His story about not trusting Gríma because of a gut feeling is both suspiciously vague but also rings true to her own experiences, and so she doesn’t pry too much into just what he means. Perhaps she will have a word with her cousin, who will be better suited to prying details out of someone without it being obvious what he’s doing. Théodred has always had more of a mind for statecraft than she has and is far more subtle than she has ever managed to be, which is a good thing in the long run, as he is destined to be king and she isn’t.
It isn’t much of a hardship to turn her attention to Steven when he touches his chest. She doesn’t know what an American flag looks like, but she does know what an eagle looks like, and what a sword looks like, and she spends a few enjoyable moments imagining it carved into the planes of his chest. Based on how well his armor had fit him when they met, and how well he fills out his borrowed tunic, she is sure the end result would be a pleasing picture indeed.
She shakes her head. “No, there has to be meaning behind the tattoo, otherwise it cannot be given to you. In times gone by, they were how we distinguished one tribe from another. Now, they are mostly tradition, but some rules have been clung to even after all this time.” She nods up to the head of the hall, where Théodred sits beside her uncle. “My cousin and my uncle bear the marks of royalty over their hearts. The rest of us only decorate our arms.”
“People where I’m from get them for all kinds of reasons, and for no reason at all. I’ve seen tattoos of everything you could imagine: quotes from some and poems, pictures of their pets or kids, animals, symbols... you name it.” He isn’t going to tell her that he’s even seen tattoos of his image and of his shield on people’s skin. He doesn’t like to brag, and maybe it’s best if his status as an actual superhero isn’t known.
Taking a last bite of food from his plate, he reaches for another serving. He doesn’t want to make a show of eating too much, but he knows he’ll regret it later if he doesn’t fill up now. Steve is used to being noticed, being a public figure, but here he’s an oddity—an anachronism. It's like he’s just woken up from the ice again, adjusting to an entirely new set of circumstances and social norms. At least he has experience making that kind of transition.
Nodding at Éomer, he asks, “I guess you always wanted to be a warrior? How old were you when you became a shield maiden?”
She can't help but frown speculatively as Steven explains the tattooing traditions from where — or when, she's going to have to sit him down at some point and get a proper explanation from him about this, instead of just taking his word for it as she did before — he is from. It sounds to her like those sorts of markings lose their meaning if you can have literally anything you like carved into your skin, especially a representation of a pet, but what does she know? She had been so proud the day she got her warrior's ink, but maybe she would have been equally proud had she chosen to get a line of a ballad etched into her arm instead.
She takes a drink of her tankard, shifting to brush her hair off her shoulders so that it won't get in her way as she sets to eating the food placed in front of her.
"Fourteen," she replies. "I did not see real fighting until two years after that, however."
There's something a little heart-wrenching about a fourteen-year old girl being inducted into a country's military. What had her life been like, he wonders. Why had she chosen that path? Perhaps, like him, she'd seen her nation's need and decided to give up everything to protect it, regardless of risk or adversity. He respects her resolve. It couldn't have been easy.
"I was twenty when I joined the military. They almost didn't let me. I was... kind of sickly, as a kid." To put it mildly. "But I wanted to join so badly. We were at war, then. World War Two, they call it. The fighting was terrible. We had weapons you couldn't even imagine. I was out of commission for a while, but we won all the same." He shakes his head, thinking back to that time. The entire trajectory of his life changed in an instant time and time again.
"A lot's happened since then, though," he adds, taking another drink.
Éomer had always been a large child, taking after her mother's side in that respect, growing tall early and staying tall her whole life, but starting to train as a shield maiden in early adolescence has left her with a strong build that is very unlike most of the other women he might see in the hall. She has large, calloused hands, and strong, muscled arms, and her shoulders are nearly as broad as a man's might be. Still, there are some things even a lifetime of manual labor cannot strip from her, and although she is broad and muscular in a very unfashionable way, she is also endowed with all the pleasing curves a woman should have, much to her continued irritation. Binding her breasts as flat as she can so she can fight without them in the way is painful and annoying, but wearing dresses that emphasize her better qualities feels restrictive and pointless. It seems she cannot win either way.
And to think, this entire life of hers might have been forestalled had her mother not starved herself after her father's passing, had their love been just a little bit weaker so that she could convince herself to live for her daughters' sake, if nothing else. Without parents, and left all-too aware of how quickly a life can be stolen, Éomer had decided on a trajectory that few other women would even entertain choosing.
