Regnwald

Ceolswith could be seen speaking with the shieldmaiden and the rider. Signs of being further along with child were obvious as her belly was rounder now. She seemed to be listening to the shieldmaiden's jokes.

MEAD-HALL OF SNOWBOURNE / DAY
 

Régnwald cocked his head in enthusiasm to the elderly man, Folcbrand named ''A pleasure.'' and he added ''So yer a farmer. Then I shall say I used to be one of the spear-armed horsemen that patrolled your farmsteads a few years back.'' he nodded to Saewaru in thanks and slightly moved to the right to make space for her beside him.

Régnwald blinked rapidly as the dim light, broken only by the two large fire pits at the hall's center, took over from light. At his first step, he gazed into the heavy gloom above the rafters. Carved Mearas reared, nostrils wide, their hooves kicking the open air and as they looked down on the Eorling, with a deeply-drawn breath, he advanced onward.

As ever, the heavily built Eorling's footfall betrayed his departure. Making to stride out, horn cup in hand. The man had become somewhat accustomed to the air of anger and disappointment over the past week, and he allowed the waves of ill feeling to wash over him for a few moments, standing tall, breathing deep.

Forthstann leant on a knee as he was carefully working a tool in the wooden figure of a horse. He looked a bit more grey than before, but otherwise doing his normal routine. Wood chips would be at his feet, showing that he'd been sitting there for a bit.

''I will show you the way.'' spoke then the watchman.

Son of Régn, and Breca's bastard son named Hondscioh, loaded with their weaponry — shield, sword and spear, rode slowly across the even ground, led by Thorkel, the watchman of Harwick with his horse.

As they drew nigh to Harwick, moss-ridden rock would rise on either side, boulders and irregular ridges suggesting menacing shapes.

The wild west wind blew fiercely once more in the Mark. Upon the hills, two tiny figures on horses were seen racing with great haste southward, to the meadows of the Wold, dwarfed by the towering snow-capped mountains. The horses were large with sweat, their breath a white cloud in the chilly air as they stretched under their heavy riders adorned in war-nets.

''The hour grows late, Régnwald, if we want to head on.''

''An ambush?'' the word escaped Langhund's mouth.

Somewhere up ahead, the cry of an owl pierced the leaden silence and woke the Eorling from his musings. Régnwald turned his head, his eyes gliding over the grey sky and he advanced forth, the hair was long, straw in hue and tangled as the shrugs he often found himself clambering through. Adorning him were a tattered mess of skins patched around his byrnie, stitched together with as much skill as he could manage on his own. The snow drenching everything.