The Coming of Harold Stonewatch

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The young Arathi guard spotted five figures in the mist, approaching from the North-West border of the tribe's land. He gripped his spear and shield tightly, ready to fight. As they got closer, he realized he wouldn't be much of a challenge to them, as their leader wore chain mail, an obvious mark of nobility and martial prowess. The men reached the little watchtower, and the guard called down to them.
"Halt! Who goes there?"
Their leader replied, lifting his hood, though the others kept theirs down. "I am Harold of the Andorhans, and these are my men. We are travellers, and have no place in our ancestral homeland." The guard eyed him uncertainly, glad that his embroidered scabbard was empty, but quite fearful of the massive battleaxe one of the others carried, and the men in general: apart from the leader and his right-hand man, they all carried a sharp axe, shortsword and shield, and didn't look like they'd be upset to use them.
"Very well. You swear you are not spies of the men of Hillsbrad?" The leader laughed, shaking his head, and then brushed his long blonde hair out of his face before replying.
"Of course not! If we were, we would tell you. We have honest intentions, and we are not mere spies or assassins!" 
"Very well," said the guard apprehensively. "If you're not enemies, follow the road south east, you'll reach the village at Strom. It's not big, we're not a powerful tribe, but it's the capital."
"Thank you, Arathi." The men walked on down the road, and the guard sighed with relief: the guard at the village'd overwhelm them if they were enemies, and he'd definitely saved his own skin from the northerners.
*
Harold smiled as he walked down the road in the drizzle with his four followers. 
"So, Osstan, what say you on these Arathi?" he asked his right-hand man, a tall, blonde warrior with a huge double-headed axe. 
"We've nothing to fear, Harold. The southerners are not like us, you can see it easily. They are timid, and do not relish battle. If they are enemies, we'll be able to fight them off without too much trouble." Harold laughed at this last comment.
"Perhaps, perhaps, Osstan. But we should always try to befriend before making war. After all, when you have allies, you have enemies too. When all you have is enemies, allies are much harder to come by." They continued walking, with Osstan and the other men keeping up an impression of bravado and confidence, but occasionally sneaking an uncertain glance at their leader's empty scabbard, where the great sword of his ancestors should have been. They kept walking, and before long saw small lights in the distance, a sure sign of a settlement even in the mist and rain. 
*
They approached Strom, eyeing up its sparse defences: a small palisade ringed around the village. As they entered, a big man with an eye patch and a longsword ran out to challenge them, along with a few others, some wearing armour and some in tunics and trousers, but all holding shields and either axes or swords. Harold wrapped his cloak tightly around him, obscuring his relative finery.
"Who are you, and what business have you in Strom, strangers?" the big one asked, eyeing them up suspiciously.
"Harold of Andorhal, Osstan Mightyaxe, Everard the Smith, Godwyn Ramsden and Dunstan Lind. We're travellers, Andorhans. I would wish to speak with your chieftain."
"And why would our chieftain not have more worthwhile things to attend to than a handful of wandering northerners?" Harold scowled.
"I imagine he might be interested in the matter of the great white beast." At this, the guards all paled, even the big one.
"I suppose he might want to speak to you, then. But don't get excited, we're in a war council tonight." The guard grinned, obviously happy at launching the little jibe at Harold and his men.
"Well, you could do with a bit of education, man. I think you'd find that the men of the north are quite welcome at any war council, and I'd wager any of my men could take you and two of your followers." The Andorhans grinned, and Osstan stroked his great axe edge.
"Huh. You don't seem like much of a fighter, Harold of Andorhal - where's your weapon?" Harold smiled, and pulled back his hood and cloak, showing his glittering coat of chain mail and embroidered sword-belt and scabbard. 
"My weapon is none of your business. If you want no trouble, step aside. Me and my men will enter Strom." The guards scowled, and stepped aside reluctantly.
"Very well, strangers, you may enter Strom. But be on your guard - more will side with Vardan One-eye than with foreigners!" the big man called after them. Harold and his men walked into Strom, Harold pulling down his hood again, and they headed up towards the long house: the political and social centre of the community, where councils, feasts and celebrations would all be held, a mead-hall, a house and a banqueting-hall. They reached the door of the long house and, taking off their hoods, opened the great oak doors and stepped inside. Inside, men were drinking, yelling and laughing, and at the head of the largest, central table, an old man in furs was talking to a few other men who were clad in fine tunics. A bard was reciting a poem to some enraptured drinkers, and some people were playing a little tune on two fiddles and a drum. But as soon as they were seen, all activity stopped, and all eyes turned on the five men in the doorway. 
"Who are you, strangers?" the old man asked. "I am Leofric of the Arathi. What would you want in my hall?"
"I am Harold of Andorhal. These are my followers: Osstan Mightyaxe, Everard the Smith, Godwyn Ramsden and Dunstan Lind. We've come to your tribe in search of assistance and a new home. Also, I imagine that you'd be interested in any news of the great white beast." There was a gasp from some around the hall, and people who'd become less interested in the exchange immediately returned their attention.
"Well, Harold," Leofric said, "What news have you of the beast?"
"Me and my men were attacked by it when we were on our way here. It tried to kill us, and though we fought it off, it has my sword in its possession. I would wish to kill it, and reclaim my honour, and I imagine you and your people want it dead too."
"Very well, Harold of Andorhal," Leofric said, "If you can kill Klarr the Ferocious, you shall be an honorary member of our tribe, and your men will be allowed to live here too. I do not care how you kill it, or where, but you must bring me proof of its death."
Unfinished, please don't edit yet.
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