The monotony of his daily routine soon had Jon in a stupor. He never understood why war was romanticized as glorious and exciting. In truth, war was ninety-nine percent grit, and one percent action. Somehow the constant cleaning of gear and endless digging of latrine pits never made it into the songs.
Returning to his barracks, the corporal oiled his new spear's leaf-tipped blade and set it in his locker along with his shield. He was not on scout duty today and would have no need of heavy weaponry. If anything should occur amongst the camp, several knives were hidden on his person.
Afterwards, he walked to the north end of the camp towards the mess hall. Today he was on kitchen duty, about as humbling an affair a corporal can partake. Dishes, dishes, and more dishes, Jon and his battalion would have to clean after every meal, eating last, and of course cleaning their own plates as well.
There was no shame in it for Crosby. It was simply an order. Besides, the corporals rotated kitchen duty by the day. A few hours of drudgery was nothing compared to the horrors of a battlefield. I'll take pruned fingers over a battleaxe between the eyes any day.
It was sometime after midday meal the call was announced. A single note blared from a hundred horns placed all throughout the camp, forming a sort of impromptu intercom. The rabble and commotion of men-at-arms and camp followers subsided, everyone held their breath anticipating a second horn calling for battle. Yet no note sounded. Only one. Assembly
Jon headed towards the camp's center, swept along in a tide of Rhygarean Dragons.