not often that Andrādan was put completely on the backfoot in an initial encounter, but he found that this child (she was not an adult no matter what she said) was more than a match. Her attitude was, well it was exactly what he ought to have expected from a girl of her age. The Millennials had no idea what hardship was, they had no idea what respect was. The only thing these children cared about (they would always be children no matter how old they got) was avocado toast and the latest saddle fashions. It was because of them and their kitschy, hipster purchases that drove the price of stabling horses through the roof. Inflation was rampant and all these communals running around made everything a hundred times worse. Watching her take a drink of that fruity, sugar infused concoction turned his stomach sour, just looking at the thing made him long for something sour. How did this girl managed not to fall over in diabetic coma just from having that in her proximity?

“Yummy drinks?” he asked finally, his mouth turned in an expression of disgust. Even saying the word ‘yummy’ out loud felt wrong, like he was blaspheming the Great Starry Rider. He took a deep draught of the Mearas Blod, as if it could wash the taste of silliness out of his mouth. It didn’t. He could still taste this… whatever the hell this was (flirting? arguing? negging?) out of his mouth. “I have enough years on me to know that stuff will rot your brain and stunt your growth. A real drink will…”

Andrādan didn’t get to finish, the Dunlending finally rejoined the conversation, delivering what could only be called an attempt. He chuckled, smugly and rolled his neck around to look the woman in the eye. “Underestimate you? Hardly.” He pronounced every syllable slowly and deliberately. “I’ve been dealing with your kin long enough to know exactly what to expect.” He matched the bitterness from the woman’s voice, mirroring the attitude perfectly. He took another drink.

“Luckily for both of you though,” he said putting the empty tankard down, “I’m not here to quarrel with outyarders and children. I’m here because I’m looking for someone. A deserter. Her name is Walpurga. Have either of you heard of her before?”

[Silky Gooseness]

Eadflæda

Eadflæda smiled at Hadassa, whom she had caught eying her hwitsceo, and was squaring up with her usual forthrightness against the stranger. She had just about opened her mouth to reply when another person walked in - the man she had seen earlier in the Hall, recognisable not only by his fine helm, now tucked securely under his arm, but by his excellent hair. Really, it was almost as good as Eadflæda’s, *and* there was so much *more* of it - well, if you counted the beard, anyway, which really, you absolutely had to. And those braids! They were pristine. She closed her envious jaw.

Self-consciously she wound a lock of her hair around her own finger and tossed her head slightly. Yes - her pony-tail was still gloriously bouncy and shiny - but, alas, not being of dwarf-stock, she would never be able to sport quite as much leonine magnificence. Oh well. Eadflæda would have to get her kicks elsewhere.

Her eyes narrowed in with sharp-edged purpose at the less-impressively-bearded stranger. He was gazing at her frothy concoction with barely concealed disgust. “Oh, I hardly think my growth has been stunted,” she rejoined, as sweet as the cream she was licking from her lips, giving a pointed glance downwards at her ample curves and her long legs. “If you’re about to say a real drink would put hairs on my chest or anything so silly, I can only tell you that my hair is absolutely perfect as it is.”

Or was it? No, no, Ead would look ridiculous with a beard. She was simply impressed by the braids. That was all.

“Outyarders and children?” she scoffed. “Well, if it’s Walpurga you’re after, there’s a lass who was probably both. But I’ll tell you this for free, she could’ve drunk YOU under the table any day. And she had pretty good hair, too.”

Anyone who was observing that Eadflæda based all her first opinions of someone upon the quality of their hair would be correct. It was the first thing she assessed in a horse, after all: if the coat was good, that was a promising beginning.

[Akhenanat]

Had Andrādan known he was going to have to pull information out of a mean girl (no, he didn’t come up with that term, they called themselves that for some horse forsaken reason), he would have required double from the Marshal to do this mission. There were orc hordes less frustrating, less annoying this this ponytail swishing, sugar swilling, avocado toast munching teenager. He wasn’t intimidated, he was never intimidated, but he was very much flummoxed. What was he supposed to do with this, this girl? She knew of Walpurga and had some very bougie opinions about her, that much was clear, but how much was that going to help track the deserter down? He had a hard time looking at her (not just because she was far too young for any sort of funny business despite showing off her… assets) long enough to take her seriously. She might have ruled her local rider’s club with a semblance of absolute authority, but she was in a My Little Pony Club anymore.

