[color=dimgray]"[color=darkgray]Careful. [i]Careful.[/i] Gently... There. Not so hard, was it?[/color]"[/color]

The voice sounded both disinterested and fiercely focussed, clearly communicating that its owner cared little for what was being done but god help him if anyone making a mistake would not still receive a sounds thrashing. The men lowering the cabers into the deep gouges torn into the earth were most aware of this, the sweat beading their foreheads having little to do with heat. Rather, the Northumbrian air was damp and cool as it always was, carrying the stench of rot and the tang of sea salt.

With the first log set into place, the men took a few seconds to wipe their brows and grin abashedly at each other before stepping back. All eyes were now on the man who had spoken, a veritable slab of muscle and scowl. Stepping forward, his expression of disinterest barely slipped as he wrapped his arms around the tree trunk, some seven metres long, and began to lift it. Rippling muscles shifted under his skin like snakes, straining and stretching as he heaved his burden upwards until it stood almost as erect as some hours earlier, before the woodsmen cut it down. With a glance, he sent the men scurrying to their work, securing it in its new position by building up a thick set of earth on the base and weighing it down from behind. When they were done, the man stepped away.

	[color=dimgray]"[color=darkgray]Good. The first one is set. Now go and fetch another or this wall won't be finished before winter.[/color]"[/color]

Neither the words nor the tone were particularly harsh but Barda-beorht's peasants hurried to obey. To be used as part of the wall in this little border fort, each trunk had to be felled, stripped, staked and hardened before being moved over to the chosen spot and placed in position. Once there, it could either be lifted into place by a team of around ten men using sticks and poles or the lord of the land on his own. And as the local brigands and marauding picts had quickly learned of Bard-beorht's skill at and love of shedding blood in righteous battle and resolved to steer well clear, the most exciting part of the knight's day was testing his strength at a job normally performed by near a dozen men.

Needless to say, he could barely conceal his excitement at the arrival of a rider clad in the bright colours and thin robes of the south, pointed out to him by one of the men currently digging the next stake pit. The man was shivering on his horse even in the current, mild weather and looked on dumbstruck at Barda-beorht's bare chest. After a few moments of improper staring, he collected himself, leapt down into the mud and kneeled.

	"My lord, my name is--"
	
	[color=dimgray]"[color=darkgray]I'm sure it is, now why are you here? What message do you bring from Camelot?[/color]"[/color]

Without missing a beat, the messenger replied.

	"Your presence is requested by Sir Lancelot at Camelot. While he acts of regent of the great city, he has requested the presence of a great many of knights from all corners of Britannia. I shall ride south immediately, when can we expect you to join us?"

Barda-beorht's grin had begun to spread across his face from the word 'requested' and now looked like the smile a wolf gives a particularly stupid rabbit that has wondered into into its den.

	[color=dimgray]"[color=darkgray]If you manage to beat me to Camelot, you can tell Sire Lancelot that even if my horse dies, I will run south.[/color]"[/color]

So saying, he set off at a run towards the distant form of his ancestral home. To leave for the south needed some provisions, some armour and above all a sword. The proper preparations would take a week or more, what with arranging for someone to lead in his place, organise a guard and gather an adequate baggage train for his retinue.

An hour later, he left, alone and with little more than some food, a set of half plate, a sword, a shield and two horses. Barda-beorht would be damned before he arrived late to momentous happenings at Camelot, damned a thousand times over. So he rode off in the midday sun, a sword at his hip and a smile on his lips, off to seek adventure, glory and battle but mostly an end to lifting trees.