[@Sigurd]

"Looks like you may, mister," she said. "Truth be told, it's official."

Eōrwīga grinned another rather wolfish grin, sensing that there was a bit more to this than met the eye, and immediately found himself looking upon the official seal of his lord Eorl the Young. It was a distinctive crest, one that could only have been made by the wax stamp of the monarch himself, and any sign of joviality dropped right away from his face upon laying his eyes on it.

“Well now...” he mused, one hand cautiously reaching out to pluck the parchment from those slender fingers, “you were right to think so.”

As he looked upon the finely constructed lettering of his King, his eyebrows rose higher and higher until nearly disappearing into his hairline. Once finished he sat there for a moment, his own blue eyes looking back and forth between Éolan and the letter that he returned to her just as quickly.

[i]Surely this cannot be for one such as she?[/i] He thought to himself [i]what is my liege playing at?[/i]

“It would appear that you are in the wrong place, my young friend.” His next smile was warm and pleasant, his face losing a few years of hard earned wrinkles and grooves for but a moment, “what if I were to tell you that you should be in the big stone hall up on the hill? Does that sound like a fair proposition to you?”


[hr]


[@Vor][@DrunkasaurusRex][@BCTheEntity]


Everything within the Hall of Eorl happened quite swiftly – threats from a steadied Easterling prisoner, the arrival of two more unknown entities led by a seemingly gruff Leofric, and now it appeared that the plainer of the pair, the one [b]not[/b] in polished and gleaming mail, had gone into some form of shock.

After the introductions and the hissed threats had passed, the King sat for a moment upon his simple throne and gazed at the scene before him. An Easterling, a Swan Knight and a most ordinary man walk into a hall...there was surely a jest in there somewhere, but now was not the time to be thinking of such ribald things. No, now was the time to speak and to take action, now was the time to be a king.

“Baranor of Dol Amroth, rise...please,” he gestured gently with one hand for the Knight to rise, stepping from the dais on which his throne was placed and taking the few steps required to stand face-to-face with his Gondorian cousin. “You are most welcome here,” one big hand was placed upon Baranor's shoulder and a firm squeeze given, “be patient with me cousin, all will be explained soon.”

Next he moved past the agitated Serpent, ignoring him deliberately or not but neither speaking nor looking in his direction, passing somewhat provokingly close to the armoured killer to stand before Cole.

“Ah,” came the first gasp from the King's lips, “so here is our Dúnadan ally, come to me all the way from the freezing north at my behest?” One hand rose to stop Leofric from speaking then, those glacial blue eyes boring into the smaller Bree-lander with barely restrained interest, the ghost of a smile passing over the lips of the sovereign.

Leaning in close, so that only Cole could hear, the Horselord spoke in clear and precise Westron – as he had been taught by the finest tutors, yet not without a residue of his native accent lingering still – into the man’s ear, “I know who you are, and far from being my prisoner you should be commended. For it takes more than simple stupidity to ride into my keep, and more than brute courage to come before me. Be at ease.”

Only now did he turn to the Golden Serpent, beckoning his guards to move away – which they did with great reluctance, ever keeping their crossbows trained on the foreigner in their midst – and drawing the sword that had been concealed at his hip by the cloak he wore. It was a fine sword, perhaps the finest that a Rohirric smith had ever made, with a horse-head pommel of gold and a fine wave-like pattern running down the blade, a blade which he now turned about and placed over one forearm, offering it to the Easterling.

Looking momentarily back toward his throne he spoke a series of words in his own tongue, words which sounded coarse and halting to others, but in which a rhythm and even joy could eventually be found in listening to, before another more melodic voice spoke unseen from within the thrones surrounding shadows.

This voice spoke in perfect Balchoth, and was assuredly not human.

“[i]The King wishes for you to take his sword and kill him,[/i]” it said with a hint of what could have been boredom, “[i]he says that if you truly [b]are[/b] one of your people then you will not do it; for like the Rohirrim you abide by a sense of honour, honour which should prevent you from striking down an unarmed man in his own hall.[/i]” The voice paused for a moment, as if gathering its thoughts, before going on, “[i]he also says that you will kill him now, or you will not take the blade and shall listen to what is to be said and why you are here...it is your choice.[/i]”

Eorl locked his own eyes onto the deep and dark ones of the Serpent, nudging the hilt of the sword toward him with a sharp grunt. If Saptheth struck him down then he would surely be killed in turn, but if he did not, well, who knew what might happen?