“I wouldn’t dream of trying to put hair on your— chest,” Andrādan said rolling his eyes and doing his best to avoid those particular tracks of land. He’d lost that wagon train of thought a bit ago. What was he going to say? Was he going to say hair on her chest? What an odd thing to say. She wasn’t a dwarf after all. He coughed, pushing himself back on track.

“So you know of her, eh?” The very idea anyone, let alone some tweenage girl could outdrink him was preposterous, enough that he actually burst out laughing. Laughter from a man hired to kill more often than not was a strange, mechanical sound. “I’m not particularly interested in this girl’s hair. Pay attention now. She’s a traitor and a deserter. What do you know about her?” Any information he was going to get out of this wench was not going to be cheap. It was going to cost him a fair amount of coin and a steeper amount of dignity. He sighed and signaled the barkeep. One thing to keep a Millennial on task? Sugary drinks, and lots of them.

[Silky Gooseness]

Eadflæda

“No, I’m sure you’re not thinking about that at all,” she said cattily at the hair on chest comment. Eadflæda had just about caught him trying not to look - he seemed to be trying very hard to avoid looking, which was a novel change from most of the Rohirrim (mostly all too glad to heartily discuss each others’ attributes, accompanied by much jock-spirited laughter). “But what’s that? You’re not interested in her hair? Bema knows, that was the most interesting thing about her. Until - what was that you say? A traitor and deserter?”

Eadflæda stopped sipping her absolutely delightful drink long enough to sputter laughter all over the table, indelicately wiping her mouth with her freckled forearm.

“Let me tell you, mister,” she said comfortably, leaning back in her chair and cocking one leg over the other to nudge his thigh impertinently with her knee, “Walpurga wasn’t sassy or clever enough to betray, like, anyone. You only had to say something like “Walpurga, your buckles aren’t done up right” and she’d get this sad, melancholy look in her eyes and then walk away or else she’d just hide behind her hair - great hair, did I say? I’d kill to have my hair curl like that - and as for deserting, well anyway, she turned up on parade even when, and I’m not saying I was involved but I did know about it, some of the girls had shortened the stirrup on one side of her saddle just as, like, a joke, and she stuck it out anyway. Absolute trooper for that, I have to say. And yeah, she could put away the drinks! Fancied wine mostly, I think?”

She stopped for breath and to take another gulp of her hwitsceo. Oh, goody, the new guy was calling for more drinks!!

[Romeran]

It was plainly obvious that the quality of ones hair, and beard if you asked Garberend, was a clear indicator of the quality of the person. It was certainly true of horses and the dogs that he kept, a good healthy coat was a good healthy beast. And what else were they if not beasts which made funny sounds at each other. Garberend took a long drink from his beer which had now arrived and been promptly paid for but was already half gone at this point. He was admiring Eadflæda’s hair rather blatantly now and the conversation was becoming more engaging and he was eavesdropping even more obviously. It was clear that either he lacked courtly manners or had no intention of hiding it, or both.

Andrādan‘s awkward remark about putting hair on Eadflæda’s chest had come just as Garberend was taking another drink and he had to cut it short as he let out a laugh and spluttered some of the beer onto his luscious beard. Garberend grumbled and wiped his beard with the sleeve of his shirt heartily and drank the rest of his stout.

This Walpurga individual was not someone who Garberend was familiar with. But the contrasting stories of the two people he was clearly listening to was far too intriguing to ignore. And this Walpurga apparently had hair for Eadflæda to envious of, which must have been impressive indeed, Garberend was all the more eager to listen although he now lacked a drink. Almost as if written after the fact, the next round of drinks appeared to be coming and Garberend laid his coin on the bar and nodded at Sceohund as he pushed his empty mug forward along with the coin.

[Pele Alarion]

Hadassa


Her dark eyes flashed dangerously at the confrontation, yet Hadassa forced herself not to say all she thought with a string of very expressive cusses attached, instead she muttered darkly under her breath: "I might be more Rohirric than you are." And then turned her attention back to her drink.

