Éomer dons her helmet once more and swings easily up into Firefoot's saddle, pushing her way to the front of the éored without thought, the entirety of her riders falling in behind her in a smooth, practiced formation. Luckily for Steven, his horse is well-used to being part of a herd that behaves in such a manner, and goes along easily with his brethren. Most of the ride passes without her spending too much time looking after their new companion, as she is busy looking out for the entirety of the éored, but every now and then, she will maneuver her charger to ride alongside his, and she will ask him whatever question pops into her mind at the time. Otherwise, she leaves him to his own devices, and instead he is peppered with questions by the men under her command, some of them fluent in Westron, the others doing their best to be understood despite not knowing much more than how to order another ale in a tavern.
They reach Edoras just as the sun is passing below the horizon, and the bright golden rays of the setting sun light up the roof of Meduseld, turning it into burnished gold. She cannot help letting out a heavy sigh of relief at the sight, and at seeing the banners of her uncle flapping smartly in the breeze. All is still well, then, or rather, well enough that not much has changed.
Disembarking is always a loud, chaotic affair, and today is no different. The horses have to be cared for, and the soldiers have to be billeted; Éomer passes Firefoot off to her squire and then determinedly goes to find Steven, instructing him to follow her with the same sort of easy command that she uses with her riders, completely sure that he will follow her orders as if the thought he might not hadn't even occurred to her. She brings him to the great hall and before her uncle, glossing over the more fanciful aspects of her tale as she introduces him, all-too aware of the cold, beady eyes of her uncle's advisor trained on her with ill-disguised malcontent. She does not trust Gríma as far as she could throw him, and she does not doubt that any hint of magic or anything else strange about Steven's story will be seized and used as some sort of weapon against both her and him, should the opportunity present itself.
Despite it being considered somewhat gauche, Éomer also makes a point to inquire whether or not Steven will be granted guest rights during his stay in a voice loud enough to carry, a question that has a low murmur passing through the people gathered in the hall, a question her uncle almost hesitates to answer in the affirmative. It brings her great relief to hear it, however, and she kisses her uncle's knuckles gratefully as she takes her leave of him, shooting Steven a smile as she walks past him and leaves him in the care of one of the servants. She has to get ready for dinner.
Eventually, after having bathed and had her skin and hair scrubbed until she felt utterly brand-new, she returns to the great hall clad in a kirtle of deep green over a linen shift, golden knotwork embellishing the neckline and hem alike, a golden belt slung low around her hips. The kirtle's sleeves are tight around her biceps, — tighter perhaps than they are supposed to be, but then again, Éomer's measurements are different than those of a normal woman, and she does not wear her formal attire often enough to warrant an entirely new wardrobe of dresses being made for her no matter how muscular she may be — but the shift has the long, flowing sleeves that are so popular among the fairer sex, sleeves that she finds damnably irritating. Her hair, still slightly damp, has been washed and brushed and lies loose about her shoulders, fairly glowing in the torchlight as she enters the hall and makes a beeline for the table at which her cousin and her sister sit, bending down to speak to them both in low tones, oblivious to how her dress and unbound hair alters her appearance.
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Date: 2019-05-13 08:32 am (UTC)They reach Edoras just as the sun is passing below the horizon, and the bright golden rays of the setting sun light up the roof of Meduseld, turning it into burnished gold. She cannot help letting out a heavy sigh of relief at the sight, and at seeing the banners of her uncle flapping smartly in the breeze. All is still well, then, or rather, well enough that not much has changed.
Disembarking is always a loud, chaotic affair, and today is no different. The horses have to be cared for, and the soldiers have to be billeted; Éomer passes Firefoot off to her squire and then determinedly goes to find Steven, instructing him to follow her with the same sort of easy command that she uses with her riders, completely sure that he will follow her orders as if the thought he might not hadn't even occurred to her. She brings him to the great hall and before her uncle, glossing over the more fanciful aspects of her tale as she introduces him, all-too aware of the cold, beady eyes of her uncle's advisor trained on her with ill-disguised malcontent. She does not trust Gríma as far as she could throw him, and she does not doubt that any hint of magic or anything else strange about Steven's story will be seized and used as some sort of weapon against both her and him, should the opportunity present itself.
Despite it being considered somewhat gauche, Éomer also makes a point to inquire whether or not Steven will be granted guest rights during his stay in a voice loud enough to carry, a question that has a low murmur passing through the people gathered in the hall, a question her uncle almost hesitates to answer in the affirmative. It brings her great relief to hear it, however, and she kisses her uncle's knuckles gratefully as she takes her leave of him, shooting Steven a smile as she walks past him and leaves him in the care of one of the servants. She has to get ready for dinner.
Eventually, after having bathed and had her skin and hair scrubbed until she felt utterly brand-new, she returns to the great hall clad in a kirtle of deep green over a linen shift, golden knotwork embellishing the neckline and hem alike, a golden belt slung low around her hips. The kirtle's sleeves are tight around her biceps, — tighter perhaps than they are supposed to be, but then again, Éomer's measurements are different than those of a normal woman, and she does not wear her formal attire often enough to warrant an entirely new wardrobe of dresses being made for her no matter how muscular she may be — but the shift has the long, flowing sleeves that are so popular among the fairer sex, sleeves that she finds damnably irritating. Her hair, still slightly damp, has been washed and brushed and lies loose about her shoulders, fairly glowing in the torchlight as she enters the hall and makes a beeline for the table at which her cousin and her sister sit, bending down to speak to them both in low tones, oblivious to how her dress and unbound hair alters her appearance.