Opening the door...just a crack. The weighty doors groan on the ancient hinges...light pours in, dust motes drifting across the light beams...old armour stands at attention, rusty chain mail, once polished with action and bravado, now waits in silent anticipation for the thunder of hooves and the clang of sword on shield.
The creak of harness and the calling into array. Heavy shiftings of restless warhorses, stabled too long but eager for the dust of tumult...the banners furled are sought in dim and musty corners...a few minutes in the breeze and their flapping gives to snapping!
The green hills roll away to the West and bright flashings of the mounted are seen again in glintings of the fresh and splashing riffles, men and horses dashing on through streams...the long necks and snorting lips drink rivers freely and are refreshed for the days ahead...days of mountings and spurrings, of hurryings in the semi-dark...shouts of joy and cries of urgency.
The Mighty Host begin to crest the hill...banners and medallions, shields and long-since silently sheathed swords. All are awakening with prayers and dreaming in their sleep of brave acts and stout words to call to life a nation from the dim ranks of wistful warriors.
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