She did not care to engage in the conversation any further, and even if she knew more about Walpurga than just hearing the name somewhere she might not be inclined to share anything about it. Yet she wondered whether all the desertion and betrayal stuff was true. Somehow the young Dunlending was not keen to believe it, perhaps both because she didn't quite believe that Walpurga would be capable of betrayal, and she was angry with this guy.

And so Hadassa ended up sitting quietly, listening to the conversation, and brooding darkly as she looked into her mug of drink.

[Akhenanat]

Andrādan smiled to himself. He might be a grizzly old man with a bad temper and an over-eagerness to shed blood, but he knew how to get information. What was something young girls liked more than the latest horse fashions and frilly alcoholic drinks? Gossip. Any girl worth the time it takes to brush her hair half a thousand times loves gossip. To be fair, everyone loved gossip, barely of age girl or not. He caught sight of the young Rohir (with admittedly fantastic hair and decent beard) leaning over in the most conspicuous way possible. He chuckled softly and nodded in the lad’s direction. The situation had turned. He could imagine a scenario with these two and the Dunlending woman tried to run him out of the pub, but now he had two of the three readily giving him ear. And his mother said the only people he could get along with were dead people. Ha!

Now that he had an in with the girl (whose name he was still oblivious of), getting information about Walpurga would be much easier. He took a long sip of his Mearas Blod as she detailed a few of the pranks she and her friends had pulled on his quarry. While it did nothing to help him figure out which way she’d gone, it did help him understand the situation she allowed herself to be put in. Being teased by mean girls was a part of life, but being a demure little wallflower was only an invitation to get ripped at more. Say what you will about girls like the one in front of him, they were cruel and heartless, but they were predators. Hidden behind sugary whipped cream topped drinks and huge… tracks of land, were the instincts of hunters. He smiled wolfishly.

Gossip begat gossip, in order to get more information about his prey, he needed to give as good as he was getting. Millennial girls had the attention span of a baby goat, if he didn’t keep her on task with more alcohol and more gossip, she would likely get bored and move on to something else, like that gloriously blonde rider doing his best to hear everything that was going on in the conversation. Andrādan felt an unexpected sting of jealousy, a competitive spirit that would brook no challenger. He looked over at the bartender made the signal to bring another round of drinks. The bartender, predictably, gave him a look of deep disapproval that said he was old enough to be this girl’s father and should know better than to be doing any of this, but Andrādan ignored the look. He was having fun, despite being in the proximity of too much sugar and hormones.

“Between you and I, dear,” he said conspiratorially after she finished, “that hair you admire so much is a gift from her father, a man who could definitely be called a foreigner. I heard a rumor that said she’d run after him. She ever talk about him her father when she was too deep in her red wine?” He scoffed, making it clear of what he thought about people that drank red wine, uptight prudes trying to appear sophisticated.

[Silky Gooseness]

Eadflæda

The fellow with the magnificent beard was laughing, chortling a goodly amount of ale into said beard. (Perhaps that was his secret?) Eadflæda couldn’t remember his name - or perhaps she hadn’t heard it; she’d been so distracted when they were in the Dragon Room. “Hey, come tell us the joke,” she said challengingly, narrowing her eyes in a fashion half-way between sultry and and confrontation before prodding Andrādan slightly with her foot. “Here, budge up, you,” she demanded, before flashing Hadassa a smile. The other woman looked a bit put out. Perhaps she was being touchy about her credentials being challenged - but, Dunlending blood or not, Hadassa was one of their own, after all. Ew, was that fellow wiping his mouth on his sleeve? Eadflæda rolled her eyes. Boys were gross.

Andrādan, on the other hand, had unexpectedly cheered up. It was said enough drink could do that to a man - that, or have the exact opposite effect - but she hadn’t really expected him to be so lightweight. Fleetingly she wondered what he’d think of a Bilewitdox (were that drink not sacred to the brotherhood. And sisterhood, of course.)

