[ She isn't fond of the cold. Though she has to admit, this is definitely better that it has elected to be frozen. Too long has she lived in the miserable English weather with it's rain that could never quite make its mind up other than to pour and pour. Not like the monsoons, not hot and clean, just sodden and grey tainted. No, England, or at least Whitechapel, some days was just like wading through mud for how much the ground never seemed to dry up.

The ground at least was solid underfoot here. Something she could respect - if rustic, perhaps, even to her. Then again, she wasn't as current to something of the things she'd seen. It makes her be wary. Rather, she's aware that the blackwater will no longer heal her, for all she must keep drinking it. So, instead, she wraps herself up as warmly as she can to stave off a cold. Seems inevitable, though her teeth clench tightly in a refusal to let them chatter as she draws the thick hood up her head, settling it over her hair and gold hair piece. Walking along the roads until she falls into step with someone else and nods to them once in greeting. ]

Are you heading to the stables as well?

[ It's hardly a consideration that she fights - not even because she so much cares for these people. Insists to herself, that they are not her people. She has her own wars to be fighting. Her own Empire to be throwing down.

But they are people in need of protection, and it seems, she cannot help herself.

Though she's reckless, of course, she is. She'd like to make an excuse that it is because these days, the blackwater does not heal her where it used to it. But it hadn't mattered before she had it, either, on the battlefields of Kalpi and Gwalior, and it doesn't now. The fact is, she was raised to battles such as this. Raised to the sword in her hand and she is eager to be in the fight. Not a leader this time, just one more soldier in the line that pulls sword that has been provided to her, horse comfortable under her, until it's over.

Which, she's usually worse for wear at the end of it. Sometimes, like this time, it's worse: she's separated, upon her horse, and bleeding from a wound to the leg, that she's desperately holding closed with her free hand. The sword is gripped tightly in the other, blood slick on the blade, breathing hard with the effort of keeping herself upright as the animal is nervous underneath her for the smell of blood that keeps coming fresh.

Means she's not good company when she finds herself with it. Snatching up the reigns in her sword hand, pulling the animal back and it protests to the sudden demand. ] Keep your distance. [ Barked like she has a right to be issuing orders. The gold of her jewellery still proudly worn from a time long gone glimmers as she turns her head to keep her eye on her present... acquaintance.

Maybe it has nothing to do with the fact that she's a queen, she figures there's authority enough in the blood that's on the blade. Fresh and red and as it's held, dripping over her knuckles onto the snow below, mixing into tainted slosh as the horse's hooves turn up the ground under it. ]

[ Her injury leaves her laid up for the first days as the celebration goes on. Leg propped up and wrapped up, but she doesn't let it stop her interest in the festivities. Though it's cautious, she has never been too interested in these sorts of gatherings, burned by them perhaps and what they had cost her in a war not so dissimilar to this. But it is important to put in a showing, she knows.

So she's set up somewhere comfortable, - her back leaning against something solid and convinent, a drink very slowly nursed in her hand - moderation in all things, and she isn't fond of the idea of being drunk if and when battle broke out if she could not count on the blackwater to heal her and clear her mind. No, no never again. Still, it wasn't her place to make demands so she settles herself to be one of the rabble so to speak.

Oh, how laughable. But her rank means nothing here, and there's something to being just another rank in file. No wonder the Knights stayed together the way they did. She enjoys it now, laughing along with the rest at the entertainments and amusements in the way of drunken men and women tossing themselves about as the drink commanded them too. Feels the warmth in her mouth and her limbs that mercifully dulls the steady throb in her leg. Her laughter high and easy in bursts.

Every so often, gingerly when she thinks someone's free, asking for help isn't exactly her way - but damn it all if her leg didn't pang when she got up and down in particular. ] I don't suppose I could enlist you momentarily?

a ). [ She does her best to mind her own business in the tent, - living in a brothel for too many years has definitely made her used to shared spaces after living in palaces before that. This definitely isn't her fortress, and there's not much to do with it, in the end, but try and keep arms and legs to yourself. Stows her kit and there's the brief little conversation that comes with it as she tucks her swords by her pillow. ] This won't be in your way, will it?

b ). [ .... Later on though, hunkering down for the night it's peaceful for awhile until the storm begins. Handle that too, but the winds - they howl, loud and shrieking and it makes it hard to sleep and every so often she just wants to curse them to be quiet ( safer to be irritated than admit anything else ). To anyone else with the same reaction, she goes to comfort them, rather than deal with how they discomfort her. ] Seems the storm wants for conversation. [ Her leg is aching with the cold, absently rubbing above the wound to relieve the pressure. Hard-eyed in the dark. ]