Chapter 2: Meeting Éowyn
John Stark pushed open the heavy wooden door of the village hall, the creak of hinges blending with the cacophony within—a symphony of rough laughter, shouted tales, and the clatter of tankards on tables. The air was thick with the sharp, sour scent of mead and the richer aroma of roasting meat, the warmth of a roaring hearth radiating across the dark-timbered room, its crackling a steady heartbeat amidst the chaos. Shadows danced on the walls, cast by the flickering firelight, and he forced his stride to appear casual, suppressing the phantom hum of the system that urged caution with every step. Shut up, Siri. I'm going for the social XP grind, he thought, his sneakers scuffing softly against the wooden floor, the sound lost in the din.
His gaze landed on her instantly—a woman towering over the others, her pale gold braid glinting like spun sunlight, a stark contrast to the muted tones of the hall. Her face was severe, beautiful, and closed-off, her steely eyes fixed on a dagger she wiped clean with methodical precision, the blade catching the firelight in fleeting sparks. She was a statue carved from marble, radiating a fierce grace that stole his breath, her leather armor creased with the weight of duty. The scent of oiled steel and her faint, earthy perfume mingled, drawing him closer despite the knot of nerves twisting in his stomach.
He wove through the crowd, the cacophony of voices washing over him—men boasting of hunts, women chiding children, the occasional clink of a dropped spoon—his hoodie a beacon of oddity amidst the sea of wool and iron. He stopped behind her, trying to project nonchalance despite the absurdity of his attire, his scarred hands flexing nervously at his sides.
"Hey."
"I gotta say, you are like, seriously impressive."
"You're like a Viking princess out of a graphic novel."
Éowyn turned slowly, her gaze sweeping from his face to his clothes and back, a hawk assessing prey, her eyes narrowing slightly. She didn't blink.
"I am Éowyn, of the House of Éomund," she stated, her voice cool and regal, carrying a weight that made his words feel childish, the syllables rolling with an ancient cadence.
"We have no need of 'princesses' here, only those who will take up a blade."
"My duty is to my people and the Hall."
"Your strange words are not."
[SYSTEM: Charisma: +0.5. Smooth move, Casanova. Might wanna try a better pickup line next time.]
Ouch. That was a critical fail, he thought, feeling a knot of nerves twist in his stomach. He masked it with a grin, leaning back slightly to recover his composure.
"Yeah, I'm just… working on my opening material," he muttered under his breath, the words a quiet confession to himself.
"I have to say, that was a shot down harder than my Tinder matches."
She ignored his self-deprecation, turning back to a map on the table, her finger tracing a river's path with deliberate care, the parchment crinkling under her touch. A woman who won't take my crap? Respect, he mused, his interest piqued by her dismissal. He pressed his palms flat on the table, leaning in a little, the wood cool against his skin.
"Alright, fine. I can do a task."
"What's the worst thing that could happen? I die?"
He chuckled, the irony razor-sharp only to him, his voice a touch too bright.
"Tell me what you're looking at."
Éowyn felt the man's lingering presence, his odd words a puzzle she couldn't solve, yet his refusal to leave intrigued her. She traced the river's line, the map's ink faded in spots, a testament to its frequent use, and sensed his eyes on her. She looked up, noting his bizarre attire—the bright hoodie, the torn jeans—and the faded scars on his hands, marks of battle etched into his skin, not the pampered ease his soft voice suggested. A faint memory stirred—her brother's hands, similarly scarred from a childhood fall—before she buried it beneath her duty.
"You have been in battle, outsider," she said, her tone flat, a statement not a question, her gaze steady.
"Your hands show it."
"But your posture is terrible."
She moved without waiting, retrieving a dull practice sword from a barrel, the steel clanking softly, and tossed it at his chest. He caught it awkwardly, the hilt slipping in his grip, but his first swing was clumsy yet quick-footed, dodging her thrust with surprising agility. Her next lunge tested his nerve, the blade whistling through the air, and he blocked it shakily, steel ringing like a struck bell.
[SYSTEM: Sword Mastery: Lv. 1. Don't embarrass yourself. She's running the high-level challenge.]
He stumbled back, sweat beading on his forehead, his breath ragged, but managed a ragged smile.
"Wow, your swing is very strong ," he gasped, the anachronism slipping out, his chest heaving with effort.
"That was a one-shot kill on my stamina bar."
Her lips twitched faintly, impressed by his grit despite the oddity, the flicker of a smile hidden beneath her stern facade. She pressed one last time, her strike swift and precise, and he blocked cleanly, though raggedly, the impact jarring his arms. She lowered her sword, stepping back, the blade resting lightly in her hand.
"Your form is terrible, but your will is stronger than your words, outsider," she conceded, her voice softening just enough to hint at approval.
"My name is Éowyn."
"Now, tell me, why are you really here?"
Later, they sat by the hearth, the hall quieter now, the woodsmoke thick and warm against the cold night, the fire's crackle a steady companion. The crowd had thinned, leaving only a few guards nursing their mead, their murmurs a soft undertone. John spoke of the plains' freedom, his voice low, nodding intently as Éowyn shared her uncle's malady's shadow, her words heavy with unspoken grief. He glanced away, masking a HUD check as daydreaming, the glow of the interface flickering briefly in his mind's eye.
[SYSTEM: Resolve: +0.5. Don't get sappy, Stark. You're talking about horses.]
"Sheesh, the AI is a tough critic," he muttered, rubbing his scarred hands, the rough skin a tactile reminder of his past.
"I don't know why I'm here, Éowyn."
"But I do know this: your people are good."
"You have fire."
"I like that fire."
Her laughter was soft, like rustling leaves, a rare sound that broke through her steel exterior, her eyes warming slightly.
"You are an odd creature, Stark," she said, her tone teasing yet kind.
"You hide behind jokes, but you fight like a man with nothing left to lose."
She grew serious, her gaze drifting to the fire, the flames reflecting in her eyes like tiny suns.
"There are dark riders abroad, I hear."
"Things older than the King's memory."
"And there are men, close by, that trouble our peace."
Their hands brushed near the hearthstones, a fleeting electric contact, the stone warm under their fingers. She sighed, weary beyond her years, the sound carrying the weight of a kingdom's troubles.
"Our fields are often plundered now."
"The King's sight is clouded, and bandits from the west grow bolder."
"We are short of hands who will fight."
He paused, picking up a small, carved horse from the hearth's edge, its wood smooth from countless hands, the grain worn to a satin finish. He turned it in his fingers, the firelight dancing on its curves, and Éowyn watched silently, her expression softening. A child's giggle drifted from the hall's corner, chasing a stray chicken, and he felt a pang of homesickness—the memory of a park bench, the rustle of autumn leaves, the taste of a warm pretzel—tugging at his chest. For a moment, the weight of their worlds lifted, replaced by a shared, unspoken calm, and he set the carving down gently.
Driven by a sudden protective impulse, John gripped the horse tighter, his decision to face the bandits fueled more by Éowyn's weary sigh than strategic gain. She needs help, and I'm not leaving her to fight alone, he thought, the resolve burning brighter than logic, the scar on his arm pulsing with a quiet promise. He shifted closer, his knee brushing hers, a subtle gesture of solidarity.
"Bandits, huh?"
"Sounds like a job for me."
"I'm surprisingly good at dying, and apparently, it helps," he grinned, the humor a shield for his newfound determination.
She smiled faintly, the curve of her lips a rare gift.
"It might be the only skill you have, John Stark, that will truly be useful."
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