Mantlady requested something Chaucerian... and this is the result of a crazy two hours of writing tonight. It was actually pretty fun to write, and I have background ideas for the other characters present (The boatmen are smugglers! The guy with the odd accent is Mardra's brother and wants to oust baby Jaxom!) so I think I may well add to it, if there's an audience.
Also: Geoffrey? I am deeply, deeply sorry. Please don't spin in your grave too much, 'kay?
Ruatha is not what it was...and Ruatha is not yet what it was. None would deny that the Hold's fortunes are better now than they once were, when Fax ruled the north and Harper Blue was only ever openly worn by the untroubled skies, but decades of rot cannot be quickly undone, even in a Hold that bears the favour of two Weyrs. Even so, the signs are there for all to see: that, in time, Ruatha will thrive again. Its men no longer fear to walk tall, its women no longer fear to walk abroad at all, the fields and pastures have been blessed by good weather and few burrowing threads, and the Ruatha River flows as fierce and fast as ever. And, along its banks, the ancient, derelict Thread-shelters have all been repaired or built anew.
There are rules for such places. There are rules everywhere, but on Thread-shelters, the Charter is especially clear, and the punishment meted out particularly apt: deny entry to one in need of shelter, and the callous culprit will find themselves made Holdless, with all doors barred to them forevermore. And so, a Thread-shelter is a miserable, egalitarian place, where the sons of Holders and lesser Lords mingle with journeying Crafters, tithe-drovers, drudges, runners and those who do not care to openly name what they are.
I believe I met some of every kind, that Turn. A beastcrafter and his family, returning to the Hold they'd fled a decade earlier. A son of Lord Groghe's, who'd accompanied me throughout my journey from the Hall. A young man with an unusually accented voice, whose robust height and health spoke of obviously good breeding, who was reluctant to speak of his purposes in the region. Two boatmen, in charge of a raft so laden by woven goods that it rode dangerously low in the water, and the mute drudge who was with them. A blooded daughter of Nabol, a guardsman, and the spry old auntie acting as the maid's chaperone. A runner, red-faced and cheery, flush with pride at her first solo crossing of the Western Mountains. We all of us arrived at the same shelter that day – it was one of the closest to the river, and the only one for many hours' walk – and resigned ourselves to the joy of each others' presence for the remainder of the day and throughout the night that would, inevitably, follow. Of course, I cannot say I know how anyone thought or acted before my own arrival, but I do not think it stretches the bounds of credibility to say that the arrival of a Harper brightened – nay, broke! – the interminable boredom of a disparate company forced to remain in such dreary and straitened conditions. It was my pleasure and my privilege to play and sing for them until I was quite hoarse, and then, later, to draw out the truths of their own lives. Not through anything as crass as asking questions direct – supping from a common pot does not necessitate that all mannerly conduct be abandoned – but I learned much that night, as well as in the days that followed, while we waited out the storm, the flood, and the rescue that never came.
Not everyone likes songs, but everyone has a favourite story. Drudge or Dragonrider, Harper or Holder, there's always some tale that sings inside the heart
You can learn a lot about someone from the stories they tell.