Grimthain, human, he/him
The elder Aethelwigend needed a drink! The last few days had taken their toll; firstly there had been the incident with that odd Allacan woman turning up at the Helm’s Deep dungeons to question a prisoner and her almost insubordinate decision to execute the criminal instead; not that he had any personal objections, the man had been a foul creature. Still, the conversation that followed thereafter had shaken him; he confessed to her his desire to transfer Eored before she left and the reasons for it, but he had still been reeling from the news that there might be traitors among his subordinates when the anticipated personal business had called him away from cavalry duties so he still feared rebuke from the Marshals. The ride from Helm’s Deep to Edoras had been a long and awkward one; his ward hadn’t said more than two words beyond necessary communication to him the entire journey. He had hoped they could bond a little over shared respect for the cavalry, or perhaps even the comradeship of travelling together, but he got the disappointing impression he intimidated the lad. The boy... young man he corrected himself... was a few years older than usual young cavalry recruits, but Grimthain was still concerned for his welfare. And his troubling issues with co-ordination. He had hoped that by coming to Edoras he could kill two birds with one stone; provide support to the cavalry recruit and also put himself before the Marshals for any disciplinary they deemed necessary. It was only on arrival in the capital that he learned that not only had the Marshals dismissed concerns of any neglect of his vigilance or improper conduct as Watchmaster at Helm’s Deep, but also that he had been transferred to Meduseld Eored at Allacan’s request. He was grateful, but it still surprised him, and left him with duties in Edoras before he had properly arranged to transport his belongings to the city; not quite the lifestyle he preferred to lead now that old age was beginning to creep into his bones.
Without his usual comforts and reluctant to spend his free hours in the barracks, he sought out comfort in a local tavern. He did not recognise the name of the inn; it sounded more like a gently mocking play-on-words by a non-Rohir than the honorary inn titles he was used to among Riddermark taverns, but as long as they served mead and allowed a man to sit in peace and quiet, it wound suit him just fine.
He entered, ordered a Hunigmeodu and found himself an empty table in a quiet corner. He nursed the drink for time, lost in his own pensive thoughts, until his wandering mind started paying heed to a conversation between two people only a table or so across from him (Éolath and Sigrid).
His attention was specifically caught by the mention of fifteen missing children from a village. He paused mid-sip, and his stomach dropped as for a moment he recalled the sight of those burning pyres; the hardest day in his long cavalry duty, and one reason he had taken on the post of Watchmaster at Helm’s Deep all those years ago. To get away from duty on the front lines, and specifically the horror of that night. It was like one of the greatest demons of his past had returned to mock him this night.
He could hear the passionate determination in the young man Éolath’s words, the concern in the voice of the woman Sigrid, and his honour forced him to intervene, though he knew it could cause them both great grief.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, but I fear I have news of those you seek, and it is not hopeful news I am afraid. I believe I recall the group of youngsters you refer to... at least, I served in the cavalry Corthor ordered to pursue a number of child-snatchers attempting to flee the Westfold via the river Entwash at around the time you refer to. We pursued them downriver until they were approaching the borders of the Eastfold, and then I believe they grew tired of our pursuit and decided the children were not worth the effort given our refusal to give in. They slaughtered the lot of them; all fifteen, and abandoned their bodies for us to find in their scattered camp the next day. We rode them down with fury and vengeance after that, not a single one did we leave alive, I am sure, and burned them all on pyres so that their vile flesh would not taint our lands again. We presumed they were traffickers native to the sea of Rhûn by their clothing, possibly hoping to carry the children down river and back to their homeland for sale. Their deaths were bitter-sweet, and far too late. The children were already lost, and there was naught we could do for them after the chase was done but gather their poor bodies and put them to rest with honour. Their mounds lie along the East-West Road, only half a day’s ride west of the Firien-wood; you cannot miss them.”
He paused, filled with remorse at the recollection of his corthor’s failure. He tried to offer what comfort he could to the distraught woman, though he himself was clearly upset at the recollection. “They all died swiftly, that I can assure you, and they died as Rohir. I am, however, sorry that my comrades and I failed so terribly in the rescue. Had we not pursued them with such fervour and tenacity, they might still be live today. Enslaved, but alive. Or had we been quicker - though I know not how we could have achieved that without the wings of the great eagles to aid us - maybe we could have liberated them without loss of life. For my part in that failure, I am sorry. Deeply sorry, and though I do not expect you to be able to find it in your heart to forgive me, I hope perhaps my tale has offered you some semblance of closure.”
(OOC; posted at the request of @Winddancer)
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