If he were to pay attention, Steve would quickly come to realize that she is the only shield maiden in all of Edoras.
"You seem to have overcome your weakness well enough," she points out mildly, glancing at his biceps as they strain against the cloth enclosing them.
His expression becomes some mixture of nostalgia and sadness. There's a gentleness to him in spite of his size, void of the bravado that often marks warriors of great stature or renown. Steve, instead, is a humble man who's had to become accustomed to living in the limelight. He doesn't like to brag, and his own history is one he's happy not to have to recount. Ever since he became Captain America, he's never had to; everyone knew about Steve Rogers, whether from the history books or his exploits with the Avengers.
It's different here, though. Even though he still stands out, it's not because of his notoriety. "That's kind of a long story," he allows hesitantly. "But... I could tell you, if you want to hear it." With her assent, he begins with a gusty sigh, his voice low enough to keep his story mostly between the two of them.
"I was a sickly kid, like I said. Scrawny. Bad lungs, bad heart, bad feet, bad stomach. Everything. My mom was a nurse, so she took care of me, but it was hard on her. I needed a lot of looking after, especially because I got into a lot of fights. She and dad both died during the first World War, and after that--" He pauses for a moment, unsure of what to say. "Well, the second World War rolled around and I decided to enlist. People were fighting, dying, giving everything for the sake of freedom. They denied me four times." He lowers his head and gives a self-effacing laugh. "But then there was a scientist who saw me, and he thought I had potential. Drafted me for a program he was involved in called Project Rebirth. Nobody thought I'd make the cut, but he chose me as the first test subject. It would seem like magic to you, I guess, but I underwent a procedure that made me into what I am now. He said it would amplify what was already inside of me. Maybe that is a little bit magical, I don't know."
She cannot lie, there are many words Steven says which have no meaning for her. Still, just because she cannot understand all he says doesn't mean she cannot sympathize with him, and she pauses in her eating to listen to him speak, giving him her full attention. It is difficult to imagine him as a small, sick child, especially when she has only known him less than a day and he has been exactly as he is the whole time. Still, she has some experience with magic, enough to lend his tale a grain of believability, though it also alarms her somewhat.
"What will you do when the magic is broken?" she asks, frowning.
"It won't. Not this. It's a part of me now, forever." He tries to think of a way to explain to her how it works, but their understanding of the world is different on so many levels that it's hard to frame.
"From before we're born, there are instructions inside of us that determine how we grow and develop. We get those instructions from our parents; that's why families resemble each other. What was done to me, it changed those instructions fundamentally."
One eyebrow lifts and she hums skeptically, resisting the urge to shake her head at him, but only barely.
"Blood magic is a serious matter, Steven." What he must have sacrificed to be given this new body doesn't bear thinking about. She cannot imagine how dire her life must get before she would be tempted to strike such a bargain with someone who could change the entire course of her life so fundamentally. "It always has consequences."
"Blood magic?" Why is he surprised? Fine, it's magic. He won't be able to convince anyone otherwise, so there's no further point in disputing it. But his smile tightens a little bit at her mention of consequences. She doesn't know the half of what he's given to get where he is now.
"If there are consequences, then I've paid them," he says, his tone taking a dark edge before he finishes his mead. "But this is who I am now, for better or worse."
This time, as she watches him, her expression gentles and she reaches out to settle her hard hand on his wrist for a moment.
"My apologies." Secretly, she thinks it is a good thing that he has already paid the consequences of his actions, because surely it will prevent him from doing something so stupid as to make a blood pact with a witch again. A scientist, as he said. Still, she is not so callous as to be oblivious to the fact that it was difficult for him, and surely remembering the pain he has suffered is not something he wants to do. She can relate. "I did not intend to upset you."
To change the subject, she reaches out and snags a bread roll off the platter down the table, depositing it on Steven's plate before taking one for herself as well. "My riders tell me you are not very capable in the saddle." The words may be chastising, but her tone is playful. "Is that true?"
"Don't worry about it," he says. He knows how different their understanding of the world is, really, having met Stephen Strange, he knows that magic is real even in his own universe. The apology seems to settle him, and when she drops a roll on his plate, he picks it up with a wry grin.
