Cheelm
Member
Teressa had her stallion take a step towards the Marshall and the three riders. Their horses eyed hers suspiciously. She rested her hand on her sword hilt and declared: “I have some steel with me and I am willing to offer you some aid in getting your men armed.” She started to grow weary in the huge crowd of people, dressed this scantily. It was definitely not proper, even in these circumstances. Luckily for her, most people seemed to be too frightened to notice, but she still wanted to get away from the intersection as fast as possible. “So where is the armoury?” she asked with a firm voice that she tried to put a determinated tone into. The old guard captain, that had doubled as her swordsmanship master had always told her that emanating a natural authority was crucial for a leader, be it in politics or in war. Nothing undermined authority like a fearful voice or a desperate sob. The Marshall clearly was a seasoned leader, and she tried to take him as an example. She kept her expression neutral, and her eyes levelled, not betraying a single emotion. This also meant she couldn’t show any embarrassment over her clothing. So she just proudly sat on her stallion, casting a grim, assessing glance over the people around her, while she desperately hoped the fabric covering her chest was not thin enough to see through.