The Siege Camp of the Franks, across the Golden Horn in Galata

[Gandalfus]

Tancred stopped, and relaxed slightly, replying in French, albeit with a slight Anglo-Norman accent.

English, yes, but I've not been there in a long time. What about you, my friend?

[Celsius]

Roger waived his hand. Many men here spoke a little bit of everything. He replied in English, though it was a tad laced with french
"No one has been here long except for any Italians you might meet. Venice I hear is where most of the come. Money no doubt leads them here, but that is for another time...."
Roger stuck out his hand. Roger was not exactly what you would call nobility, but here near the heart of the remaining Roman Empire, everyone was almost the same.
"Depends. I was Antioch a while before I could even step, and Poitiers everyday after that. Now I find myself here. Yourself?"

[Gandalfus]

Tancred chuckled and clasped the man's hand in a friendly gesture, replying in English this time.

I was in England until I was old enough to realise my father didn't give me any money. After that, I fought for the Germans against the Balts, then I fought for Jerusalem against the Saracens. I spent or only got a small portion of the gold I was promised, so now I fight for 'god' here. Ridiculous, really, these wars have only ever been about land and money.

[Celsius]

Roger smiled
"God is everywhere. Land is God, Sea is God, Constantinople is God, and the money we will take from it is God. It's a cycle, all meant for us. The dedicated and pious servants of God."
He chuckled
"All we have to do is say "God Wills It", and we have free reign until someone who is actually fighting for more than money comes along. Then things get tense, and a tense army makes for a terrible raiding party."

He nodded
"I was also put into a similar position. My father was a Lord of the Prince of Antioch before it was taken, and since Christendom no longer controls, I no longer have anything to my name. Cousins and Uncles hold estates is France, but they were "gracious" enough to offer me a Squire's position. Needless to say, I am here and not there."

[Jokern]

"Roland de Provence, Father. At your service." He smiled. "I have never been to Munich father, though I have heard it is beautiful. Perhaps after me and my cousin are done here we shall visit."

"If God wills it. Münich is a beautiful place, but I have heard that the city near us holds much more beauty than any other city in the world. Soon God will grant us the strength to conquer it. How much beauty will be left then?"

Johannes soon noticed a man walking towards them and he immediately sprung towards him. Arvid was a bit surprised by the priest's actions. Even after three years, he had never understood what went on in Johannes' head. The priest grabbed his shoulders and led him to Roland and Bohemund.

"Monsieurs, let me introduce my good friend Arvid Eriksson." He struggled with pronouncing the Swede's name. "Arvid, this is monsieurs Bohemund de Lusignan and Roland de Provence."

"Good day to you both." he made a slight bow. "I hope that Father Johannes has not inconvenienced you too much." his French wasn't as good as Johannes', it had been a long time since he practiced it.

[Gandalfus]

Tancred sighed, grimacing as he glanced around, scanning the faces of weary old men, your hopefuls, or opportunists.

This is an army that fights for wealth, not for god. But regardless, we fight. We are all our own masters, for now.

[Celsius]

Tancred sighed, grimacing as he glanced around, scanning the faces of weary old men, your hopefuls, or opportunists.

This is an army that fights for wealth, not for god. But regardless, we fight. We are all our own masters, for now.

"It's best to believe that God has many forms and that wealth is one of them, otherwise we would just be a bunch of roaming raiders rather than this......"
Roger looked around at the different men that stood around the camp
"Crusading Armada."

[Gandalfus]

Tancred gave a small smile, wearily nodding as he looked at the faces of the men who stood waiting.

We all are sinners, my friend... Some believe that we can be absolved of all our sins. Others want the money, the women. I don't know what I fight for any more. I'd like to believe I fight for god... But we fight Christians.

Tancred coughed lightly, chuckling.

The lord works in mysterious ways.

[Celsius]

"And I'm sure we'll run into a priest shouting that these aren't "real" Christians. If we were real Crusaders, we would be in Antioch, Jerusalem, Edessa....."
He nodded lightly
"Instead we are attacking possible one of the last remaining strongholds that are holding the Saracens back from Christendom. Mysterious indeed."

[Lord Dread]

Serena entered the tent, before suddenly realizing that her brother was present, along with a cleric to whom he talked. She blushed and lowered her head. She bowed excusing in front of the holy man first, before turning to Philippe.
Oh, I am sorry, brother", the young woman explained herself in french, "I was for a short time away from the tent to bring us water and didn't want to disturb your talk. If... if you want I can leave the tent."
Surely they talked about something important, politics or about God's further plans about the Holy Land, she thought by herself, being glad that Philippe seems to be able to manage his role as the head of family now, I praise the lord for having a good brother like him.

[Amaz]

Once more, a knight came upon the outskirts of camp in the early hours of dawn, hiding most of his figure under a heavy but worn piece of armor, and with sword hanging by an elaborate leather scabbard at his side. Stopping when he could see the dimly lit flames of camp, he paused to dismount and remove his helmet - revealing an aged but imposing face. He turned toward the defenders of Constantinople and knelt and muttered something under breath in his own Occitan dialect, before getting up and approaching the camp.