"Oh, is that what they're saying?" he asks, using a knife to slice the roll open. "I'll have you know I thought I did pretty well for a guy who's never ridden a horse before," he remarks, filling the roll with bits of meat and cheese before taking a bite. A girl comes by to refill his ale, and he thanks her with a nod.
“Never?” She cannot fathom such a thing. To the Rohirrim, life without leaning to ride is simply not feasible. So much of their lives and their culture revolves around their horse herds. Éomer had learned to ride the same time she learned to walk, or so it seemed. “How did you travel, if you have never ridden before?” Her eyes narrow abruptly, playfully suspicious. “Tell me you have not spent your whole life riding in carriages like some sort of Gondorian dandy.”
Her own cup is likewise refilled, and she spares the serving girl enough attention to give her a little wink before she turns back to her companion. “Well. I suppose you will have to learn. Luckily for you, I am well used to teaching recalcintent youths how to care for their horses.”
"Not once in my life," he confirms with a grin. "But I've also never ridden in a carriage--not like the ones you're familiar with, anyway. There are vehicles like carriages, but they don't need to be pulled by horses because they can move on their own." Her incredulity is amusing, but he shakes his head. "Mostly I used to walk places. Sometimes I fly places. Just depends on how far I have to go."
Her offer to teach him to ride is one met with arched brows and a lopsided smile. "Lucky me," he says. "I suppose lessons begin at dawn?"
Though she tries not to look too stunned, Éomer finds herself mouthing the word “fly” incredulously, though she tells herself she will ask for more details another time. Right now, she just grins at him.
“Indeed they do.”
That is, assuming that she won’t be sent off on another patrol come dawn, but for now, she can promise to teach him with full intent on following through. He will not be smiling so much by the time they are through; Éomer is an exacting instructor and does not go easy on anyone no matter who they might be. It is why the riders under her command are so skilled. She will not tolerate anything less.
Dawn the next morning finds Steve astride Arroch once more, looking fresh as a daisy even after a long night of drinking. Éomer is thorough in putting her men through their paces, but Steve takes direction well and he learns quickly without voicing even the slightest complaint.
When they break for water, he hops down from the saddle and takes the shield off his back so he can have a proper stretch. "What's next?" he asks when she approaches, rolling his shoulders.
Steven's lesson began with the care and keeping of his horse. Éomer showed him how to bridle him, how to saddle him, how to check his hooves for debris, how to groom him, how to speak to him, and the basic commands every rider learns to communicate with their horse.
Only after he could manage those to her satisfaction, did she allow him to actually ride the great beast. Thankfully, for Steven's ego, he is a fast learner, impressing her though she did not voice it, and it feels like it doesn't take long at all before he is carefully cantering through the training course. Leaving him and Arroch to their own devices, Éomer turns her attention to the rest of her riders, putting them a much more intensive training regimen without any hint of mercy for their pounding heads. They should know better than to drink so heavily at all, especially in times like these.
As the éored trains together, Éomer watches Steven approach, that large shield of his finally sliding off his back as he twists to stretch the muscles in his back. She tries not to be too obvious about her staring, but she can't help herself. He is a fine specimen of a man, after all.
"I want to see how you fight without that hammer or that shield," she confesses. It has little to do with real training, and certainly none to do with his horse, but still. She's curious.
Briefly, Steve is reminded of Batroc's taunt on the Lemurian Star all those years ago. I thought you were more than just a shield. It feels like a lifetime has passed since then.
Since he's already put the shield aside, he unties Mjölnir and sets it in aside as well. Resting the latter on the former is a good way to keep anyone from doing too much damage to themselves, so he doesn't worry about them. "You want to spar?" he ask, arching his brows. "Okay. Fair warning: I punch hard." He hopes she can tell that this isn't a thing he says to disparage her, but an earnest warning he would give to any unsuspecting sparring partner. He doesn't want to hurt anyone here without the benefit of the modern medicine he's grown so accustomed to.
Dressed in trews and a tunic, Éomer feels far more comfortable today than she did last night, even if she has had to bind her breasts down once more so they do not disrupt her training. She certainly has a better range of motion than she did in the dress she wore to dinner, and without her heavy armor, she feels far more nimble and quick on her feet and less lumbering and massive. She has gotten incredibly used to the weight of the armor she has worn for over a decade now, but still, it is nice to be free of it for a while.
She just grins at him when Steve warns her that he hits hard, not doubting him for a moment. A man with muscles like that must hit hard.
