For the last twenty years there had been but three constants in Daria's life. The Company, her late father and practice. The first two were either no longer viable for solace, or lost to her counsel, which left practice. She trained alone and often, a means to escape the pressures of command when they left a bitter taste in her mouth. And so that was where she found herself, striking through imaginary enemies from the Guard of the Lady, blocking invisible strikes from the Boar's Tusk and practicing her footwork in what might have looked like a drunk man's line-dance, shuffling back forth, stepping side to side and rotating on the spot. She was in her own little world, where her foes were very real and the Lancers around her in the packed down drill square they had fashioned were merely projections on her consciousness. One such foe came at her with a backhanded slash, which she deflected from the Trailing Guard and then followed with a slash to the face and a thrust to the throat. Pure efficiency, no more, no less.<br/><br/>She kept a steady pace, which to an average swordsman must have seemed quite fast indeed, but to her it was simply how she trained. Of course that focus nearly resulted in the Lindenian messenger losing his throat, which he might have done anyway had she not possessed the wrist strength to stop the blade mid swing. The man's face was quite pale as he realised how close he had just come to death, but he plowed on with his message all the same to his credit, being glared at all the while.<br/><br/>"Ma'am, Tutar have been sighted approaching the camp. They are unarmed. The Prince has called the army to arms." Daria nodded graciously and sent the man on his way with a wave of her hand. This didn't make any sense. Everything she had heard of the Tutar indicated viciousness and a refusal to admit defeat. They would never parley... right? Perhaps it was time to stop thinking of them as dumb beasts and more as clever enemies. Either way, it had to be a trap. They would have to prepare.<span style="font-style: italic">Lady save us, we're not ready. Not so soon.</span><br/><br/>"Colour Sergeant Harrow! Company to arms!" Harrow was a veteran, forty years under the banner. He was unflappable as he turned and called his orders, rousing the Guard from it's stupor, but the fear she could see on all their faces must be mirrored in the man's heart. It had certainly found a home in her own.<br/><br/>In the command tent she found her captains girding themselves for war. Tall, thick Brodyn, stout Montin, gangly Jurez and bright eyed Arela, who was stuffing her trousers with gauze. At her questioning look the Lance-Captain shrugged.<br/><br/>"Nothing to be done First. Mother Nature waits on no woman." Of course Montin snickered, which earned him a dirty look from both women. He turned back to his own tasks, still chuckling to himself. Then Jurez spoke up.<br/><br/>"Never fear, sweet Arela. I pity any Tutar you face in battle today. They shall be the first beings to see the realm of the Gods without dying first, eh?" That was cause for laughter, however crude. Daria could only continue laughing as she prepared. What a bunch of scoundrels they all were.<br/><br/><div><hr style="height:2px; width:100%; border:0; color: white;background:white;"/></div><br/>The Guard was still forming it's ranks, two Lances mounted with three on foot. There hadn't been enough time to prepare all the horses, and so near two thirds of the Lancers would be on foot for this fight. It did not sit well with Daria at all that her troops were so ill prepared, but it was all they had.<br/><br/>Leaving the Guard in the temporary command of Lance-Captain Brodyn, she rode forward with Barth, armoured from head to toe in steel and courage, armed only with her determination. Well, that and the shortsword she had hidden under Stepper's saddle blanket. No sense in going into what would likely end up a fight with only her fists.