The Eorlingas

Awilred spoke ''You called for me?''

​The sudden warmth of the last few days had ebbed. The expectation of renewed winter hardened Régnwald's resolve. The sound of clinking iron nets heralded the Horselord's arrival till he stood near the man, glancing a beat. ''Yes, my byrnie is battered and worn, It needs a good smith's wit for the repair.'' he let his head hang for a moment, eyeing the man as his words sunk in.

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. They looked down on the war-band, their eyes lit from the pale flame beneath. The Eorling watched them in silent solemnity.

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, 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.

Niehstu looked at the grim faces around her, she approached the old man Stelimund and nodded in greeting giving him a worried look.''Any news yet?''