Summary: An adventuring Dunlending finds the proof of some rumors in the horselass in a lumberyard. First meeting of Freyga and Maldwyn.
Freyga |If there was doubt for the rumors, sight of the horselass proved them true. Taller than most of the broad-backed Breeland men working in the lumberyard, seax and axe strapped to her belt, she was easy to find. She stood with arms crossed, a crooked grin on her lip, and an arc to her brow that suggested a tease had been quipped. “Yes, Mrs. Hayes, Dunland has trees. But I’d rather talk more about Archet Oak. How much do you plan to fell before winter?”
Maldwyn l “I can vouch for Dunland’s trees,” said a man who looked very much like he came straight from Dunland, and sounded like it too. “I’d stick with the local plants for your building project, however.” He rested a hand on the pommel of the sword at his hip as he stopped nearby, eyeing the Rohirric lass as if she was the person he was looking for. “...They’re closer, at least.”
Freyga slowly unfolded her arms, the curve to her brow and lips settling into something more serious. She stuck both hands on her hips and turned to the brownlander. “Aye. And stronger.” Eyeing the sword, she allowed a smile. “Though, Rohan is no better than Dunland for trees.”
Maldwyn smiled and nodded in agreement. “No, it is not. And it’s even further.” He raised a hand to shade his brow and squinted at the site, before returning his gaze to the pale-haired lass. “I’ve heard tell that there’s a mead-hall to be built in these parts. You heard anything about that?” He raised his brows questioningly.
Freyga stepped out from under the thatch as Mrs. Hayes went back to her whittling. She sidled up to him. “May have. May also wonder why someone from your parts would be interested in so long a hall.”
Maldwyn grinned. “I may not be very long myself,” he said, meeting her gaze evenly— she was about an inch taller. “But I enjoy a long hall as much as the next man. And I might take after my father, but to hear him tell it, my mother was a shield-maiden— as at home in a mead-hall as on a horse. Maybe I’m looking to join that ages-old tradition of getting drunk and telling stories. that's on both sides."
Freyga nodded. “I have a few stories from Dunland myself.” She wore no gold rings, no torc nor armband, nothing to suggest she had earned a horselord’s favor at the handle-end of the blade, but there were other ways to serve a warband’s roaming in foreign lands. “I’ve shared in their campfire tales.”
Maldwyn glanced at her arms to see nothing, before returning his attention to her words. “In that case,” Maldwyn said, lips curling naturally, “Have you heard the one about the lone wanderer looking for work in far lands?”
Freyga ‘s unsteady smile found more footing and stretched across her face. “I think I may have.” Her shoulders seemed to ease. “You heard rumor of me. Did that rumor mention my name?”
Maldwyn nodded. “Freyga, right? I’d better rid you of that disadvantage.” He held out a hand. “Maldwyn, professional adventurer, at your service.” He grinned.
Freyga smirked, charmed by the Breeland custom, and met his hand with hers. “So you can vouch for Dunland’s trees. You know how to work timber?”
Maldwyn l “Aye,” he said, lowering his hand to his pommel and casting a glance at the woods nearby. “Back home, I did a lot of wood-hauling. There’s always something to build when times are rough.”
Freyga resettled her hand on the leather sheath of her axe. “The land’s in Middleham. Take the long road to where it ends in trees. There’s a workshop up the path. If the brazier’s lit, someone’s there, and you’ll find food, mead, and kinship.”
Maldwyn l “Middleham…” He repeated under his breath, as if committing it to memory. “And if it’s not lit— the wolves are the only companionship you’d find? I wonder if they would have any stories to tell.”
Freyga ‘s grin peeled back from her bone-white teeth. “Oh, the wolves have their stories, and the horses, and the deer.” Her tone shifted mid-thought, the light in her eyes refocusing. “What are you?”
Maldwyn l That broad question was met with inquisitive brows and thoughtful lips. “What am I?” Maldwyn repeated. “Well, I suppose I’m just a wanderer in the woods, winding my way down a path I can’t see further than ten feet in front of me. And maybe you’re an old sign, too worn-down to read, but still reason enough to turn that way and see what’s ahead.” He smirked. “Or maybe I’m a random traveler looking for work, and I’ve found it.”
Freyga grinned wolfishly. “Oh, I’m not that old.” The light that drew her eyes again shifting. “And you’re not that random.”
Maldwyn l “And I’m not in the middle of a forest,” he added. “All the same, I’ve found my way here.” He glanced past her at the worksite, then returned his gaze. “Nice to meet you, Freyga. I look forward to hearing those stories from Dunland.”
Freyga |Her grin eased. “I look forward to telling them,” she said, eyeing him as if she might spot the corner of his secret stash of stories peeking out from a sleeve-cuff or pocket. “You may not be in the middle…” she said, shooting her gaze off into the Chetwood, “…but you are on its edge.”
Maldwyn smirked as he watched her, then followed her gaze to the forest. “I suppose we are. Shall we cross the edge, and run every outlaw out of there? It’d be a story for the ages. Or at least the season.”
Freyga snorted. “Are there outlaws left?” She shook her head, cutting through the space for him to answer. “Middleham has its own wood, and in its clearing we’ll build our meadhall. There we’ll design our stories.”
Maldwyn nodded, imagining a hall he saw once while on one of his few expeditions into Rohan, transplanted into the woods of Bree-land. “I look forward to it. Thought of a name for this child yet?”
Freyga ‘s gaze lingered in the Chet’, every leaf, every gleam of gold sun the ghost of an old tale once whispered through the branches. “Many,” she answered, her smile twisting down a different road. “But it’s not my child alone. It will be named when it is built.” She turned to Maldwyn and the foreign sight he presented—kindness on a Dunlending’s face. “About those stories…the ones from Dunland. They will have their place there.” Her smile settled and slipped away, leaving her, not somber, but more like stone. “All are welcome. Everyone is welcome. Each story, each tale…they will have the same care as those that are filled with bright hair and helms and hauberks.”
Maldwyn l “Good,” said Maldwyn with a grin. “Most stories I know have none of those things.”
Freyga grinned. “I know. I look forward to the fairies.”
