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Thornden stood beside Eodwine, his calm eyes studying the stranger from Dunlend. As they had entered the room and first seen the black haired man, Thornden had felt immediately Eodwine tense and become rigid. His very words were cut short and seemed barely able to come out. Thornden glanced at him as he practically demanded what the young man wanted.
The two sudden and unexpected interruptions, one from a hobbit and then the second almost immediately from Saeryn, failed to put off the ill will entirely, and still there remained the strained, tense waiting.
But as the young man knelt, Thornden softened inwardly somewhat at once. He had no personal dislike towards the Dunlendings. Every man had his rights and should get some sort of chance, and this youth didn’t appear to want trouble.
“Lord . . . I am seeking to a position here. They tell me you have soldiers, ostlers, joiners, and such. I can fight . . . or work hard?”
Thornden remained silent. It was not his place to speak. To give false hope, or say anything. The young man was awkward in the speech of the Rohirrim, and yet he still tried. Thornden slowly looked over him, studying his face and his apparel. He was not a handsome figure, nor did he posses a completely kind look, but his expression was not sour, or bitter, nor was it particularly disagreeable, and certainly not disrespectful towards Eodwine. This at least could be marked to his favor.
And still another part of his mind measured up what could not be seen. He was, after all, a Dunlending. Cunning and dishonest folk as often as not, he had heard. The look and expression that Thornden saw could easily be merely a disguise, hiding who knows what. It was impossible to tell what lay behind that single eye.
‘I will not judge him either honest or dishonest, true or false,’ Thornden said to himself, still keeping his steady gaze on him. ‘Time will tell, if Eodwine gives him time.’
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