Immediately, her welcoming expression slides off her face and her eyes narrow suspiciously. “What has he said to you?” she asks, her head swiveling so she can glare across the hall at the dark shadow that is her uncle’s advisor. If she were better at politics, or had a better grasp on her temper, or perhaps even both, she wouldn’t be so blatant about her dislike of the man, especially in front of a stranger who still might turn out to be foe, not friend.
But Éomer’s temper is legendary and she has never had the patience for politics, so she doesn’t even attempt to mask her contempt for the man lurking in the shadows.
She doesn’t stop glaring as her cup is likewise filled, but then she visibly wrenches her attention away and settles it back on her companion.
Steven asks her about her tattoos and her eyebrows lift slightly. “You do not have any?” The urge to hook her finger under his cuff to see his arm is strong, and she doesn’t fight it, tugging his sleeve up a little to, indeed, show unblemished skin. Murmuring in surprise under her breath, she lets him go and settles her arm on the table, shoving her sleeve up again to show off the skin up to her elbow, coiled in black ink with more than a few scars lifting raised gashes between the tattoos. “They are a mark of my profession, among other things. All the riders have them. This one here,” she points at the one right above her wrist, the edges skirting the hard bones beneath her skin and then crawling higher up her forearm, “shows that I am the eldest girl child in my family. This one,” a much larger design, dominating the space of her arm and so stark and detailed it demands attention first, “marks that I am a shield maiden and have forsaken the right to a husband and children.”
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Date: 2019-05-14 02:13 am (UTC)But Éomer’s temper is legendary and she has never had the patience for politics, so she doesn’t even attempt to mask her contempt for the man lurking in the shadows.
She doesn’t stop glaring as her cup is likewise filled, but then she visibly wrenches her attention away and settles it back on her companion.
Steven asks her about her tattoos and her eyebrows lift slightly. “You do not have any?” The urge to hook her finger under his cuff to see his arm is strong, and she doesn’t fight it, tugging his sleeve up a little to, indeed, show unblemished skin. Murmuring in surprise under her breath, she lets him go and settles her arm on the table, shoving her sleeve up again to show off the skin up to her elbow, coiled in black ink with more than a few scars lifting raised gashes between the tattoos. “They are a mark of my profession, among other things. All the riders have them. This one here,” she points at the one right above her wrist, the edges skirting the hard bones beneath her skin and then crawling higher up her forearm, “shows that I am the eldest girl child in my family. This one,” a much larger design, dominating the space of her arm and so stark and detailed it demands attention first, “marks that I am a shield maiden and have forsaken the right to a husband and children.”