“Oh reallllllly?” Eadflæda said with every air of fascination, leaning forward to cup her chin in one hand (the other still curled about her drink). “Her dad’s got hair just like her, you say? I bet he’s awfully handsome. Walpurga could be a bit stuck up sometimes but she was quite good-looking. Obviously, she could’ve done with some skin care and all that but she had a pretty good bone structure underneath it all, I guess. Then again, I guess, she was probably like, a bit older than me, so he must be tremendously old. Probably, like, thirty five at least.

Hmmm… I’m not sure, I’ll be honest…” Eadflæda trailed off, apparently deep in thought as she rummaged in the corridors of her memory for anything that another person had said in her presence, ever, without being overwritten by Eadflæda’s own thoughts about herself. “Maybe she did bring him up? She did pine about her childhood sometimes, but honestly, I don’t remember her mentioning her dad all that much. What was his name, would that ring a bell?”

[Romeran]

Laughter had been his undoing again. Not that he had spent much time trying to disguise his eavesdropping. When Eadflæda asked him to tell them them the joke he raised a curious eyebrow. He paused and took another long drink letting the question hang for a moment too long.

“I’m sure a lot of men don’t think about putting hair on your chest” he said in deadpan response. Garberend wasn’t much for witty remarks or clever banter. He left that sort of things to other people. “I’m Garberend, but most people call me Beren”. He offered as introduction to make it seem less like he was simply interjecting.

That Andrādan had come to the point of asking strangers about his quarry here indicated to Garberend that he might be fairly desperate. How far could this Walpurga character be by now? What had they even done in the first place? Especially for someone with such apparently phenomenal hair. Garberend rubbed his slightly beer damp beard for a moment and looked between the three who seemed to know who Walpurga was and at least one who knew what she was accused of.

“So what’s this Walpurga accused of anyway?” He said rather bluntly “and be more specific than ‘betrayal’” he added quickly.

[Akhenanat]

Being a sugar daddy was never something Andrādan imagined for himself. Yes, this was in a much more literal sense than he was expecting, but he could still put it on his CV when the time came. Speaking of, how much ‘sugar’ was this girl going to consume? He watched with a mix of fear and fascination as she downed her drinks. He wouldn’t have thought someone so small (and yet not so small from certain angles) could drink so much and stay coherent. Well, coherent might be subjective in this case. This girl, woman, whatever she wanted to be, certainly had a lot to say, the Æthelmund’s alcohol supply was working it’s inebriative magic. There was the smallest, smallest urge for him to try this whipped cream monstrosity. Later though, once he’d gotten all the information out of this girl and could sit back an enjoy himself. The commentary she provided was more amusing than helpful, giving him insight into her overwhelmingly selfish psychology. She had a thing for older men it seemed too, that was information to squirrel away from another time, a time when he wasn’t quite so pressed for time. He could think of a few things— no, now was not that time.

“His name,” he finally said once she’d finished, “is something strange and foreign, I can’t quite pronounce it. He was here recently too, being a student of flouncy hair I’m sure you noticed a man with raven tresses.” (In truth he had no idea what the man’s name was because he was one of those assholes that went by some random pseudonym) “The marshal sure liked him though. Apparently the two were,” he leaned in conspiratorially, as if he were going to give this girl the biggest scoop of gossip of the year, “rather hot and heavy. Until he vanished that is, like Frost in the early morning; left her a weeping wreck by all accounts. Older women can be so…” He trailed off, waving his hand as though to communicate something, hopefully the girl would understand and laugh, perhaps earn him a little more trust. It was the marshal’s own bloody fault he was having to share her secrets. She was either going to look like a traitor or a fool, Andrādan made the decision to save her career if not her reputation.

“But—” he continued, leaning in and taking another long sip of his drink, “tell me about—” before he was able to ask his question (which could have earned him a slap from anyone close to his age) the man from a few tables over, the lad that needed to have a crash course in spying, interrupted them, saying something about putting hair in her chest (why was everything about hair and chests with this generation?) and giving his name. “Westu hal, Beren,” he said, not hiding his irritation at the interruption. “Is desertion not serious enough a crime for you?” he asked, feigning a pleasant attitude. “The girl disappeared after meeting with someone, and after the royal treasury was robbed of some valuable items. The information I have is spotty, but the man she was meeting could have been her father, a man from one of the prominent families in Umbar…”

He let that last word hang in the air. This younger generation could react to things in the most unexpected ways. Knowing that Walpurga owed half her blood to the City of the Corsairs might sway them to be a little looser lipped. He did not, however, offer Beren a spot or a drink. He liked having this girl to himself, having his approval sought after was a nice change.

