hlaefdige: (up | leonine)
ℓα∂у σf тнє яι∂∂єямαяк ([personal profile] hlaefdige) wrote 2019-05-13 05:02 am (UTC)

"The future," she echoes flatly, not uncrossing her arms.

A few of the riders behind her shift, trying to get a better look at the thing in his palm, and she can hear some of them murmuring to their neighbors as a translation is passed through the ranks. Magic, they can all understand. They know a little of its cost and have seen its effects in their world. But such a magic as to send someone through the mists of time... "That is a fanciful tale indeed." However, she is used to the idea of tales from the path becoming myths and legends, so that part, at least, she does not question. She still does not understand how he came to be here, though, but Éomer does not trust magic even in the best of times, and this is definitely not one of those times. It is not surprising that his magic malfunctioned and sent him where he did not belong.

"I am Éomer, daughter of Éomund, Third Marshal of the Riddermark. I suppose it falls to me to welcome you to our lands, Steve, son of Roger." Finally, her arms fall back to her sides, and some of the tension in the air lifts.

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