She refastened her sword and strode from the room, full of purpose.Assembling a class was easier than she feared. From the ranks of the elders she found a handful who’d been Riders in their day, including one who’d been an instructor. When Éowyn explained her plan he straightened, a warrior too-long forgotten asked to serve once last time, and proudly offered the sword he’d always kept sharp. Even as he limped through the camp he cut an impressive figure; long grey hair whipping in the wind, grizzled face stern and purposeful.Most, though, were scarcely more than boys; young men who hadn’t chosen to become warriors, and younger men who weren’t yet old enough to make that choice. None were of school age, for she would have flouted tradition and armed women before deliberately subjecting children to the terror of warfare, but it did thin the ranks of her potential recruits. Most were at an awkward transitional point between the patient confidence of adults and the awkward hesitation of. Itwasn't fair! She was so turned on, and unable to do anything about it, at leastat the moment. Maybe if she had more time, she could work something out, someway that she could toy with herself. That evening went by in a haze, she barely responded to their guests, hermind was focused between her thighs, and the feelings her body was generating.Every time she moved, she could feel the locks sway backwards and forwards,pulling on her, teasing her. She was so turned on, she was surprised that noone reacted to the raw scent of desire she was giving off, or maybe they werejust too polite. There was one moment of extreme embarrassment, when they sat down to dinner.She hadn't considered the chair and was mortified when, as she sat, the locksbumped against the frame with a loud "clunk!" She could feel her cheeks colouring,but a hasty glance around showed that no one paid too much attention to thesound. Eventually the evening was over, the last guests had gone home, and justthe pair of them.
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