"Nothing below the waist, if you don't mind," Steve counters, adding his own rule. He supposes that little else is off limits, so he drops into an easy stance to wait for her to make the opening moves, but she's canny or cautious enough to have the same plan. When a few seconds pass without either of them moving, Steve decides to be the one to take the plunge.
He bolts forward with almost alarming speed, dropping low to try and sweep her legs out from under her.
Even though he warned her about his punches, he never planned on using the full force of his strength against her. He rarely does, against unenhanced humans, not wanting to injure them unnecessarily if he can avoid it. He knows that a punch or kick from him can easily send someone flying, can break bones, even without shield or hammer.
They've drawn an audience even before the fighting really starts. Éomer will yell at her men later, for abandoning their own training to watch her and their new companion test each others' mettle; right now, she has other things to focus on, things like not getting the tar beaten out of her by Steven as he darts towards her faster than a man his size should be able to manage.
In fact, everything about the way Steven fights is slightly too-fast to be believable, his reflexes quick enough that she has had to dodge and weave far more than she intended, his hits coming just a little faster than she can accommodate. Éomer has always been large and strong, and is used to fighting against men her own size, often with longer arms and stronger muscles. It means she has developed a certain fighting style that doesn't seem to fit well against Steven's. For all that he's bigger than she is, he fights almost like she's seen some of the Gondorian rangers fight: acting as if he were slim and small and using speed and agility as his primary weapon instead of brute force.
(He has that in spades, of course, as her stinging cheek can attest. She's probably going to get a black eye from that in the morning, and she only hopes that the answering fist she landed in his solar plexus has returned the favor.)
Apart from a few solid hits, most of the fight is spent avoiding each other or grappling. At one point, he manages to get her feet out from beneath her and flips her easily over his shoulder, forcing her to roll in a somewhat undignified manner to get back up to her feet to avoid being pinned. Her face hurts, her hands are scraped to hell and back, and she's a little out of breath, but she's grinning at him all the same, enjoying herself more than she had expected to.
The men hoot and cheer whenever Éomer lands a solid blow on Steve's person, and while they do hurt, it's never enough to wind him completely. (The solar plexus hit does nearly drops him for a second, though.) Maybe he is showing off a little, his fighting style a little more acrobatic now than usual, but he's not above giving someone a hard time for fun every now and then, especially when it's obvious she's enjoying their little brawl.
He hops back a yard or two, bouncing on the balls of his feet and shaking out his shoulders while she rolls back up to her feet. Sure, he could have pinned her, but then the fight would be over, and where's the fun in that?
"I could do this all day, you know," he calls out to her, "so whenever you start to get tired, all you have to do is say so." He grins back at her, his tone more than a little bit taunting. He expects she knows shit-talk when she hears it, considering the way her men react with laughs and cheers. Most of their shouts of encouragement are in their native language, but some of them speak enough Westron to call for her to wipe the floor with him, or for him to stop dancing around and fight properly.
Might as well give the people what they want, right?
Darting in, he throws a quick sequence of punches and jabs, coming at her with classic judo maneuvers that they've probably never seen before in Rohan.
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It isn’t much of a hardship to turn her attention to Steven when he touches his chest. She doesn’t know what an American flag looks like, but she does know what an eagle looks like, and what a sword looks like, and she spends a few enjoyable moments imagining it carved into the planes of his chest. Based on how well his armor had fit him when they met, and how well he fills out his borrowed tunic, she is sure the end result would be a pleasing picture indeed.
She shakes her head. “No, there has to be meaning behind the tattoo, otherwise it cannot be given to you. In times gone by, they were how we distinguished one tribe from another. Now, they are mostly tradition, but some rules have been clung to even after all this time.” She nods up to the head of the hall, where Théodred sits beside her uncle. “My cousin and my uncle bear the marks of royalty over their hearts. The rest of us only decorate our arms.”
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Taking a last bite of food from his plate, he reaches for another serving. He doesn’t want to make a show of eating too much, but he knows he’ll regret it later if he doesn’t fill up now. Steve is used to being noticed, being a public figure, but here he’s an oddity—an anachronism. It's like he’s just woken up from the ice again, adjusting to an entirely new set of circumstances and social norms. At least he has experience making that kind of transition.
Nodding at Éomer, he asks, “I guess you always wanted to be a warrior? How old were you when you became a shield maiden?”
