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Eomer sulked. He was in no mood to be particularly nice to anyone. Sure, he would be polite to them if any of them felt the need to talk to him, but there's a huge difference between being polite and being nice.
It appeared that this Anakron Wizard, or whatever the Angband he was, had turned some people into Werewolves, or some other convoluted plot. Eomer was fairly certain that he hadn't been affected by the magic, or whatever. How then could he find the Wolves, and be of assistance to the group? He spluttered in grim laughter as he thought this: Why on Middle-earth would he want to help others? What had they ever done for him other than make his life even more uncomfortable and unpredictable than it had been before? Nothing. He sat still and pouted.
He looked again at that blond chap, that 'Mormegil'. There was something about him; Eomer had a strange feeling about him, almost as if he had crossed swords with him before, in a dream perhaps? He was exceedingly wary of him. Look at him, bullying that 'SPM' fellow, trying to take control of the group. Very suspicious, Eomer thought. And there's always that 'Nilp' weirdo. Check him out, raw meat and blood dribbling down his chin; a wild look in his eyes. Kill him and improve the civility of this village at least.
And then he looked again at the young ladies in the group, specifically Alli, but he forgot not the glint in Fea's eye. If I were a Werewolf, Eomer thought, what would I do? Put on a cloak of fairness, of course. Try my utmost to 'feel fair' despite my evil interior. Well, those two are certainly actively employed in making themselves look fair....or maybe just hot. I suppose there is a difference—but the general intent could be equated.
I do wonder. Was that argument they had just for show? Are they trying too hard to look good? Are they....Werewolves?
Eomer knew this for certain. He was going to hide and try to discourage votes that way. He resumed sulking.
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