You take his hand, Constance. Or, at least, that’s what he assumes, until your pale fingers close vice-like about his wrist. Your eyes flash as you draw yourself up to your full height, and the horses strain against their bridles to be away from you. When you look at him, it is with the furious disdain of your ancestors, looking at his forefathers spread out across hill and dale. His bones groan beneath your fingers, sudden stone-strong.

“I am the most perilous of all,” you declare, with the grandeur of a storm. “Stand aside.” You release his hand, sparing it, and with the dignity of a queen you walk forward, and not one of them may bar you. One (the hesitant) dismounts and walks beside you as you stride into the chaos, ignoring the cries of the men behind you, disbelieving and fearful.

And for this the knight has your favor. Let the forces of Uther come; your dreadful beauty has caused at least two foolish heroes to draw sword against whatever may befall you.

[Constance [i]leaps into action[/i], though in a refined manner. This might seem like a weird use of the move, but I stand by it. With an [b]8[/b], she scatters the knights who try to stop her and inspires the hesitant knight to follow her.]