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She takes a drink of her tankard, shifting to brush her hair off her shoulders so that it won't get in her way as she sets to eating the food placed in front of her.
"Fourteen," she replies. "I did not see real fighting until two years after that, however."
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"I was twenty when I joined the military. They almost didn't let me. I was... kind of sickly, as a kid." To put it mildly. "But I wanted to join so badly. We were at war, then. World War Two, they call it. The fighting was terrible. We had weapons you couldn't even imagine. I was out of commission for a while, but we won all the same." He shakes his head, thinking back to that time. The entire trajectory of his life changed in an instant time and time again.
"A lot's happened since then, though," he adds, taking another drink.
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And to think, this entire life of hers might have been forestalled had her mother not starved herself after her father's passing, had their love been just a little bit weaker so that she could convince herself to live for her daughters' sake, if nothing else. Without parents, and left all-too aware of how quickly a life can be stolen, Éomer had decided on a trajectory that few other women would even entertain choosing.
If he were to pay attention, Steve would quickly come to realize that she is the only shield maiden in all of Edoras.
"You seem to have overcome your weakness well enough," she points out mildly, glancing at his biceps as they strain against the cloth enclosing them.
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It's different here, though. Even though he still stands out, it's not because of his notoriety. "That's kind of a long story," he allows hesitantly. "But... I could tell you, if you want to hear it." With her assent, he begins with a gusty sigh, his voice low enough to keep his story mostly between the two of them.
"I was a sickly kid, like I said. Scrawny. Bad lungs, bad heart, bad feet, bad stomach. Everything. My mom was a nurse, so she took care of me, but it was hard on her. I needed a lot of looking after, especially because I got into a lot of fights. She and dad both died during the first World War, and after that--" He pauses for a moment, unsure of what to say. "Well, the second World War rolled around and I decided to enlist. People were fighting, dying, giving everything for the sake of freedom. They denied me four times." He lowers his head and gives a self-effacing laugh. "But then there was a scientist who saw me, and he thought I had potential. Drafted me for a program he was involved in called Project Rebirth. Nobody thought I'd make the cut, but he chose me as the first test subject. It would seem like magic to you, I guess, but I underwent a procedure that made me into what I am now. He said it would amplify what was already inside of me. Maybe that is a little bit magical, I don't know."
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"What will you do when the magic is broken?" she asks, frowning.
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"From before we're born, there are instructions inside of us that determine how we grow and develop. We get those instructions from our parents; that's why families resemble each other. What was done to me, it changed those instructions fundamentally."
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"Blood magic is a serious matter, Steven." What he must have sacrificed to be given this new body doesn't bear thinking about. She cannot imagine how dire her life must get before she would be tempted to strike such a bargain with someone who could change the entire course of her life so fundamentally. "It always has consequences."
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"If there are consequences, then I've paid them," he says, his tone taking a dark edge before he finishes his mead. "But this is who I am now, for better or worse."
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"My apologies." Secretly, she thinks it is a good thing that he has already paid the consequences of his actions, because surely it will prevent him from doing something so stupid as to make a blood pact with a witch again. A scientist, as he said. Still, she is not so callous as to be oblivious to the fact that it was difficult for him, and surely remembering the pain he has suffered is not something he wants to do. She can relate. "I did not intend to upset you."
To change the subject, she reaches out and snags a bread roll off the platter down the table, depositing it on Steven's plate before taking one for herself as well. "My riders tell me you are not very capable in the saddle." The words may be chastising, but her tone is playful. "Is that true?"
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"Oh, is that what they're saying?" he asks, using a knife to slice the roll open. "I'll have you know I thought I did pretty well for a guy who's never ridden a horse before," he remarks, filling the roll with bits of meat and cheese before taking a bite. A girl comes by to refill his ale, and he thanks her with a nod.
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“Never?” She cannot fathom such a thing. To the Rohirrim, life without leaning to ride is simply not feasible. So much of their lives and their culture revolves around their horse herds. Éomer had learned to ride the same time she learned to walk, or so it seemed. “How did you travel, if you have never ridden before?” Her eyes narrow abruptly, playfully suspicious. “Tell me you have not spent your whole life riding in carriages like some sort of Gondorian dandy.”
Her own cup is likewise refilled, and she spares the serving girl enough attention to give her a little wink before she turns back to her companion. “Well. I suppose you will have to learn. Luckily for you, I am well used to teaching recalcintent youths how to care for their horses.”
