The Banners are called.

Sultan · April 16, 2018

((This is a forum role-play. You may post if you are one of the soldiers gathered, noble, knight, commander. Please use Paragraph role-play any one sentence role-play can be removed by the FM team))

The Great Warhorn of Marna was sounded thrice this evening the call for war.

Wing’s flutter in the wind as pigeons leave their roost from the tops of the Royal Keep of Senntisten, a marshall call, a warcall, loyalties of old and new are summoned to answer the King’s summon’s.

Arriving at each vassal of Renatus-Marna’s lands is a letter.

Aurelius The First by the Grace of God of Renatus and of Marna and of Our other Realms and Territories, Prince of Horen, Defender of the Faith To all Lords Spiritual and Temporal and all other Our Subjects whatsoever to whom these letters shall come, Greeting!

Know Ye that We of Our especial grace certain knowledge and mere motion summon thee and thy banner’s for the trumpets of war have been sounded. We call upon our trusted and well beloved vassal’s to summon their mights and attend to us in our capital of Senntisten.

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Arriving at the location where the gathering is held, the Landsknecht were positioned to defend the location, they had made a circle fort made from trees that were felled. Around the fort the area is dug in to create a rampart with stakes placed to stop horsemen and hinder movement, within the fort there were many bundled tents, in the middle was the royal tent, fabulously made and decorated.

The King stood atop a hill observing the camp below where his levies were summoned. His personal army was mostly made up of Landsknecht troops, or servants of the country and a splatter of Knight’s here and there, going about their duties in preparation for war. Long, colourful banners flap in the wind atop the rows of tents as troops march by, the paths between worn down to mud from the amount of hurried activity. The soldiers, in their bright, colourful garb talk of battles and campaigns to come with high hopes of victory, sharpening their weapons and oiling their armour. Ranks of men holding long pikes can be seen in a nearby field, practicing their drills and honing their effectiveness with the long polearms to the repetitive trum trum trum of Landsknecht war drums. They stand in large blocks of men, pikemen, halberdiers and men with large zweihanders arranged in patterns in the front ranks, supported by soldiers with crossbows in the second rank. While the front rank can easily keep enemy soldiers and cavalry at bay, the crossbowmen are able to shoot from behind the protection of the wall of long polearms. The holders of the legendary zweihander, a weapon so powerful that it can have the potential to cleave a fully-armored Knight in two, was carried by the flamboyantly colorful dressed Doppelsoldner (Bottom) men of uncanny courage and fearsome might that are the vanguard making up the brunt of the charge against enemy pikemen.

The King entered his tent awaiting his Lord’s and senior officers. Once within there was a large table in the middle, made from the finest oak carved to make beautiful shapes to the sides, laid upon the table was assortment of food’s, On the table was placed a centerpiece, which represented a green lawn, surrounded with large peacocks' feathers and green branches, to which were tied violets and other sweet-smelling flowers. In the middle of this lawn a fortress was placed, covered with silver. The fortress was hollow, and formed a sort of cage, in which several live birds were shut up, their tufts and feet being gilt. On its tower, which was gilt, three banners were placed. Surrounding the centerpiece were plates which had on them a civet of hare, a quarter of stag which had been a night in salt, a stuffed chicken, and a loin of veal covered with a Marnain sauce, with gilt sugar-plums, and pomegranate seeds. At each end, outside the green lawn, was an enormous pie, surmounted with smaller pies, which formed a crown. The crust of the large pies were silvered all round and gilt at the top. Each pie contained a whole roe-deer, a gosling, three capons, six chickens, ten pigeons, one young rabbit, and, no doubt to serve as seasoning or stuffing, a minced loin of veal, two pounds of fat, and twenty-six hard-boiled eggs, covered with saffron and flavoured with cloves. More plates surrounded that of a kid goat, two goslings, twelve chickens, as many pigeons, six young rabbits, two herons, a leveret, a fat capon stuffed, four chickens covered with yolks of eggs and sprinkled with spice, a wild boar, some wafers and stars. On side tables sat the desserts which were a jelly, part white and part red, representing the crests of the honored guests. Cream covered with fennel seeds and preserved in sugar. A white cream, cheese in slices, and strawberries. Once all the Lord’s, Knights and Senior officers were presented and sat there discussion started.

Quirkyls · April 16, 2018

The Archbishop Sevastyan of Renatus does the cross of Horen as he walks towards gathering. He moves towards the table with deserts, slurping as he sees the delicious treats on the table. The Archbishop would take... Hmm.. one, no. not one, that is too little. Two? No not two.. Perhaps three? Yes, three... Sevastyan snatches up three cups of the delicious jelly that was sat on the tables. He would be mesmerized by the various fruits and cheeses. He thinks to himself, "Hmurph, they do look tasty...". The holy man would continue to seize various other food items. After a prolonged struggle of indecision and crisis, one would see the Archbishop moving a stack of various foods towards his seat in the gathering. The man nods as he prepares to listen as he gulps down the food he just got.

ACU20 · April 17, 2018

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Count Eimar would ride proudly atop his black steed as he entered the camp, followed by a long column of infantry, the grey and red banners of house var Burgundar swaying in the wind, drums echoing rhythmically as the steel boots of the Rams Brigade marched forth towards the encampment to join their fellow Renatians and allies.

"Ave Götha, Ave Renatus!" The column collectively chanted as they raised and rattled their spears as they made their way into the camp to pitch their tents to prepare for the coming battles ahead.

wolfdwg · April 17, 2018

"Blasted pox..."

