The Eorlingas

She rode toward the gates with last light of sun that was traveling behind the Misty Mountains and Cuthstan. Guard on the doors stopped her, unrelentless to let her in, as at first they didnt recognise her.

- I need to speak with Dryhten or Maegisterwigends. - she spoke as jumping down from her steed, Her heavy chain mail reinforced with plates of iron, clanked loudly 

- Gates are closed, rider. Wait till the dawn. - one of the guards said.

T'was a long night in Stangard, night before a battle and the Mead-hall of the village was full with bold-hearted Eorlings, from son to father and warrior to herdsman. They were invited by Dryhten. Bards were singing their songs of war and ancestors and playing on gilded lyres. The tables were lined with food and the pig roast turned over the pit, its juices falling into the fire with a sizzle. There was people sitting, standing, in corners and among the open spaces. Not a single space was empty.