Feeling the pressure of his master's words and hand, Tathren lowered his blade but did not replace it in its scabbard. He would wait for the men to sheathe their own weapons first. He tapped the blade's tip gently against his boot as an outlet for his irritation. In the torchlight his pale face was no longer fierce, merely a little sulky.
His action had been impetuous but it had been fueled by a noble instinct, or so he preferred to think. Yet Lachrandir seemed to think he had been merely spoiling for a fight, like an argumentative drunkard in an alehouse. Tathren considered if this was the case. Losing his temper and pulling a knife had hardly been the most dignified course of action but should he have done nothing when his Lord had received a show of steel in response to his simple enquiry? On such thoughts was his mind engaged as he waited for the Borrim's response.
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