[Dirty Chai]

Serena entered the tent, before suddenly realizing that her brother was present, along with a cleric to whom he talked. She blushed and lowered her head. She bowed excusing in front of the holy man first, before turning to Philippe.
Oh, I am sorry, brother", the young woman explained herself in french, "I was for a short time away from the tent to bring us water and didn't want to disturb your talk. If... if you want I can leave the tent."
Surely they talked about something important, politics or about God's further plans about the Holy Land, she thought by herself, being glad that Philippe seems to be able to manage his role as the head of family now, I praise the lord for having a good brother like him.

"No.." he said casually, relaxing in his chair, "Stay."
He looked at the priest then, gesturing towards his sister, "Father, this is my sister, Serena."

[Ganbarenippon]

"If God wills it. Münich is a beautiful place, but I have heard that the city near us holds much more beauty than any other city in the world. Soon God will grant us the strength to conquer it. How much beauty will be left then?"

Johannes soon noticed a man walking towards them and he immediately sprung towards him. Arvid was a bit surprised by the priest's actions. Even after three years, he had never understood what went on in Johannes' head. The priest grabbed his shoulders and led him to Roland and Bohemund.

"Monsieurs, let me introduce my good friend Arvid Eriksson." He struggled with pronouncing the Swede's name. "Arvid, this is monsieurs Bohemund de Lusignan and Roland de Provence."

"Good day to you both." he made a slight bow. "I hope that Father Johannes has not inconvenienced you too much." his French wasn't as good as Johannes', it had been a long time since he practiced it.

"Well met sir." Roland said in Swedish. "I am Roland de Provence of Marseille. And the good father was showing me to my cousin, Simon."

"No.." he said casually, relaxing in his chair, "Stay."
He looked at the priest then, gesturing towards his sister, "Father, this is my sister, Serena."

Jacopo looked the woman over. 'A pretty little thing she is.' He thought. Being a priest had not stripped him of his carnal desires, but he forced any such thoughts from his mind. It would not do to offend his host, not when things were so close to fruition. "Blessings, child." He said simply.

[Lord Dread]

"Father", she responded friendly, but remained then silent.
However, she smiled friendly towards him and her brother, being glad that she hasn't done anything stupid when entering the tent.

[Hengest]

In the deep heart of the thousands that gathered and swarmed over the landscape among hundreds of campfires, pitched tents, finer pavilions, tarpallings and mere wagons; there was a small band of men-at-arms and sergeants, bearded, weathered, tanned and with sunbleached hair. They were a ragtail band, their basic attire was vaguely Northern European but much of their kit was a messy blend of bartered, salvaged and stolen kit and clothing and horses from afar afield as Sicily, Cyprus, the Levant and Cilicia -worn almost like pauper campaign medals. The few knights were keen to gather any stragglers or poor wandering Englishmen who had the courage and luck to have survived this long. They raised their menagerie of warbanners high in the hopes that their old fellows might find them in the sea of soldiers and pilgrims. Theirs were the colours of Richard himself with his twin golden lions, torn and dirtied from decades of the fight, there flew the ensigns and psalters of St George and St Andrew, even the old dragon and raven that small shire and parish fyrds carried just as their great-grandfathers had done at Hastings and Stamford Bridge.
Willyame of Eskedale, his ginger-bearded and freckled face obscured by a black shemagh dusted off his boots and propped up his feet across his standing kite shield, itself leant against a carefully stacked pack of weapons, armour and a heavy leather saddle. Willyame groaned as he laid himself out. "I found dry wood for the fire, and we've had water ferried up to us hourly by local boys." His voice was rough, weak and carried a tone of irritation."
Athelstan, laid under the shadow of his horse coughed and committed in response. "Good man, I wish I could help."
Willyame smiled, "it's your turn to knock on death's door with dysentery old friend. God knows we've all had our turn." The Scotsman crossed himself, still reclined.
Athelstan sat up, his head peeping out from the shade into the sunlight. His eyes were swollen and his fair beard stained with the froth of spit and spew. "We need to move camp. More water. Find high ground for the flags."
"Shut up and rest. If you move you'll die. Let god lead the survivors to us, the flags fly high enough." He opened the shemagh to look Athelstan in the eye. "If they're out there they will find us."
"God willing" and "Deus volt" murmured the sergeants bent around the roasting spits at their campfire.
"Besides, don't make the men move camp until they eat properly and rest."
Athelstan tried to stand, Willyame laughed at first. But Athelstan was adamant. "We must broadcast our presence, find Norman lords from Ireland, Wales, Scotland, England or France." He hunched as his guts cramped, breaking his words with pain. "We need word of our presence to spread. We need friends, patrons..."
"We need help and alms. A friend from home might pity us, but only for service under their flag. Would you cast down the Lionheart's banner then? How will the old boys find us on the field then?" Willyame rose and helped Athelstan struggle. "You can't be serious? Are you trying to kill yourself?"
"I'm trying to mount my horse." He gasped. "One battle and we can march through this dross and leave them to their glory of god whilst we purchase ship westwards to home."
Willyame would be staying but he didn't have the heart to tell Athelstan now nor break it to the men. Since they left Cyprus, Willyame felt they were moving in the wrong direction his heart pulled him back towards Golgotha. But the faces of the men around him were full of sorrow and woe, their only hope for heaven would be in a very real garden of paradise- in this life and its name was "home."
Athelstan's head blazed with pain and he very likely defecated in the saddle, he was halfblind with dehydration and still partially hallucinating. "If I'm not back by end of day, move camp to the edge of the host tomorrow. And good luck getting back to your country." The Englishman hung over the mane and the horse trotted through the camps towards the edge where the dukes and nobles had made their nests. Willyame did not speak a word, he was sure he would not see his comrade again.

