Scarburg Meadhall

[Firefoot]

Scyld glanced over at Rowenna sharply, but following this initial reaction he decided he was unsurprised; she would notice such things happening in the camp. The question was, was she only paying such close attention to him, given the rather suspicious circumstances of his arrival, or did she pay attention to everyone?

“Can a man not simply do his work without having his motives questioned? I shall have to watch my step, for the attention you pay!” commented Scyld, making light of the hidden accusation in her words, as was his wont. He glanced over at her again; was that a slight flush to her features? Ah, so perhaps she was giving him closer than normal attention. As service to the Eorl? Or for her own purposes?

“You have noticed rightly, however,” he said after a pause. He lowered his voice slightly, as if taking her into confidence. “I am not wholly a stranger to these parts, for I dwelt here for a time. The lord here, Sorn… was not a good man. Some said he was mad; others that he was simply evil. I did not know him well enough to pass judgment.” His first lie. “Whichever it was, or both, you could not live here without coming to hate the man. I left as soon as I had the means, but recently I heard rumors of his passing and came to see if they were true; thus I stumbled across your camp here. Such a man does not deserve a legacy. The Scar – you probably do not understand how fitting a name it is. Sorn scarred everything he touched. So yes, it is with a will that I work on this old ruin, that what was here might be forgotten.” Had he said too much? No, let her chew on that story. He knew that for her it probably made more questions than it answered, and the concentrated look on her face confirmed it. “So does my tale pass your muster, my lady?” he asked with mock deference, breaking the dark tone their conversation had taken. “Or shall I spin a new one to match the suspicion that I am naught more than a scoundrel?”