[Silky Gooseness]

Eadflæda

“Yeah - well, anyway,” she mumbled, slightly flustered, at Garberend. To cover, she tossed her ponytail. Shimmers of light danced along its shining length and cast motes upon the rough wood of the table. Magical. Eadflæda didn’t always have the witty responses she wanted to hand, not being quite as clever as she perhaps believed; but at least she always had and would have great hair, praise Bema.

She took another sip of her drink and leaned forward, nesting her chin in her hands. There was a thin rim of dirt under her nails.

“A man with dark hair,” she said thoughtfully, rolling the idea around in her head. “Yeah… that does seem sort of familiar? Tall guy, kind of muscular, smelled of strange and uncanny magics the like of what mankind should not know?”

Eadflæda abruptly fell silent and buried her head in her drink. Her throat worked as she gulped down a couple more mouthfuls. When she clinked the rim of her mug down her eyes were bright and glassy. “Nope, know absolutely nothing about him,” she said in a slightly fixed voice. Her tongue appeared to be numbed, which was giving her the affectation of a cute little lisp. “Yeah, I remember Marshal Taethowen having some, feelings, but I went home pretty much after that, you know. Family needed me. I hate when women cry,” she finished unnecessarily, with a vicious little twist to the bottom of her ponytail.

But a little sparkle - and suspicion - returned to her face as the stranger continued his sordid tale. “Desertion!!?! And theft from the Treasury?!?! But how would YOU know about that, anyway? Wouldn’t that be a matter for, well, us, in the cavalry? Or the royal guards?”

(10)

[Pele Alarion]

Hadassa


Hadassa seemed to have disappeared into a little world of her own, as she stared into her mug. The drink, though it was a dark liquid, reflected back to her a sort of distorted image of her own, and the young woman found herself frowning even more as if she did not like what she saw.

And yet, even though she had turned away from others and disengaged herself from the conversation, she could not help but listen in and wonder if such talks could really be true. Not that she really knew this Walpurga, except for hearing the name somewhere, but theft and desertion were serious accusations to aim at anyone. Perhaps just some sort of prejudices like the ones usually aimed at her? It still took Hadassa great effort to prove to anyone who had not already gotten to know her that she was not a spy or a traitor.

"What'd you know..." she muttered under her breath, before taking a drink from her mug.

[Akhenanat]

“… smelled of strange and uncanny magics the like of what mankind should not know?”

Andrādan blinked and frowned. What the ever-loving fu… what the hell was that? Was this some sort of mean girl code he’d yet to decipher? He looked her over again, searching for some sign, some clue as to where that statement came from. The more he looked at her though, the more he “admired” her, the less he understood her. She didn’t exactly look like the kind of girl, woman, person, that knew anything about magic, let alone phrase it in such an obnoxiously literarian way. But, then again, what did he know about girls, women, or people anyway?

All of that is to say he had no idea how to respond to her exactly. His mouth opened slowly but the words didn’t quite make it out. Instead, he let out an “uhhh” that lasted a second too long, then “Sure, I suppose. I don’t, uh, know what strange and uncanny magicks smell like, but sure, let’s say he did.”

He took a sip of whisky. Was he drinking whisky? He couldn’t remember, it felt like months since he’d started this conversation. Maybe the whisky he was drinking belonged to someone else, that would be funny. None of this, however, was the point. He drank some whisky, that was the point. He needed to clear the cobwebs that seemed to cover his mind all of the sudden. Whisky is good at that sort of thing, as well as the opposite. Andrādan was in a funny headspace. Was he still talking about Walpurga? He blinked again, consciously trying to reorganize the puzzle that his mind had been broken up into. Maybe he shouldn’t be drinking whisky. He set the glass down and rolled his eyes at the girl’s next question, but smiled too, making sure he didn’t accidently offend, the young could be so sensitive.

