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Eodwine and Thornden were discussing what should be done for warmth between the time the wall hearth was unbuilt and the new mead hall hearth was put in place, when Gárwine approached them, a dark haired youth in tow. A Dunlending! Eodwine's hackles rose.
"My lord," said Gárwine," he wishes to speak with you." Gárwine stepped aside so that both eorl and steward could get a good look at the newcomer. He was too young to have been amongst those who had ravaged his family during the War, so he could not hold that against him. Eodwine tried to unclench his jaw. What was a Dunlending doing here? Clearly the worse for wear with one eye closed for good, what would make a Dunlending youth leave his homeland, degraded as it was, and come to the heart of the sworn foes of his folk?
The youth shifted his stance, seeming discomfited by the lengthening silence with which Eodwine regarded him. Thornden coughed into his hand. Eodwine cleared his throat.
"What do you want?" He was aware of the tension in his own voice; no, the veiled wrath, would be a better way to describe it. Did the youth wince at his question and the tone with which it was asked, or had he just blinked? The youth opened his mouth when a noise from the nearest corridor interrupted him.
"Good morning everyone!" It was a somewhat high pitched voice for a Rohirrim, and no wonder, for it was Master Falco Boffin, the Holbytlan, up late and yawning cavernously. "Hail, Lord Eodwine, my friend. Goodness, but it's hard getting used to calling you that, you old lout! Where's breakfast! Or at least second breakfast! And how's about finishing that ol' yarn about Gob and Twid-" Falco stopped and seemed to sense for the first time that things were not as they usually were in the common room. "What have we here? Who's this?"
"Good morn to you, Master Falco," Eodwine answered, his jaw feeling quite unnatrually tight around the name that he usually said in a much friendlier fashion. "We have here a Dunlending youth. Know you what that portends?"
"Nay, but you'll tell me, I'm sure!" Falco approached and bowed deeply to the youth, whose eyes widened in startlement at the hobbit's courteous but odd behavior. "Welcome to the Eorling Mead Hall! I am Master Falco Boffin, erstwhile shirriff of the Shire in the north, now guest of Lord Eodwine of the Gap, Eorl of Middle Emnet, as he now styles himself, quite fittingly as the King has so named him! Please pardon my late rising this morning, for I had grave business to apply myself to last night."
"Aye," Gárwine smirked, "grave business with Eodwine's mead cellar."
"One must find what rewards one can when given the the task of counting and classing the wares of the hall! And how are you called, sir?"
The youth of Dunlending's one good eye opened wide in surprise to be addressed so, and with such courtesy, in the heart of the enemy of his folk.
"Answer the question, young man," Eodwine said, finding himself just a little relaxed by the easy confidence of his friend Falco. He even managed a grim and rueful half smile. "And do not forget to tell us your purpose for coming here."
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