Randric

Régnwald peered through the red dusk. Heavy-shod hooves left great marks in the ground as the armoured beast carried it's burden toward the foot of the cliffs; albeit 'twas not the renowned horse of the warrior, but a destrier that belonged to one of his fallen kin. His eyes wandered soundlessly whilst the horse pawed at the ground impatiently. Soon his eyes landed upon the elderly man, Inrweald, bowing at a slight.

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.