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(Meanwhile, back at the Prancing Pony, Ellwyth would rather spend a peaceful night in. But this night is anything but peaceful.)
Ellwyth sank into a chair next to the fireplace, grateful for a brief respite from the commotion in the Prancing Pony. Berynwolf seemed to have invited everyone in Bree to celebrate her return, and he’d been buying round after round of ale as the night wore on. Ellwyth had managed to slip away to the far corner of the room while Beryn was engaged in a raucous song and dance routine upon a table. While Ellwyth was happy to be among friends, her brother’s constant merrymaking was frankly exhausting, and Ell was confident that Beryn would not even notice her missing for the next hour at least.
“Mind if I join you?” Eoghain tipped his head, and Ellwyth gave him a tired smile.
“Barliman let you off early?”
“I offered to take Nob’s shift in the morning.” Eoghain sat down beside Ell, stretching his feet out in front of the fire. “There’ll be a lot of cleaning up to do.”
Ellwyth laughed, embarrassed. “I wish Beryn wouldn’t make such a fuss every time I visit.”
“Nonsense. It’s good for business.” Eoghain smiled sincerely. “We’re all glad you’re back, Ellwyth. Beryn especially.”
There was a crash from the other side of the room, and Ellwyth turned to see her brother collapsing in laughter beside the upset table. He was helped to his feet by several other drunken patrons who were equally amused by the accident.
When Ellwyth looked back at Eoghain, however, his smile had faded.
“To tell the truth, Beryn hasn’t seemed quite like himself lately. Of course he always worries when you’re away, and he has those awful dreams. But he’s been spending more and more time alone…just sitting around, staring off into nowhere. Some days he doesn’t even leave the inn. Whenever I ask him what’s wrong, he says it’s nothing.” Eoghain shrugged. “Perhaps it is. You know him better than I do, Ell. Beryn never talks much about himself or his past.”
Ellwyth stared into the flames in the fireplace, unable to meet Eoghain’s eyes. “There’s nothing remarkable about our past. We were orphaned in Trestlebridge, like so many others.” She paused, watching the fire flicker, then reached over and placed her hand on Eoghain’s shoulder. “You’re a good lad, Eoghain, but you needn’t worry. I’m sure Beryn is fine.”
Eoghain nodded, though his expression was still troubled. Ellwyth glanced back at the drunken crowd, and the mess of spilled mugs and plates on the floor. “I’m afraid I can’t say the same about the state of Barliman’s tavern, if this keeps up. I’d better go set things straight, before they begin swinging from the chandeliers.”
From across the room, Berynwolf caught sight of Ellwyth and waved to beckon her over. He was preparing to perform his favorite tavern trick, which involved juggling a handful of raw eggs, a feat at which he’d never succeeded, and which he always attempted after a certain number of drinks. Ellwyth grimaced, heading back into the fray to talk him down. And while she’d watched her brother smiling all night, at times laughing so hard that tears rolled down his face, she couldn’t help but notice the new lines underneath his eyes, the greying streaks in his unkempt hair and scraggly beard, the weight he’d lost in a few short months, and Ellwyth knew as well as Eoghain that something was not quite right.
(A continuation of the previous scene, only much later. Berynwolf spends a lot of time in the Prancing Pony.)
Eoghain was now nearly eighteen and a far cry from the shy, slight boy Berynwolf had met that day long ago. The hustle and bustle of the Prancing Pony had brought out an easygoing charm in his nature, and years of lifting heavy supply crates had paid off in muscle. His tawny hair came down to his shoulders and he’d already begun to grow a beard. Berynwolf felt that he himself had not changed so much as Eoghain in the last five years.
“Another pint, Beryn?” Eoghain tapped the empty tankard in front of him, and Berynwolf nodded.
“How are your studies?” Beryn asked as Eoghain took the mug to refill it.
“Poorly,” Eoghain laughed sheepishly. “I’m afraid my marks are slipping.”
“Really? But you’ve been seeing your tutor almost every day, haven’t you?”
“That’s just it.” Eoghain returned with a brimming mug and slid it toward Berynwolf. He leaned in conspiratorially. “You see, my tutor is none other than Ivy Branwaithe, who happens to be the most beautiful girl in Eriador. If I pass my exams and take an apprenticeship, I may never see her again. So I find myself a bit…distracted.”
Berynwolf smiled. “Ah. And how does this Ivy feel about you spending the rest of your days as Head Dishwasher at the Prancing Pony?”
“Well, she isn’t much impressed with my lack of progress, that’s for sure. But to see the look on her face when she swats me over the head with a roll of parchment…Beryn, it’s worth a lifetime of dishes.”
Berynwolf laughed. “I’ll toast to that,” he said, raising his mug. “To distractions.”
“May they never cease,” Eoghain said wistfully.
