A muddy rose with thorns is what your rival finds

The first day of the march was more miserable than you'd imagined. On the bright side, you'd managed to put together an excellent look, with a tightly laced pure white doublet combined with a scandalously short pleated skirt, stockings, and armored thigh-high boots (and more than a little padding in the bust area - all was fair in love and war, after all). But rather than joyfully praising their countess for joining them out on the march, the commoners of the militia grumbled discontentedly at the fact that witches were accompanying them. It was unavoidable that the Undrek militia troops, already very insecure in their status, would consider it an insult to have witches (one of the few classes theoretically lower on the social ladder than them) given a brevet promotion to militia-women themselves.

Out of protest, the troops dragged their feet and traveled at a sluggish pace. Several 'got lost' (that is to say, were caught while attempting to desert) and many of the soldiers were caught drinking from hidden flasks while on the march.

The county of Undrek was mostly barren marshes and swamps with a few winding, snaking roads with solid foundations being the only practical way to travel through it. Since these roads were narrow and surrounded by low-lying vegetation on both sides with terrible visibility, this made such territory a veritable paradise for highwaymen. Horses were rare here; oxen, mules and other, hardier animals were more common. On the march, the Undrek Militia looked like a wagon train of settlers more than a military ****. Hannah and the other five witches who'd volunteered to come along seldom left their wagon, justifiably worried that the rough soldiers accompanying them would ill-treat them one way or the other.

On the second day, you received the disagreeable news that the lead party in your column had been ambushed by a gang of highwaymen and ****. Though only half a dozen were lost (four of them women - likely the reason they had been targeted), it was humiliating for an army of 300 to be made a fool of by a few skulking robbers; the rest of your **** failed to mount any kind of effective pursuit and allowed them to disappear into the underbrush. Captain Aeson urged you to keep the column moving rather than stick around and be picked off, which you grudgingly agreed to.

Irene, traveling along towards the end of the column, had little to say to you and spent much of her time visiting the witches and encouraging them in this challenge they'd undertaken. Far from being chastened, she seemed emboldened to give you disrespectful glances every time your eyes met on the road. It was enough to finish the job of ruining your mood that the soldiers had started, and not even Marzena was able to cheer you.

On the fourth day, the monotony and drudgery of travel was broken up once again in a way that was far from merciful; a company of mercenary swordsmen from a neighboring kingdom, presumably in the employ of Count Mace, were marching swiftly down the main road that your militia was now on, and had even fired on the vanguard. A charitable mind would focus on the fact that, with highwaymen about, the shabby Undrek militia might look like a threat to be driven off.

You knew better. Your peer's intentions were more and more clear all the time, and if he himself wasn't accompanying this **** of sell-swords that he'd sent out, that likely meant that they were being sent for some dirty business... severe harassment of Undrek at best, and an outright attack at worst. The best response, you insisted, was to form up into ranks and block the road completely, not allowing them to set one foot further into Undrek's land without ****. Captain Aeson wasn't so sure but reluctantly whipped the motley **** into formation.

This was your first time in such a grim situation and the moment you gave the orders, half of you wanted to shriek, cry, and tell everyone to nevermind and retreat back to the city walls with all possible haste. But that would shake the already-diminished confidence of Undrek's militia irrevocably, and the intruding mercenaries might be enticed to more aggressive action by such a frightened display.

Forming the core were the hundred soldiers of the Brown Marmots mercenary company. Aeson favored a flexible combined-arms formation, with a square of pikeneers with halberdiers on the flanks and archers in the rear.

The 200-odd militia, however, were pressed together in a large, roughly circular, densely packed mob. Even on the morning of a potential battle - or perhaps because of that - there was jostling and lewdness among the ranks... the female soldiery in particular had to put up with a lot of harassment and lecherous handling by their fellow militia in tense circumstances like these.

What looked to be a couple hundred broad-shouldered warriors with long, wild hair, wearing no armor aside from checkered sashes and with attention-grabbing blue face-paint covering half their faces. Though some held spears and javelins, a majority of the hostile mercenaries carried frighteningly large two-handed claymore swords.

"Ahem!" you said, taking your place near the front of your assembled forces, such as they were, and raising your voice to rally them for the coming confrontation (trying to keep a nervous cracking out of your speech). "Today we shall show these thugs that Undrek shall not be cowed by **** of arms! For many years the house of Orban has maintained the independence of our people and never shall-"

Your words are interrupted by a peal of raucous woman's laughter from close to the front of the ranks. Scores of heads turn away from you to see what the commotion is, and a few gasp and whisper among themselves. Upon spotting the source of this outburst you can't claim you are terribly surprised - it is Marzena, of course.

The temper that your mother always warned you about flares up a little and your cheeks redden in the gloomy light of the overcast day. "Damn your eyes, you ill-mannered peasant!! Don't approve of my choice of words, do you? I ought to have you put in the stocks! STOP LAUGHING!" you put your hands on your hips.

"Begging your pardon, my noble Countess! I apologize humbly an' all!" Marzena says. "But the invader fellows just started pulling all their own clothes off at once!"

Blinking, you gave her a disgusted look but turned to see what she was talking about anyway. Sure enough, the barbarous-looking foreign mercenaries were stripping off their kilts and sashes and tossing them aside with triumphant roars until most of them wore not a stitch of clothing. To further emphasize their... unique appearance, the men even started daubing more blue pigment on their bare, rugged chests and thighs. Once they'd done enough of this, they slowly, swaggeringly started to advance.

Such a show of confidence unnerved your own militia and mercenaries greatly. Others, like Marzena, responded with shocked laughter. Exhibitionist though they were, it seemed like Count Mace's hired swords meant business and intended to **** their way down the road. Your two options were to either meet their aggression with aggression, or raise a flag for parley. If it came down to it, in a direct confrontation your ill-trained troops wouldn't be able to hold the field against such fierce opponents... but then, you did now have several dangerous female magicians with you who could be unleashed in an emergency - perhaps the interlopers would be frightened into a retreat? Or they might just be outraged and goaded into greater aggression....