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Her offer to teach him to ride is one met with arched brows and a lopsided smile. "Lucky me," he says. "I suppose lessons begin at dawn?"
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“Indeed they do.”
That is, assuming that she won’t be sent off on another patrol come dawn, but for now, she can promise to teach him with full intent on following through. He will not be smiling so much by the time they are through; Éomer is an exacting instructor and does not go easy on anyone no matter who they might be. It is why the riders under her command are so skilled. She will not tolerate anything less.
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When they break for water, he hops down from the saddle and takes the shield off his back so he can have a proper stretch. "What's next?" he asks when she approaches, rolling his shoulders.
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Only after he could manage those to her satisfaction, did she allow him to actually ride the great beast. Thankfully, for Steven's ego, he is a fast learner, impressing her though she did not voice it, and it feels like it doesn't take long at all before he is carefully cantering through the training course. Leaving him and Arroch to their own devices, Éomer turns her attention to the rest of her riders, putting them a much more intensive training regimen without any hint of mercy for their pounding heads. They should know better than to drink so heavily at all, especially in times like these.
As the éored trains together, Éomer watches Steven approach, that large shield of his finally sliding off his back as he twists to stretch the muscles in his back. She tries not to be too obvious about her staring, but she can't help herself. He is a fine specimen of a man, after all.
"I want to see how you fight without that hammer or that shield," she confesses. It has little to do with real training, and certainly none to do with his horse, but still. She's curious.
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Since he's already put the shield aside, he unties Mjölnir and sets it in aside as well. Resting the latter on the former is a good way to keep anyone from doing too much damage to themselves, so he doesn't worry about them. "You want to spar?" he ask, arching his brows. "Okay. Fair warning: I punch hard." He hopes she can tell that this isn't a thing he says to disparage her, but an earnest warning he would give to any unsuspecting sparring partner. He doesn't want to hurt anyone here without the benefit of the modern medicine he's grown so accustomed to.
"Got any rules, before we start?"
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She just grins at him when Steve warns her that he hits hard, not doubting him for a moment. A man with muscles like that must hit hard.
"Don't pull my hair," she warns.
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He bolts forward with almost alarming speed, dropping low to try and sweep her legs out from under her.
Even though he warned her about his punches, he never planned on using the full force of his strength against her. He rarely does, against unenhanced humans, not wanting to injure them unnecessarily if he can avoid it. He knows that a punch or kick from him can easily send someone flying, can break bones, even without shield or hammer.
no subject
In fact, everything about the way Steven fights is slightly too-fast to be believable, his reflexes quick enough that she has had to dodge and weave far more than she intended, his hits coming just a little faster than she can accommodate. Éomer has always been large and strong, and is used to fighting against men her own size, often with longer arms and stronger muscles. It means she has developed a certain fighting style that doesn't seem to fit well against Steven's. For all that he's bigger than she is, he fights almost like she's seen some of the Gondorian rangers fight: acting as if he were slim and small and using speed and agility as his primary weapon instead of brute force.
(He has that in spades, of course, as her stinging cheek can attest. She's probably going to get a black eye from that in the morning, and she only hopes that the answering fist she landed in his solar plexus has returned the favor.)
Apart from a few solid hits, most of the fight is spent avoiding each other or grappling. At one point, he manages to get her feet out from beneath her and flips her easily over his shoulder, forcing her to roll in a somewhat undignified manner to get back up to her feet to avoid being pinned. Her face hurts, her hands are scraped to hell and back, and she's a little out of breath, but she's grinning at him all the same, enjoying herself more than she had expected to.
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He hops back a yard or two, bouncing on the balls of his feet and shaking out his shoulders while she rolls back up to her feet. Sure, he could have pinned her, but then the fight would be over, and where's the fun in that?
"I could do this all day, you know," he calls out to her, "so whenever you start to get tired, all you have to do is say so." He grins back at her, his tone more than a little bit taunting. He expects she knows shit-talk when she hears it, considering the way her men react with laughs and cheers. Most of their shouts of encouragement are in their native language, but some of them speak enough Westron to call for her to wipe the floor with him, or for him to stop dancing around and fight properly.
Might as well give the people what they want, right?
Darting in, he throws a quick sequence of punches and jabs, coming at her with classic judo maneuvers that they've probably never seen before in Rohan.