And such heavily armoured men, they all beat their feet together, as a single unit, making a grand noise, lent energy by the extra weight they were carrying. Beam noted as he narrowed his eyes that very few of them wore swords – most had daggers at their waists instead, with the spear being their primary weapon.
That was, until, he caught sight of a man riding atop a white horse. There was a man that did indeed wield a sword, as the scabbard hung from his waist and tapped against the flank of his mount as he rode.
Even from a distance, the man's temperament was clearly distinguishable. He rode with the laid back swagger of a competent man – even his horse copied him. A swaggered confident stroll was what the two of them engaged in.
As he came closer, Beam could make out his face. A stern face, middle aged, with a hairline that was starting to recede. He held his reins with one hand as his blue cloak billowed behind him. He too wore the same chain mail of his men.
