Seaxwyrd

Regnwald lifted up his chin, scarred and bearded features of the young Eorling betraying his age, and with the fatigue of recent days, his voice laced ''You didn't get the approval of Witan, eh.'' defiant, hazel green eyes gleamed with the gravity of a point already known. The man lowered his head, gazing down at his boot clad in fur and leather.

((Past described from the point of view of my character, Seaxwyrd might recall this differently.))

Régnwald blinked rapidly as the dim light, broken only by the two large fire pits at the hall's center, took over from light. At his first step, he gazed into the heavy gloom above the rafters. Carved Mearas reared, nostrils wide, their hooves kicking the open air. They looked down on the war-band, their eyes lit from the pale flame beneath. The Eorling watched them in silent solemnity.