Plagued Grounds – Tevian 18 BC – The Beginning
The steed came to an abrupt halt; one hand extended upwards to lift the metal face-guard of the basinet up and over her head, letting it rest atop the steel suspension components that cling to either side of the helm. Golden hues scanned the grounds. She inhaled silently; the previous winds traced these lands like a vast monsoon across the calmest of oceans. The reigns were placed down softly against the bridle, and she kicked herself off of the muscular grey beast – metal sollerets clanked against the ground before she examined the place once more. Several slow, obedient, precise steps carried her away from the men standing at a patient pause behind her.
"My Queen," A man dressed in a valorous blackened silk robe lined with a tailor's right-hand perfectionism in silver threading and beads strode aside her in a calm, orderly fashion. Crimson hair was pulled behind his head, tied loosely in a pony-tail, the length resting somewhere along the spine of his back. "This land is plagued, we mustn't stay long." He assured her, not that she didn't already know this, but it was his job as her right hand to inform her of such obvious and diligent things. She turned her head over her shoulder, giving him a slightly unnoticeable nod of agreement. He tugged back on the reigns, turning his own horse around and back towards the group. His hand rose to assure them that their time here would be limited.
The woman was dressed in a collection of black stainless steel. Skull pauldrons covered her shoulders; a breastplate concealed the majority of her bust, revealing the slightest of her ribcage, the elegant curves leading to her abdomen, and the cutoff of her hip bones. Waist and legs were guarded by a rather tight collection of habergeon and cuisses. The vaguely familiar wind swept across the land in a spiritual's silhouetted attempt to fend off the intruders. Removing the helm, she knelt to the ground; ivory shaded hair crossed her face with the breeze, falling to her shoulders and the small of her back. One gauntlet pressed five digits into the ground as she cupped a small portion of sand – pulling it to her face, lips parted and determined eyes examined the blood stained sand before clenching it in a fist.
He was right – it was too late, and this land was genocidal.