Lately, the days and nights have become almost monotonous. Each dusk brings a new threat of yet more orcs, each dawn another razed village or burnt field. Éomer spends so much time in the saddle that she starts to wonder if it is possible to fuse with her horse, if she and Firefoot would ever manage to become one being through some strange twist of magic. She wouldn't be surprised, honestly, and it might be more comfortable for them both. The poor beast wouldn't have to bear the weight of a saddle on his back, at least, and she would be able to stretch her legs more. As it stands, the few times she gets to stretch her legs are during battle, when she stands in the saddle and leans precariously one way or the other, or when they break to make camp. All other parts of her day blur into one long ride, punctuated by brief moments of bloodshed and violence.
One surprising thing that truly does break up the monotony that has overtaken her life is that one day, a perfectly normal day like any others she's had recently, a man suddenly appears out of thin air in the middle of a skirmish, clad in blue and red with an enormous shining shield on his back, the colors painted on it a stark and almost jarring contrast to the mud and dust she's grown so used to.
All movement stops for a moment as everyone involved looks at each other in surprise, and then one of the orcs tries to stab the man, who swings the hammer in his hand at him with enough force to send the foul beast literally flying. As if waiting for some cue, the fight resumes in earnest, but with the man and his hammer in play as well, it is a short-lived battle, and soon enough whatever orcs that have survived flee for their lives. Normally, she would send riders off to pursue them and kill them before they escaped completely, but at the moment, they have other things to worry about. Like this strange soldier who appeared in their midst, dressed so strangely but so very competent with his even stranger weapons.
Once surrounded, the man quite sensibly (in her mind) puts his hammer down and even goes so far as to take off his helmet, display baby-smooth cheeks and golden hair cropped close to his head. He introduces himself, which is another good sign, but his name is just as strange as his clothing, and she has spent too much of her life at war to trust anyone so quickly.
She urges Firefoot a few steps closer and peers down at the man, her hand steady on her spear as she eyes him speculatively. In full armor, and certainly in the midst of battle, it is easy to mistake Éomer for a man like the rest of her riders. She is uncommonly tall, taller even than most men of her acquaintance, and her armor broadens her shoulders and flattens her curves to such an extent that she looks as male as anyone else. With her helm obscuring half her face, and splashed with dirt and blood, the only thing that gives away her femininity is the lack of beard on her chin. And, of course, her voice.
"What business have you in our lands, Steve Rogers?" she asks, her voice low for a woman, but still obviously higher than a man's, pitched to carry regardless. "Whence do you hail?"
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Date: 2019-05-13 02:27 am (UTC)One surprising thing that truly does break up the monotony that has overtaken her life is that one day, a perfectly normal day like any others she's had recently, a man suddenly appears out of thin air in the middle of a skirmish, clad in blue and red with an enormous shining shield on his back, the colors painted on it a stark and almost jarring contrast to the mud and dust she's grown so used to.
All movement stops for a moment as everyone involved looks at each other in surprise, and then one of the orcs tries to stab the man, who swings the hammer in his hand at him with enough force to send the foul beast literally flying. As if waiting for some cue, the fight resumes in earnest, but with the man and his hammer in play as well, it is a short-lived battle, and soon enough whatever orcs that have survived flee for their lives. Normally, she would send riders off to pursue them and kill them before they escaped completely, but at the moment, they have other things to worry about. Like this strange soldier who appeared in their midst, dressed so strangely but so very competent with his even stranger weapons.
Once surrounded, the man quite sensibly (in her mind) puts his hammer down and even goes so far as to take off his helmet, display baby-smooth cheeks and golden hair cropped close to his head. He introduces himself, which is another good sign, but his name is just as strange as his clothing, and she has spent too much of her life at war to trust anyone so quickly.
She urges Firefoot a few steps closer and peers down at the man, her hand steady on her spear as she eyes him speculatively. In full armor, and certainly in the midst of battle, it is easy to mistake Éomer for a man like the rest of her riders. She is uncommonly tall, taller even than most men of her acquaintance, and her armor broadens her shoulders and flattens her curves to such an extent that she looks as male as anyone else. With her helm obscuring half her face, and splashed with dirt and blood, the only thing that gives away her femininity is the lack of beard on her chin. And, of course, her voice.
"What business have you in our lands, Steve Rogers?" she asks, her voice low for a woman, but still obviously higher than a man's, pitched to carry regardless. "Whence do you hail?"