Even though a pile of blankets may be light in terms of weight, they are still awkward to grip. The sheer bulk of them all makes it difficult to get your arms into a position where they can physically lift them. Throwing a knight in plate is not difficult with the right setup - it is all about leverage, balance and momentum. Getting a good enough grip on Robena Coilleghille is another matter entirely to the point where she did not honestly believe she [i]could[/i] be thrown in this way. 

"If by you mean champion of Lostwithiel you mean I beat the tar out of their sad excuses for knights, you're damn right," somebody said. That person stood up from the debris of the chair and pounded on her breastplate with a mailed fist. "And while I'll overlook that cheap shot because you're my lady, I can perform a demonstration if you want to learn something."

Robena's silence was a studied and cultivated thing, a thing born through long evenings contemplating virtue under foreign stars. What it covered was a mouth trained in taunts, dares and challenges in every pub from here to Jerusalem. When stunned beyond the point of sense or reason the words and smirk tumbled out on sheer conditioned reflex.