When the Rohirric host thundered into the Pellenor through the gaps in the Rammas Echor made by goblin sappers Eomer was frothing at the mouth. Ever since the binge at the Big 'n' Bouncy Inn a fortnight past he had been subject to ribbing by his fellows. And even his uncle – after recovering his wits – had given him a quizzical look, then – with a twinkle in his eye – made a knowledgeable "hum-hum" sound accompanied with a grin on his face with mixed gondorian-rohirric features.
The constant eyebrow wagging, the smirks, the hurr-hurr-nudge-nudge-wink-wink directed at him had slowly eroded his self control, similarly to a glacier ponderously scouring a v-shaped valley into a u-shaped formation, rock layer by rock layer, leaving behind waterfalls gushing from hanging valleys and cascading over border moraines. He was ready to gush some whup-ass himself, on practically the first target which presented itself.
Seeing his uncle and sister dead pushed him over the edge as he was on the verge of madness anyway. It was only the tiredness of swinging his sword arm for hours which calmed him down. Giving Eothain a black eye for one smirk too far also helped. It was good to be a king. King or not, regardless of how drunk he was, he will never, ever let the girls at the brothel dye his eyebrows again!