“You’re right, darling. Tracking her down, especially after she’s been connected with such serious crimes, is a job for the Cavalry. That’s why I’m here. I’m a member,” he paused and tilted his head, “more or less. I need to know everything I can about her for my… investigation. Who know what else she might do, or who she might hurt. You wouldn’t want that to happen, would you?”

[Silky Gooseness]

Eadflæda

“Of course you don’t know what strange and uncanny magicks smell like,” Eadflæda mocked the stranger gently, tasting her drink. “None of us do. Everything round here is completely normal. We don’t hold with that sort of witchcraft here.”

She laughed a bright and brittle laugh. Dust motes swirled in the light.

Back to practicalities.

“Of course we don’t want anyone to come to harm,” the girl agreed easily, “but something for something, and nothing for nothing.” She crossed her arms and leaned forward conspiratorially. “You tell me what you want to know and I’ll answer, but first, tell me what exactly these wicked things might be that our girl has got up to?”

A member, more or less? Her eyes travelled his clothing, but she could find no sigil or badge. Perhaps he had it concealed amidst the layers.

[Akhenanat]

None of us know what strange magic smells like? What in the nine layers of hell was… No, Andrādan was not going to get dragged down that rabbit hole. This girl was providing enough of a, well, a distraction without adding some of the uncanny things that fell out of her mouth. He took another sip of the whisky he was now quite certain was not his. Stealing whisky was usually a heinous crime but dealing with the youths of today (even ones so interesting as this one) would earn him a pardon in any court. He felt it burn all the way down into his gut. It wasn’t the same smooth stuff he was used to, there was a harsh aftertaste, but it did the trick. He could feel it dull the too bright edges of the light, what little there was at least. His senses changed a bit too, almost like he could see things a fraction of a second before they happened in slow motion.

He smiled slyly (not too slyly, just enough to add an air of, what, mystery? of something probably untoward) when she leaned in. He had her! He stopped short of licking his lips, that would be unseemly and even though most of the rest of this dry excuse for a pub was quiet, something like that might get a little too much attention from sensitive eyes. This investigation was supposed to go under the bush, or whatever was a catchy phrase for “unseen” and having people cry to the marshals about “some creep in the pub” would not be that catchy phrase.

She wanted salacious details? Well, he could provide them, whether they were true or not was a matter that could be sorted out later. “Aside from treason you mean? Or do you want to know exactly what she did?” the sly smile returned as he leaned in, just as conspiratorially. “Well, I’m not officially privy to all the details, but I did overhear the marshals talking about sabotage at the stables a few nights ago, all the horses got spooked and bolted all over town. A person I talked to remembered seeing a tall girl with three skunks, if you can actually believe something so weird. And that fire we had some time back? Word is that she was nowhere to be seen in the relief efforts and a certain blacked haired man, probably smelling of strange magics, was seen skulking about. You didn’t hear that from me, if you’re so inclined to share that bit. I have a feeling there’s more too, girl just shows up out of nowhere, declares she wants to be in the Cavalry, then bolts out of the blue? Smells like horse shire to me, eh? So, dearie, what ‘ave you heard?”

[Silky Gooseness]

Eadflæda

“Yes. Exactly that. Exactly what she did,” agreed Eadflæda, pleased that the stranger was catching on. She twirled her shining ponytail around the tip of her finger as she listened intently to the strange tale. Three skunks??? What on earth would someone be doing with three skunks? Had Walpurga had a penchant for skunks??

“Yes, I did hear about the fire,” she nodded conspiratorially, “and the man in black…” Eadflæda shuddered deliciously with the drama of it all. “How suspicious! So she was shirking her duties? But surely if she had something to hide, it’d be more worth her while to be involved - to cover her tracks?

I don’t know anything about these skunks,” she added, “and I’m not terribly sure how it’s relevant, unless they were being used as some weird method of dissuading scent-hounds, but Walpurga always was good with animals. She seemed obsessed with finding things out in general, though - like she was more interested in ferreting out secrets than hiding them.”