The "plants" prompt, which technically should come next if one was to do these in order, was kicking my rear. So I cheated and wrote "threats" instead.

I'm the writer, after all, these stories are supposed to do what I tell them!

Hmmph.

400 words, a couple of them salty. Soldiers will be soldiers, I suppose...

Threats

We'll laugh about it later, and prod you in the ribs and say, You lucky sod, the ladies on the field that day. How many shed their sleeves to pin upon your spear, so reassured were they to see your pretty face had not been battered bloody?

But the truth, cousin, the truth… sit five old men around a fire and four will have seen a Rider dragged to death in such a manner. The bile sits uneasy in my belly when I think of it—had Erkenbrand and his fleetfooted Hyrnet not been there to run you down….

Damn you, Éomer, and your flat-heeled farmer's boots. I would have you sacrifice a whit of nimbleness at swordplay on the ground to know you will not run your foot right through the stirrup so again.

Be still, jolthead, you're full of thorns from collar to knees. Pull them out yourself if it so pleases you, though I doubt your stiff neck bends that far. Helm's beard, boy, you look as if you've been rubbed the wrong way on a rasp.

Though I deem you'll have a pretty tale to tell on your wedding night.

By the way she simpered after you, that little Wilda would have you tell it tomorrow.

Have I not told you to send that grey nag to the draymen? Let him drag a plow to death, if all he wants to do is shy and run. I'll have no such creature in an éored of mine. You only deign to keep him because Éowyn is besotted with the way he carries that blocky head.

Hush. You will have to deny her someday. It is not Éowyn who must make him hold a steady line and trust him through the spear-thrust.

Be still, I said. You had better hope you never take an arrow—these thistlepricks are not even in the meat. Someday you'll collect a real wound, and Oxa will have to sit on your head to keep you still while it is tended.

Easy now, nearly done.

Look at me, cousin. You will find another, or I will have your sword. Stop your grinning, Éomer, I am deadly serious. Find a steed of sound mind, or you and your flat boots will spend the autumn in Aldburg threshing barley with the women.

I'll not hunt Hillmen any more fearful for you than I already am.

Thank you so much for reading!