As Berynwolf drained half the mug, his eyes wandered to the corner of the room, where a handsome stranger sat alone near the fireplace. “I think I’ve found one of my own,” he said, and he gave Eoghain a firm clap on the shoulder. “Keep your nose in the books, Eoghain.”
Beryn spent that night as he did most nights, drinking and laughing and staying up into the late watches until he hardly knew up from down. He remembered having several drinks with the stranger, hitting it off quite nicely, and passes were made and words were exchanged and with one thing and another, Berynwolf eventually blacked out with company in his bed. When he next awoke it was in his room with the blankets twisted around him and a candle burning low on the mantle, and the stranger was half dressed and wide awake, shaking Beryn by the shoulders to rouse him.
“What’s the matter?” Beryn asked hoarsely, his vision still spotty. “Sorry, was I snoring?”
“No.” The stranger’s face was troubled, confused. “You were screaming.”
Beryn realized now that his heart was racing inexplicably, and his face was wet with sweat or tears or both. He sat up and ran his hand over his face. “How strange. I don’t remember…”
He looked up and saw that the stranger was dressing himself quickly, heading for the door. “Where are you going?” Beryn asked.
“Nowhere,” the stranger stumbled over his words. “I mean, I should be leaving anyway. Before anyone notices.”
“I’m sorry if I frightened you…I have dreams sometimes, and…”
“It’s not your fault. I—I think I’d better just leave.”
He was gone before Beryn could make sense of what had happened. He sat with his head in his hands, trying to piece together the fragments of the night. It felt like the room was spinning around him, and a bad headache was setting in.
There was a knock on his door that he recognized, and after a moment Eoghain leaned in. “Beryn?”
“Sorry. You heard that, too, then?”
“I reckon everyone in Bree could hear it.” Eoghain gave him a weak smile, stepping inside and offering Berynwolf a small cup filled with vinegar and water. “Nightmares again?”
Beryn accepted the cup and swallowed the elixir with a grimace. “I don’t know. I don’t remember dreaming anything. I barely remember falling asleep.”
He wasn’t unused to night terrors, the sort that left him screaming or crying or tossing through the night. But he always remembered those dreams. They followed him into the daylight and waited for him in every shadowy corner, dreams of blood and slaughter and the faces of the dead. This was different. Beryn hadn’t felt anything like this before…except…
“Are you alright?” Eoghain’s concern broke through his thoughts, and Beryn smiled dismissively in reply.
“Of course. Probably had one too many of Barliman’s Best, that’s all.”
His smile faded all too fast. Eoghain seemed unconvinced, but he didn’t press the issue. As he turned to leave, Beryn added, “Thank you.”
It was so soft that he wasn’t sure Eoghain heard it at first. But Eoghain looked back and nodded to him, then closed the door gently behind him.
Alone again, Berynwolf lay down with his arms behind his head and stared at the ring of dying candlelight flickering on the ceiling. He had felt something like this before. But he hadn’t thought about that time for so long, and he didn’t want to think about it now. The past was best left in the past.
(I’m not writing scenes in any particular order, just whatever comes to mind. The time and POV jump around a bit as a result. I remember feeling pretty strange the first time I did a brigand quest or slayer deed in Lotro where you kill human characters. I wonder about some of those bounty-hunter type quests, the moral ambiguity of the situations and whether the people you’re helping are really worth helping at all sometimes. Berynwolf is a peaceful character but he’s champion class and I imagine he takes jobs thinking it’s the right thing to do before he really looks at the big picture.)
Berynwolf was cleaning his sword and armor in the alcove outside the Prancing Pony when the man arrived. It was the same man Beryn had spoken with yesterday, the man responsible for the blood that he now scrubbed from his armaments. Beryn had agreed to do the man a favor, driving a pack of brigands from his nearby farm. The altercation was brief but intense, and Berynwolf had killed one man and wounded another in the struggle. The kill was an accident—Beryn hadn’t meant to draw blood at all, he just wanted to scare them away—but two of the brigands had drawn daggers and gone for Beryn’s throat, and everything happened too fast, and the man was dead and Beryn was responsible. No one would mourn the brigand’s death, but Beryn had seen the man’s face every time he closed his eyes that night. He hadn’t gotten much sleep.
The owner of the farm had brought a young boy with him, twelve or thirteen years old. The boy stood nearby, silent and sullen. His face was red and blotchy, his hair a mess. Beryn glanced at the man and the boy but said nothing, soaking a clean cloth in oil and rubbing it over a particularly stubborn stain on his breastplate.
“Polishing your own armor?” the man scoffed. “Even the lowest ranking guardsmen have someone else to do that for them.”
“I’m not a guardsman,” Berynwolf said.