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It'd been a rough start to the new year, Tarwen had come down with boils and rashes plauging his skin. He never knew skin could be so raw before, and burn like the pits of Hades. Meekly working about the camp, donning his dirt stained linen short, with his uniformed pants of his majesty's levy. Ever so often he'd cough harshly, though that seemed muffled by the tedious sounds of war. Trees gave way to stockades. Flat arable land was toiled for all sorts of uses for camp-life, ranging from pitching tents to digging ditches for waste.

"Ave Renatus," Was all Tarwen, a pox ridden lad, could stifle before violently erupting into a coughing fit.

Arhbi · April 17, 2018

William Rubens and his small band of men prepared to travel to the camp, each of them eager to aid Renatus in skewering the Norland pagans and the cowardly Hansetti.

“This war marks the end of the vile Norland pagans. The Norland barbarians shall dread the day they chose to transgress against the might of Renatus and the good canonist men and women of Atlas.”

holyterrain · April 17, 2018

Judith smacked her hands together twice, features creased with waned effort. The pungent smell of death clung to her pavilion, the nuns keeping the braziers burning to disperse the stink with woodsmoke. The bodies of the wounded lay limp upon arbitrary cots, silent sisters tending to them. The holy mother collected a bucket of a black slosh, duly trotting out of the tent. She watched the pages scurry by like wilful pups, eyes distant in quiet reverie of the children she tended to in a Metz orphanage. The banners and blazons that spun in the wind made her remember that she worked in the camp of a king. His knights and lords rode by upon their destriers and Judith huffed. The mule the nuns had brought from the grand abbey had broken its ankle three days prior, and her shoulders ached as she had to heave their supplies to their canvas home. Pouring the filth out into the rutted dirt, Judith promptly returned inside. A man had befallen to a poisonous bodkin earlier that morning. Wincing, Judith called for her sisters to nail a cross. He was dead. “The pagans will burn for what they have done,” the holy mother declared, her rheumy-blue eyes passing over the bodies of the dying, “there will be no heathen to overcome this GODly monarch’s fury.”

Xarkly · April 17, 2018

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With his roughspun hood pulled tightly to obscure his gaunt, concave face, Vanhart squinted through the scope of his brass spyglass. It had been his father's tool once, and Vanhart still remembered the esteem with which he beheld it as a boy; sitting above their mantelpiece in their Rothswood cabin, that spyglass had fueled more of Vanhart's childish fantasies than he cared to count. Of course, that had been nearly three decades past, and the spyglass had not aged well. The once gleaming brass surface was cracked and mottled with rust while the glass lens were blemished and distorted. Still, Vanhart could not bring himself to discard it in favour of a new one. It was difficult to find anyone adept with glassblowing up in the Sleetfells, but besides that, the old spyglass had sentimental value.

"Stop getting distracted, you oaf," he grunted to himself as he blinked away the sleepiness that accompanied an overnight stakeout and focused on what the spyglass portrayed to him. He had chosen a spot at the edge of a cluster of dense ash trees on a hill, a great distance from the Renatian camp. He lay on his front, propped up his muddied elbows, and his faded green cloak blanketed his back, neck and legs so that if anyone did chance to wander up towards the hill, they might just mistake him for some shrubbery. Once already he had nearly been caught by a Burgundar levy who had wandered this far in search of some dry firewood after last night's downfall, and Vanhart had spent the next hour in grateful prayer when he narrowly avoided discovery. As he lay there, he could feel the hilt of his falchion press into his hip, but Vanhart did not relish the chance to use it against a real soldier.

From his chosen hilltop, he was too far to make out much detail of the Renatian camp beyond an ocean of canvas tents beneath clouds of colourful banners that snapped and streamed in the wistful winds that heralded the end of winter, but held no traces of a warm spring. Yet with his father's battered old spyglass, he could just about make out the devices and sigils emblazoned on those banners above the pavilions. Vanhart's attention, however, was primarily on those who entered the camp. The previous evening he had witnessed the arrival of the Rams Brigade, and ever since soldiers had streamed in consistently beneath a plethora of banners that Vanhart could not even begin to name.

With a sigh, he lowered the old spyglass and shut his eyes. "Well," he muttered bitterly, "this won't be f*cking easy."

LithiumSedai · April 20, 2018

It was late evening when Jan Sigmar entered the war camp, head bowed in quiet contemplation as the newly-sworn knight rode past line upon line of silent pikemen and halberdiers, all bearing the Cross of Pertinax upon their plate - ready to march on Norland and Haense at their King's command. The campfires further ahead illuminated the man's visage, eerily youthful for his age, and he couldn't help but instinctively reach towards his newly-formed beard, grown in true Waldenian fashion, knowing that mere months ago his touch would have been met by hideous burn scars, or a cold, metallic mask in the shape of a human face.

As he advanced towards the Landsknecht compartments, Jan thought of numerous battles he had fought in - his first, under the banner of Haense, a realm that had forgotten his sacrifice and those fallen in its name at Elba; now stood against the might of Renatus, a nation he owed a debt he could never repay, and one that won his undying loyalty, second only to the wedding oaths he spoke before his beloved. He thought of those who would not live to see the end of this war, those who would not get a second chance as he did; those of Walden blood like him, misguided and forced into battle in the name of Haense and the Norlandic heathens. Their lands must be freed, in the name of the King who gave so much to his once shattered people.

A bundle of cloth found its way to his hands as he left his steed behind within the confines of the Landsknecht fort, and to his surprise, men sat around the campfires recognized the banner - some of them old veterans of the campaigns in Lorraine and the dwarven lands, once faithful soldiers of Deathwatch; and some he had not met before, no doubt fine Waldenian men of Marna. Recognition flashed over their battle-scarred faces, and although his visage was familiar to none, his new name and his deeds, both past and present were, and soon a cheery tune echoed across the tents:

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