Preperations

[Wayland]

The sun rose lazily over the Tavern and its grounds, The first rays of light slowly picked there way acoss the yards, rousing the cockerel form his slumbers atop the ostlers and finally filtering through the shutters across the smithy windows. Dust and ash danced in the glowing fingers as they stroked their way up the sheets of the small cot and falling on Wayland's face. Blinking groggily as he stirs, his ind asks where is his comfy mattress and heavy quilts before he remembers what the day is.

As the cock's first crow breaks the silence he swings his body out from the battered blankets, shivering as his feet touchj the cold slate floor. Hurriedly pulling on some trousers and shoes, he rummages round, finding some fuel and throwing it on the last embers of the forge. A few minutes later, and the fire is blazing, picking out the sweat on his face and chest from pumping the huge bellows. Still not quite awake he slips on a jacket and pushes open the doors.

Already stable lads and ostlers are moving across the yard, their morning chores under way before they sit for breakfast. Muttering vague hello's he wends his way past the well and into the tavern, dropping into a carved oaken chair near the fire. Eric's grinning wife appears carrying a huge platter in one hand and a pitcher in the other, plonking both down before him she smiles, telling him to eat up he'll need his strength.

The platter is covered in toasted bread, heaped high with eggs, bacon, sausages and topped with a handful of love apples. Ignoring his tankard he lifts the pitcher taking a long drain of the cold apple juice inside. Slowly he picks at the breakfast in front of him, then picks up the pace, stuffing his face with the assorted meats. A growl at his feet reminds him of another presence and he passes down a sausage with some bread soaked in fatty juices for the faithful hound. Laughing at the cheeky suggestiveness of the little red apples he bites into them, savouring their juices before wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

The serving girls shoo him out out quickly enough and he stands in the yard, a tousled grubby mess, watching the world pass by till a heavy hand claps his shoulder. 'Get a move on lad, don't want to be late do ye?' Grinning and shaking his head at the stable boss he meanders back to the forge.

Once there he carefully goes through his stretches then draws his sword from its scabbard and runs through a gentle practise, loosening up his muscles and focusing his mind. Satisfied his head is clear he picks up the clean clothes he brought down the day before and heads back to the tavern.

This time it is he who shoos away the girls as he enters the bath house, stripping naked and sliding into a tub of heated water. Scrubbing himself down, his muscles soothed by the herbs floating in with him, he wonders what she will look like when she strolls down towards the altar. Shaking his head he hauls himself out of the bath and draws on fresh clothes. The deep blue wool of his trousers lays soft on his skin, gentle almost like a lovers touch, and he smiles as he slips on his shirt. Shouting down the hallway, he sits by the wooden stand as the barber comes down, jug and razor in hand. The spalsh of hot water and the feel of sharp metal on his face is shocking after the bath and he enjoys the intense feel as the stubble is cut from his face. Finally one of the girls comes back in and combs out his hair, tying it in place at the back.

Thanking them all he slips on his old boots but doesn't bother to fasten them, then heads once more to the forge.

Inside he sits on his cot and throws off the shoes till another day. With an exagerated sigh, he pulls a pair of long boots on and starts to lace them up the sides. As he does the arming boys arrive and stand there laughing to each other as he tries to do them sat down. Finally they relent and get him to stand and tie them up, adjusting the sit ready for the next layers.

Satisfied they head to the back of the forge and with a flourish slide the cloth from a suit of armour, gleaming even in the darkness, the result of several days polishing and cleaning. Carefully they bring over the feet, and one after the other strap them over Waylands boots. Then the legs are carrived over in two sections, the greaves fit into place and then the tops strapped on and around his thighs. As he holds his arms out an arming jacket is slipped over him and buckled at the front. The heavy chain segments along the arms rattle slightly as he adjusts himself and the boys finish fitting his legs to his belt harness, ending with the chainmail skirt hanging down over the top. Leaning forward slightly a bevor is buckled around his throat, then back and breast plate lifted into position and pinned together. Each arm is then encased in ornate sleeves of steel, the sweeping curves of the joints decorated with ornate inlays of hawthorn leaves and flowers. Gull wing Pauldrons fasten over his shoulders, their tips almost crossing at his spine are tied in place and his lames adjusted so as not to snag on each other. Tassets checked and fastened on, they fetch his belt and scabbard. Finally they slip on his gauntlets, buckling them tight.

'Just don't stand in anything Sir, and you'll be alright' they tell him as he flexes and jumps softly, letting everything sink into place.

Grinning, he gives each his thanks, and picks up his sword, sliding it into its sheath. The new armour feels good against him, he hadn't seen it other than when it was first fitted and none of the decorations had adorned it. Strolling outside into the crisp air he is greeted by catcalls and wolf whistles from his friends. Laughing and offering them al the french salute he take sthe reins of his horse. The boy has been decked out in leather tack as black as his coat, adorned with silver studs in the shape of hawthorn flowers, Bright red ribbons have been plaited through his mane and tail, ablaze against the glossy coat. Cocking his foot in the stirrup he pulls himself up into the saddle, automatically checking for his bow and dagger before shaking his head, 'Not today' he mutters. To his side Grendell slinks out of the tavern and sits by the horse ready to move, sausage grease think around his muzzle. 'Don't even think about wiping that on me' he tells the dog then laughs as the younger tavern girls pin him down and soak him with buckets of water before drying him off and wrapping red and white ribbons around his collar.

Looking severely affronted the dog sits and glares up at his master who can barely sit on his saddle for laughing at the dog's expression. Pulling himself together, he waves goodbye to them all, 'See you at the feast' he tells them before digging in his heels and setting off at a trot for his wedding day, one man, one horse and one lolloping black dog.