The man watched him work for a moment, taking a flask from his coat and swigging from it occasionally. “Those thieves haven’t returned this morning. It appears you taught them a lesson they won’t soon forget.” He sneered. “Bloody bastards’ll think twice about butchering my cattle when they see what the vultures are doing to their friend out there.”
Berynwolf winced. “I will return and bury him.”
The man raised his eyebrows. “Don’t you bother with him. Let his carcass be an example for the rest of those thieving brigands. I’ll use his bones for a scarecrow when the wolves are done with him.”
Beryn stared down at his armor, his stomach twisting at the man’s words. He saw the brigand’s face again, contorted in pain, the life leaving his eyes as his blood pooled beneath him. Beryn was beginning to regret taking the job in the first place. He wished he were a sharper judge of character. Ellwyth would have known instantly that this man was not worthy of Beryn’s trust.
“Anyway,” the man continued, “I owe you my thanks. I don’t have much in the way of coin to offer, and I don’t believe a handful of silver is fair exchange for taking a man’s life. Blood spilt is blood earned, I say.” He called to the boy suddenly, pulling him sharply by the shoulder when he didn’t respond quickly. He shoved the boy in front of him, pushing him toward Berynwolf. “This boy’s of no use to me as a stablehand. He shirks his duties and lazes about. Perhaps he’d better serve a master who can teach him to fear consequences.”
The boy wouldn’t meet Berynwolf’s eyes. He was small for his age and thin, with ill-fitting threadbare clothes. He stood with his hands clenched into fists, his eyes cast down at his worn shoes.
“He’s all yours,” the man said. His lip curled, an expression somewhere between amusement and disgust. “There’s folk around here who say you’re a pervert. So I suppose he’ll be useful to you one way or another.” The man spat on the ground, rather close to Beryn’s feet. “Someone to clean your sword for you, eh?”
The man laughed at his own rude joke as he walked away, leaving the boy standing miserably before Berynwolf. The child looked as though he were near tears, but he’d obviously had practice holding them back. He ran a sleeve under his nose, quickly.
Beryn finished polishing the breastplate and moved on to his gauntlets, dipping the cloth in oil again and scrubbing it methodically over the metal plates. “You can sit down if you want,” he said to the boy.
“I’m alright,” the boy said.
“What’s your name?”
“Eoghain, sir.”
“And you’re a stablehand? Do you like horses?”
The boy paused. “No, sir. I’m afraid of them.”
Beryn looked up at him, wrinkling his brow. The boy hastily added, “I know how to polish armor. And I’m good at running errands.”
“I don’t need an errand boy,” Beryn said.
Eoghain looked panicked and apprehensive, as though he were waiting for Beryn to strike him, or scold him.
“Do you have a place to go home to?” Beryn asked.
“The farm was my home.”
“I see.” Beryn set his work aside and pointed to the door of the Prancing Pony. “The tavern keeper here is a friend of mine, Barliman Butterbur. He’s been looking to hire someone to help out around the place. Kitchen duties, housekeeping, things like that. I could put in a good word for you. You’d have a bed and three square meals a day. How does that sound?”
Eoghain’s eyes widened. “I…I’d like that very much, sir.”
Beryn smiled. “Very good.” He took a handful of silver from his purse and held it out to the boy. “Now, go inside and see the barber. Have him take your measurements while you’re there. I’ll set to work on a new suit of clothes for you. Can’t have you starting your new job in rags and tatters.”
The boy stared at the money, hesitating. “Um…I don’t….I can’t accept that, sir. I shan’t be able to repay you…” His face went red, the apprehension returning. Beryn sensed a hint of the same disgust he’d seen in the farm owner’s eyes, the same fear.
“Hold out your hand,” Beryn instructed, and as the boy did so, he placed the coins in his open palm. “I shan’t ask you to repay me. I don’t know what your master told you, but I will not lay a hand on you. And as long as you choose to remain in Bree, I’ll see to it that you’re kept safe. You have no master here but your own will, Eoghain.”
The boy’s fingers closed over the coins and he tucked his chin, hair flopping over his eyes. “I don’t believe what they said about you, sir,” he said at last. “You’re a decent man.”
Beryn didn’t answer right away. What was decency? Had it anything to do with the number of brigands he’d slain, or the number of men he’d gone to bed with? Because that seemed to be what mattered, at least in the eyes of some folk.
“Don’t you mind what people say,” Beryn told the boy, “about me or anyone else. A person shows their quality in what they do, not what others say they do.”
“Aye, sir.” Eoghain nodded. He headed for the door of the inn, and Berynwolf resumed his work. He hoped he’d made a good choice. One fair decision did not account for a foul one, and despite what the farm owner had said, the life of a brigand was no trade for the life of another. But perhaps the boy would live without fear now, and that was a change for the better.
Beryn inspected his armor for rust, polishing a few rough spots that he’d missed. He knew it would never be quite clean. There were some stains that never washed out.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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