Dahala’s armor felt warm on her shoulders as she saddled her war
stallion. She hated horses and this spirited light war horse was
no exception. They tended to be headstrong and they smelled bad,
though, admittedly, their fur could be soft. The feel of the
saddle reminded her of the smooth leather against her own skin
under her armor. She loved leather and when the horse died,
either in combat or if she slit the foul thing’s throat, she’d
make herself a new jerkin out of it’s hide.
She swung up into the saddle, the girth tight around the horse’s
barrel, the cinch squeezing it snugly. Though she was still a
virgin, she was not quite the valiant knight most thought her to
be – mainly because she, and her five sisters, enjoyed the teas-
ing she could give the men – and the sound thrashing if they
overstepped their bounds. Still she was kind by nature. She was
a tall woman, broad of shoulder, narrow of waist, and quite
lithe. Her musculature did not detract, rather, it enhanced her
shapely figure. The long flowing blonde hair left hidden, along
with the firm curves, inside the full plate armor she wore.