[Amaz]

By nightfall, the atmosphere of anticipation had only risen. The fire of word spread through camp, its substance vaguely known to Folquet, who had spent most of his time there with little hint of his situation within the crusading army. But there would be "movement", and "attack", for as much as knew. "They will take to Blachernae" one whispered, followed by impassioned remarks and curses toward the unfortunate fate of the besieged Romans, and, for some, the more unfortunate of their own. These men revel in war's spoils, thought the weary wanderer, while uselessly I search for a name and I right to have ever lived. A mind heavy with trifling details forced this lost soul to seek the silent air, and rest his worn body upon a hillock to view a sky whose heavens could only be reached by the spires of Constantinople.

[Hengest]

By nightfall, the atmosphere of anticipation had only risen. The fire of word spread through camp, its substance vaguely known to Folquet, who had spent most of his time there with little hint of his situation within the crusading army. But there would be "movement", and "attack", for as much as knew. "They will take to Blachernae" one whispered, followed by impassioned remarks and curses toward the unfortunate fate of the besieged Romans, and, for some, the more unfortunate of their own. These men revel in war's spoils, thought the weary wanderer, while uselessly I search for a name and I right to have ever lived. A mind heavy with trifling details forced this lost soul to seek the silent air, and rest his worn body upon a hillock to view a sky whose heavens could only be reached by the spires of Constantinople.

Willyame took Athelstan's last words to heart. In the evening cool he had moved camp to higher ground so that even by first light the warbanners of the late Richard the Lionheart would fly, to gather more of the remnants of that crusade. A net to draw in the fish as they met the Fourth Crusade as they themselves were heading back. Willyame liked the analogy, for the disciples had been called fishers of men.
The English camp had been made on the far side, but during the night Willyame strolled off to seek a little solitude and pray. Here on the hillock the nocturnal noises of the sea of the hosts and a thousand campfires drifted beneath the starry firmament. As Willyame crested the rise he came across another man, alone, stood looking out. He addressed him in the lingua Franca. "God be with you, friend."

[Dirty Chai]

With that, the overall commander of the forces present descends from the dias. He gestures for the squire of Philip to get his master so that Bohemond may speak with him. In the mean time, the Lusignan scion remains among his fellow commanders and speaks about battle plans.

The sun was setting on the 10th day of April, and d'Alencon walked through the drying mud of the camp towards the blue-and-white striped tent of Lusignan.
He nodded to a guard silently, politely waiting to enter. He was no longer dressed in mail-and-tabard, but back to comfortable linen.

[Lucius Malfoy]

As Philip entered the tent, a ground of soldiers immediately left out with orders in hand. Bohemond stood in his clothing fit for a noble and scion of his house. Traditional Frankish clothing from his ancestral homeland in France that was colored a deep blue and lined with gold threads. He grabbed a cup of wine and gulped it down before the commander returned to a map of the city that was rolled out upon a table. Bohemond noticed Philip enter the tent, gesturing him over to the table. The Frank called for more wine before his gaze turned to Philip.

I listened to your proposal by your squire, Philip. Tell me more about this surprise attack of yours upon the two most rear harbors in the Imperial District of the city.

[Dirty Chai]

The Parisian nodded, and turned to face and gesture at the map.
"Assuming the Romans are focused on fending off attacks farther to the west and south, an attack across the Golden Horn from Galata could hold the element of surprise."
His arms reached over the table, and his fingers traced first a swooping aquatic attack from the south, then an attack from the west, and finally a trail from Galata to the Imperial District using his right index finger.
"Obviously, I cannot vouch for the probability of surprise, but if we are successful, we will be richer than King Philippe Augustus."
D'Alencon had actually seen this paragon of a king on numerous occasions, sometimes in the many fields of battle between King John and King Philip, and sometimes in Paris at court;
It was no little thing to outweigh the Augustus in prestige.