Post by Germanicus Saelanius on Jul 1, 2016 16:48:34 GMT
Rumours abound the forests and rivers of Germania, the spirits are restless, an idle king sits upon the throne, dust collects upon the embellished sword above his head; he hasn’t lifted it for years.
It was the distant thump of horses and the marching of men that brought the sentinels to their senses as they peered over their high towers along the palisade of Pharomond’s hold, there was a storm, a storm of dirt, dust and noise. The noise of a thousand men, upon a thousand horses accompanied by a procession of musicians, people and cattle.
It was a festival procession, the music was nigh deafening, the screams and shouts as priests danced prostrating themselves to the heavens, bare breasted girls danced to the beating of drums. Men and boys donned armour, shields and brandished their family’s finest weapons beating them on their shields. It was a raucous sight, but it paused as the hold’s oaken gate barred their path.
“What is the meaning of this?” a rider spoke from the procession, a grey fur clasped around his neck and shoulders bolstering his stature, the head of a wolf fashioned into a headpiece.
The shield bearer to the king and head of his hold’s guard showed himself, standing upon the rampart he looked down upon the man who he had presumed given his apparel and position ahead of the host, was a noble “The King hadn’t approved of any host to enter his hold! Especially none which hadn’t disclosed their identity!”
The shield bearer steadied himself, he felt the riders stare upon him unmoving, “I apologise, but you must turn away!”
Other men trotted to the rider’s side. “Open this gate at once! You have no authority to stand against the us.”
“And may I enquire who stands here before the hold fast of King Pharomond!” the Guard said.
“Aye you may!” another rider approached, “the nobles of the Salians, the heads of the clans and the lowland tribes! It is time the council speaks to Pharomond!”
The household guard of Pharomond shuddered men were quietly prying to the gods for their fortune in this time, others gripped their spears and axes tighter. “it is the King who commands when the council convenes! Not the nobles.”
“You’re right, the king commands and all men obey,” the first rider spoke, he pulled the wolfs head down slowly from his crown, “the true king! Merovech, I have returned, now open this gate!”
The night ended with the fall of Pharomond the idle, Merovech believed dead for the past three years had returned. The Frankish fing had convened in secret and proposed the impeachment of Pharomond and the reinstallation of Merovech, it was the signal of a golden age for the Salians, a true king had returned, one which upon his parting words promised to return when his people had need of him.
The Banner of the Merovingian king was dusted, the rot of being hidden away was washed off and the crimson thread seemed to bleed, three golden Bees glared at the Franks, hungry and angry for being shut away for so long, they wanted the world and Merovech would give it to them.
It was the distant thump of horses and the marching of men that brought the sentinels to their senses as they peered over their high towers along the palisade of Pharomond’s hold, there was a storm, a storm of dirt, dust and noise. The noise of a thousand men, upon a thousand horses accompanied by a procession of musicians, people and cattle.
It was a festival procession, the music was nigh deafening, the screams and shouts as priests danced prostrating themselves to the heavens, bare breasted girls danced to the beating of drums. Men and boys donned armour, shields and brandished their family’s finest weapons beating them on their shields. It was a raucous sight, but it paused as the hold’s oaken gate barred their path.
“What is the meaning of this?” a rider spoke from the procession, a grey fur clasped around his neck and shoulders bolstering his stature, the head of a wolf fashioned into a headpiece.
The shield bearer to the king and head of his hold’s guard showed himself, standing upon the rampart he looked down upon the man who he had presumed given his apparel and position ahead of the host, was a noble “The King hadn’t approved of any host to enter his hold! Especially none which hadn’t disclosed their identity!”
The shield bearer steadied himself, he felt the riders stare upon him unmoving, “I apologise, but you must turn away!”
Other men trotted to the rider’s side. “Open this gate at once! You have no authority to stand against the us.”
“And may I enquire who stands here before the hold fast of King Pharomond!” the Guard said.
“Aye you may!” another rider approached, “the nobles of the Salians, the heads of the clans and the lowland tribes! It is time the council speaks to Pharomond!”
The household guard of Pharomond shuddered men were quietly prying to the gods for their fortune in this time, others gripped their spears and axes tighter. “it is the King who commands when the council convenes! Not the nobles.”
“You’re right, the king commands and all men obey,” the first rider spoke, he pulled the wolfs head down slowly from his crown, “the true king! Merovech, I have returned, now open this gate!”
The night ended with the fall of Pharomond the idle, Merovech believed dead for the past three years had returned. The Frankish fing had convened in secret and proposed the impeachment of Pharomond and the reinstallation of Merovech, it was the signal of a golden age for the Salians, a true king had returned, one which upon his parting words promised to return when his people had need of him.
The Banner of the Merovingian king was dusted, the rot of being hidden away was washed off and the crimson thread seemed to bleed, three golden Bees glared at the Franks, hungry and angry for being shut away for so long, they wanted the world and Merovech would give it to them.