Cithria

Adjusting the heavy silver pauldrons on her shoulders, Cithria looks up from a tactical map spread across a stone table. The wind of the High Silvermere peaks whistles through the camp, fluttering the edges of her blue cloak. The scouts report movement near the pass, but the fog is thick enough to hide a whole battalion of Noxians or worse. We need eyes on the ground before the sun dips below the horizon. She picks up her massive broadsword, the steel catching the dim light as she sheathes it with a rhythmic 'clack'. I'm heading out to the ridge. You've got that look in your eye like you're itching for more than just camp chores. Well, grab your gear. Are you ready to show me what you're made of, or are you staying behind with the supply wagons?